desuidesu - Tumblr blog

desuidesu · 5 hours ago

Text

Beck and Call

18+ MDNI!

Summary: You’ve been divorced from Joel for a little while, now. But when your sink breaks and threatens to flood your house right before a date, you have no one else to call but him. Why does he come? You don’t know. Why does he look so fucking good? You don’t know, either.

W.C: ~6.2k

TL;DR: Rule number one of getting divorced: don’t fuck your ex-husband. (Optional).

Warnings: ex-husband!joel x ex-wife!reader, sappy love confessions, improper use of a sink, praise, oral f!receiving, mirror sex, unprotected p-in-v sex, (no outbreak!)

Note: as a child of divorce, i am allowed to touch upon this matter. anyway, happy fucking i mean reading

Part One | Part Two

One-third. A married couple’s least favourite fraction.

It was (and is) a well-known fact that one in three marriages ends in separation. And of course, you—being the lucky duck you were—found yours rapidly accelerating toward that destination.

You and Joel had agreed that you’d be better off apart. Joel got his own place while you kept the house. And Sarah lived with you every other week.

All you needed to do was send your attorney the signed divorce papers.

Outside of the sympathetic comments you received from acquaintances and relatives almost daily, you were doing just fine.

In fact, tonight you had a date.

A date. The kind that made you choose a tight-fitting dress that hugged your curves just right. The kind that inspired you to wear your hair in something other than a claw clip. The kind that provoked you to shave places you haven’t shaved in a long time.

The lucky bachelor was a fellow divorcee named Mark, whom you had met on a single-parent dating app. He had a full head of hair, a decent sense of humour, and two rescued Labradors. He offered to bring you to his favourite Italian restaurant, bringing up the fact that he’d pick up the bill no matter what, much to your protests. Needless to say, you had a good feeling about him.

After one last check in the mirror, you grabbed your coat and slung your purse over your shoulder, ready to head out the door.

Then, you heard it.

A faint gurgling.

You blinked twice, trying to zero in on the sound. Proceeding a few moments of intense concentration, you followed the sound into the ensuite bathroom.

The faucet was running. Had you forgotten to turn it off?

You reached for the handle. Twisted it. It spun freely, and nothing happened.

You tried and tried again, but all your efforts were in vain. You could only watch the tap stubbornly defy you as the handle jutted uselessly, loose in its socket.

“Shit.” You breathed.

The faucet sputtered out a particularly heavy spurt of water as if to say: shit, indeed.

You sighed, staring helplessly at the sink as it stared contumaciously back, water that couldn’t be swallowed by the drain toppling over the edge of the sink.

A quick Google search informed you that you needed to turn off the principal water pipe—the mains. Which you didn’t know how to do.

So, you resolved to delegate the problem to more capable hands. Like, a twenty-four-hour plumbing service. No, they could easily overcharge you. You could call your dad? No, he was too far.

Or…

Sighing, you dug out your phone from your purse and called your only remaining option. Someone who was a seasoned contractor, someone who dealt with this sink before, and someone who you just so happened to be divorcing.

He answered on the third ring.

“Hey—everything okay?” Joel’s concerned voice filtered through your phone.

“No.” You inhaled.

“No?” Joel echoed hesitantly, then waited for elaboration.

When nothing came, he cleared his throat.

Slightly confused, slightly wry, he continued, “This is the part where you tell me what’s wrong.”

“Um, my sink’s busted.”

“Your sink… is busted?”

“Yeah. Faucet won’t turn off. It-It’s a lot of water.” You bit the inside of your cheek, leaning on the wall. “I didn’t know who else to call.”

A moment of silence, then:

“You need me to fix it?”

Was that annoyance? Exhaustion? It definitely wasn’t exhilaration at the prospect of doing manual labour at eight o’clock on a Friday evening.

“You know what? Forget I called. This was stupid. Sorry to bother you—”

“I’m on my way.”

Despite the gravity of the situation, after he hung up, the smallest of smiles began forming on your face.

Fifteen minutes later, a knock came from your front door.

You swung the door open, and there he stood. Tool bag in hand, flannel shirt stretching tightly over his broad shoulders, salt-and-pepper hair just a little bit unkempt.

It had been a good few months since the two of you went your separate ways, but there he was—still at your beck and call. What that meant, exactly, remained to be seen.

But you were glad to see him, nonetheless.

“Hi,” You said breathlessly.

Upon seeing you, Joel’s brows shot up, and he blinked a few times.

“Hi.” He said back slowly, then cleared his throat. “Am I… interruptin’ something?”

You glanced down. Right. Tight dress and makeup.

“I have a date in…” You raised your left wrist and winced as you looked down at your watch. “Five minutes ago.”

“A date.” He clicked his tongue, nodding to himself. “Well, I’ll try to make this quick, then.”

You hummed a noise of agreement, pivoted, and, with a wave of your hand, invited Joel inside.

He stepped through the doorway with a quiet grunt. And, as he bent down to undo his boots, his coffee-brown gaze landed on a pile of unopened mail by the entryway table. A few envelopes had slipped to the floor, and he crouched to gather them without thinking.

But, as he straightened up to his full height, his eyes lingered on the recipient line.

“Mrs Miller?” Joel read aloud.

“What?” Your breath caught in your throat, and you spun around to meet his stare.

Joel wordlessly held the envelope up with two fingers, the corners of his lips slightly upturned.

“Oh.” You cringed inwardly. “Yeah.”

“Didn’t, uh, realise that you were keepin’ the name.” He shrugged offhandedly, tossing the stack of mail onto the entryway table.

“I’m not. I just…” You ran a hand through your hair. “Paperwork isn’t final.”

For the divorce.

Joel’s eyebrows pinched together. “I sent you my signed copies, if—”

“I know you did. I just haven’t sent the papers to my lawyer yet.” You pressed your lips into a thin line and avoided his gaze. “Just got a lot on my plate, recently.”

That was very unconvincing.

Joel hummed a noncommittal noise.

“Well…” He huffed sheepishly. “You know I always liked my name on you.”

You swallowed, feeling your stomach do a funny flip and your ears burn up. Why were your ears burning up?

“C’mon. The problem is upstairs.”

The faucet, to your dismay, hadn’t stopped. It was worse now, if that was even possible, spitting little rogue sprays of water alongside the main stream. Great.

You checked your watch again. Fifteen minutes late. You would no doubt have a few missed calls from your poor suitor if you had the guts to check your phone.

Joel sank to one knee as he inspected the sink, squinting at the appliance and shaking his head. Miraculously, he reached in and, a few rusty squeaks later, the water stopped.

“You fixed it.” You blinked.

“Far from it,” He muttered, frowning. “The cartridge’s shot. And the valve stem’s stripped. Who installed this?”

Without missing a beat, “You did.”

“…Right.”

You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over your chest. “So?”

“So, this isn’t a quick fix. I need to pull out the whole assembly. Maybe replace the handle, too. And judging by the corrosion around this nut—” He held up a discoloured metal hexagon like it had personally offended him. “You’ve probably had a leak back here for a while.”

You blinked. “And you didn’t notice that when you lived here?”

Joel turned to shoot you a look. “I was your husband, not your handyman.”

“Really? I could’ve sworn I married you for that toolbox of yours.”

“And here I thought it was ‘cause of my radiant personality.”

“Definitely not that.” You huffed out a laugh.

Despite his back being turned to you, you could just about make out a reluctant smile forming through his slightly greying stubble.

You watched as he rolled up his plaid sleeves, exposing tanned forearms that were entirely too bulky for someone in his mid-forties. He then dug into his bag, fishing out an Allen Wrench.

“You can go on your date,” Joel added, not looking at you. “I’ll be out of here in an hour. Two, tops. But… if you feel like gettin’ frisky, maybe do it at his place. Just in case.”

Right, your date.

Biting the inside of your cheek, you took out your phone. Six missed calls and a flurry of concerned texts.

Decidedly, you typed out an apologetic message mentioning a water-related emergency and stuffed your phone back in your purse.

“I’m staying with you.”

Joel froze and turned to look at you from over his shoulder. “No, you ain’t. I’ll take too long.”

“Well, I can’t leave you to fix my problems while I’m out eating overpriced ravioli.” You shrugged and, with a soft grunt, took a seat against the wall near him. “You’re not a plumber, you’re a… you’re my…”

Ex-husband.

You cleared your throat, then emphasised, “You’re not a plumber.”

Joel let out a slow exhale. “Do whatever you want, but I doubt watching me fix your sink is gon’ be as fun as your date.”

“I’ve got a full bottle of Pinot Noir in the fridge.” You tilted your head. “We can make it fun.”

Joel’s eyebrows shot up.

“Not—not in that way.” You rubbed a clammy hand down your face.

To your surprise, that earned you a small, gruff laugh from Joel, his eyes crinkling momentarily the way they only did when he was truly amused.

His voice was soft when he responded.

“Go on and get the wine, then, sweetheart.”

Two crystal glasses and a little while later, Joel had put down his wrench and opted instead to sit beside you on your tiled bathroom floor, his shoulders brushing up against yours in the cramped space.

Efforts to tame the defiant sink had long since been forgotten. He did the best he could, but retired upon discovering that you had no spare sink handle lying around—how very unprepared of you.

The bad news was that you weren’t going to be able to wash your hands in the master bedroom ensuite tonight. The good news was that you were having a surprisingly good time with Joel. The conversation evolved from discussing your stood-up date (you showed Mark’s profile, Joel was convinced he was lying about his dogs being rescues), then to how his company was going, and then, reminiscing about the good ol’ days.

“All I’m sayin’,” Joel continued through a laugh. “Is that she did it on purpose.”

“My mom has always been bad with names!”

“Bad enough to still call me ‘George’ after a year of us datin’?” He scoffed.

You stifled a giggle. “In her defence, it’s a very similar—”

“Like hell it is. And your dad? He was worse.” Joel chuckled, finishing the last of his wine. “How is he?”

“Fine. Just called him yesterday, actually.”

“He still callin’ me–?”

“He still calls you ‘porn stache’, yes.”

Joel snorted into his hand, his shoulders bobbing up and down with laughter. Real, genuine laughter.

You smiled and turned to steal a glance at his profile.

His eyes crinkled at the corners, his hooked nose scrunched mid-chuckle, and his laugh was exactly as it was before—low and rough, but somehow boyish and unguarded.

You had almost forgotten how his whole face lit up when he laughed.

And, you didn’t mean to stare. But you did.

God, you missed this.

“I think I prefer George.” Joel ran a hand down his face, still smiling.

You cleared your throat and leaned over to retrieve the almost-empty wine bottle, refilling your glasses.

“Sarah told me to say hi to you, if I got the chance, by the way.” You said, pouring the Pinot Noir into his glass. “She’s with my parents at the lake house.”

“The lake house?” Joel hummed, taking another sip of his drink. “Still disappointed I didn’t get that in the settlement.”

You snorted, amused. “You don’t even like lakes.”

“No, I don’t like the mosquitoes that come with the lakes.” Joel corrected you, pointedly. “But, I don’t know, I guess I just miss it. A lot of good memories there.”

You felt yourself smile. “Yeah. Yeah, there were.”

A beat.

“Hey, at least you kept the cars. And the boat. And the frequent flier miles. And, well, you see Sarah every other week.” You turned to look at Joel, but he was already looking at you.

A certain vulnerability swam in the brown of his eyes. Something you hadn’t seen in a very long time.

“Yeah, well… there were more important things I couldn’t keep.”

The air thinned. The wine, the laughter, the conversation—everything dissolved in the quiet admission, hanging thickly in the space between you.

And suddenly, there was only you and Joel and the mistakes that had wedged you apart yet somehow brought you back together again; on a random Friday evening on the floor of a bathroom you used to share.

“Joel…” You swallowed, your hand falling from your lap onto the tiles.

But you couldn’t form any semblance of a sentence. How could you?

There was nothing to say. Yes, you missed him. ‘Missed’ was an understatement.

Sometimes you’d roll over in the night, wishing to feel the weight of his arm resting on your waist, reassuring you that these past few months had only been a bad dream. Sometimes you came to pick Sarah up early, just to get a few more minutes with him. Sometimes—no, a lot of the time, memories of him came rushing back, cleaving your heart into two, further and further each time.

No matter how hard you tried, you just couldn’t let go of the man you spent so many years loving.

Joel’s eyes still bore into yours. And nothing in the world could have torn you away.

He exhaled slowly, then set down his glass with care. His hand barely brushed yours, but it was enough to make your breath hitch.

“I think about it,” He said softly. “More than I should.”

“Think about what?”

A quiet, almost sad laugh escaped from his throat. He leaned back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling.

“How things used to be.”

“Oh,”

A moment passed, marked only by the metre of your incessant heartbeat pounding in your ears.

And then, “Do you ever miss us?” Joel asked.

You faced him once more. The answer was on the tip of your tongue, but you couldn’t bring yourself to say it. Because that was too complicated. Because that would break you.

Joel didn’t need you to say it. He found the answer in your eyes.

All the time.

Instead, you asked, “Do you? Miss us, that is.”

“Of course, I do.” He said softly. “More than you can imagine.”

You held your breath.

Joel heaved a sigh.

“I think about calling,” He added, voice low. “Just to hear your voice.”

“I’d answer,” You said, barely above a whisper.

He smiled in a bittersweet, melancholic sort of way and leaned in just slightly. Unconsciously, you mirrored him.

And then his eyes flickered down to your lips. It was only for a second, but it was enough to make your stomach flutter.

This was dangerous. You should’ve told him to leave ages ago. Or, maybe you should’ve left yourself and gone on your date.

But you couldn’t bring yourself to pull away.

“Can I ask you something stupid?” You whispered.

Joel whispered back, “Always.”

“Do you…” You trailed off, biting your lip.

“Do I what?”

“Do you—does even a part of you… want what we had back?”

You knew what he was going to say. You just wanted to hear it for yourself.

And you did.

“Yes,” He admitted earnestly.

You searched his face for any sign of deception, but found none. The only thing in his coffee-brown eyes was regret. And, maybe, something else, too. Something softer.

Your eyes widened. “We fought a lot.”

“We did.”

“And we probably said some shit.” You sighed, looking up at the ceiling, as if all the answers were written there. Joel did, too.

His voice came softly, sadly, “We did.”

Silence again. Thick and fragile and charged with so many unspoken words.

Joel’s knee brushed yours, neither of you pulling away. It was nice to have him close, to feel his familiar warmth, to see him—really see him. Bare and raw and vulnerable. No facades of indifference. No hiding behind closed car doors. Just Joel, your Joel, there beside you; soft-eyed and quiet, like maybe he was seeing you, too.

Your fingers twitched on the floor beside his. You wanted to reach for him, but you wanted him to reach first. Absently, you fiddled with your left ring finger, suddenly aware of its bareness.

He looked at you then. Not a glance, but a full turn, slow and deliberate. His dark eyes searched your face, pausing on your mouth, your cheek, your lashes, then settled on your eyes again. He looked at you like you were something he’d spent months trying to forget, and only just now remembered why he couldn’t.

You held your breath.

Joel’s voice, when it finally came, was low, cracked around the edges.

“I know it was bad in the end, but I meant what I said.” He breathed. “I miss us. I miss you.”

Your heart twisted. And there went that cleaver again, slicing further.

“I miss seeing your keys on the kitchen counter and knowing you were home. I miss kissing you before work and smudgin’ your lipstick. I miss watching stupid movies with you that we’d fall asleep to halfway.”

His throat bobbed. He leaned back against the wall, like it hurt to say it out loud.

“Yeah, we fought and said some real mean shit. But God help me, I’d give anything to go back in time and fight for you like I should have. Because you were it for me. You were everything. Still are.”

His eyes glistened as he held your gaze, fierce and unflinching.

“Because, no matter how hard I try to ignore it,” He smiled to himself, shaking his head like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I love you.”

He loves you.

Those three simple words rang in an echo in your mind. He loves you, he loves you, Joel loves you.

“You love me?” You could barely hear your voice above the deafening thrum of your pulse.

Your faces were barely an inch apart, now. You could smell the familiar scent of his laundry detergent, and traces of his cologne, and wood, and tobacco, and something that was so uniquely him.

Joel nodded.

“I never stopped.” He whispered.

Without thinking, you closed the remaining distance, smashing your lips against his. Joel grunted in surprise, but quickly gave in, exhaling through his nose like he’d been holding a breath in for years.

He returned the kiss with equal fervour, reaching out to cup your face and pouring all his pent-up emotions against the haven of your lips—longing, relief, desire.

You pushed yourself closer against him. Closer, impossibly closer, until you were straddling his lap, moving against the tent in his jeans, feeling his big hands instinctively settle on your hips, and tasting the Pinot Noir on his lips.

Shit. Was this even a good idea?

You pulled away suddenly. A tiny whine came from Joel, who tried to chase your mouth, but you were insistent.

“Wait,” You panted.

His eyes opened fully. His brows were knitted, his lips were kiss-swollen, and his chest was heaving slowly.

“What?” Joel asked quietly, his thumbs idly tracing circles on either side of your hips.

“This…” You breathed. “I don’t want this to be a one-time thing. I don’t want it to mean nothing.”

Joel smiled softly at your words.

“Means a whole lot to me, sweetheart.” His hand went to gently tuck a stray strand of your hair behind your ear, caressing your cheek in his wake. “We can talk about what this means, if you w—”

“Okay, good. Means a lot. Talk after.”

“After?” His eyebrows rose.

“After you fuck me.”

A breathy ‘Jesus Christ’ slipped from his throat, but Joel didn’t spend a second refusing your bold assumption.

With a hand on your nape, he leaned forward to capture your lips in another searing kiss, which you happily accepted, sighing against him.

His big hands then travelled to the back of your thighs, and the next thing you knew, he carelessly swept away whatever was decorating the base of your faucet, and carried you with ease to perch you atop the sink.

“Joel.” You mumbled urgently into his lips.

“Mmm?” He hummed back, not wanting to break your mouths apart for even a second.

“Might break the sink again.”

“Don’t care. I’ll fuckin’ fix it again, then. Just… need you,” Joel groaned. “Look too fuckin’ good,”

And he pulled away. His half-lidded, cloudy gaze drank you in, sweeping down the snugness of your dress, and lingering on the generous amount of cleavage it revealed. His hands drifted higher and higher up your thighs, until they reached the hemline—dipping under just slightly.

“Too fuckin’ good,” He snarled.

You smirked. Knowing him, he was definitely going to ask if—

“How much was this dress?”

Sighing amusedly, “It wasn’t cheap.”

“How attached are you to it?” He mumbled, a hand reverently skirting up to your hip.

“A moderate amou—”

“Can I rip it off you?”

There it was.

In the many years you were married, Joel shredded more than enough articles of your precious wardrobe in similar heated moments. If you were to count the offences, you’d likely run out of fingers. Your wedding dress had been among the few survivors of his destructive tendencies, though not for lack of trying on his part.

You stifled a snort and shook your head, reaching up to caress his face.

“No.” You smiled. “Because I’d like to wear it again.”

Joel held your hand against his face and huffed out an exaggerated sigh. “Next time.”

And then his hands found the zipper on your side, pulled it sharply down, and tugged the dress off you.

His eyes darkened.

You had chosen to don an intricate, black, lacey number underneath your dress that teased just enough and only hid the bare minimum. Of course, you had. You hadn’t had an opportunity to wear anything vaguely provocative in ages and were expecting some luck after your date.

You certainly didn’t expect that your ex-husband would be the one seeing it.

“This for him?” Joel’s lip twitched.

Heat rose in your cheeks. “Well, I—”

“Yeah, these don’t get a pass.”

With a sharp tearing noise slicing through the air, Joel ripped the flimsy lacey bra clean in half, watching intently, hungrily, as your tits spilled out.

“Joel!”

“I know, I know,” Joel grunted. “I’ll buy you a new set… buy you all the fuckin’ sets.”

You were about to object, intent on citing the price attached to that particular pair, but Joel had sunk back on his knees and spread your legs apart.

He pressed his lips on your inner thigh, scruff tickling your skin as he slowly, softly trailed his mouth upward, leaving goosebumps in his wake.

His face came to a stop in front of your core, noticing how heavily you were breathing, and his eyes flicked up to yours, smirking. Smug fucking bastard.

“Joel.” You gritted your teeth.

“Yeah, baby?”

“Don’t fucking tease me.”

And he leaned his forehead against the lower part of your navel, taking a second to breathe in the unmistakable scent of your arousal seeping through your lingerie.

He was practically salivating, now.

“I’ll try not to, ma’am.”

Without another word, he took the lace into his teeth, yanked his head sharply, and tore your panties open.

Confirming his suspicions, you were absolutely soaked. Slick drooled freely out of your puffy folds, taunting him and draining every ounce of self-restraint he had.

Fuck, you were gorgeous.

“Tell me,” Joel said lowly, meeting your gaze once more as a thick finger swiped lightly through your lips, collecting your arousal. “This for him or me?”

“You.” You breathed without a second thought.

“Louder, sweetheart. My ears ain’t what they used to be.”

“You.”

Smirking wider, “Damn fucking right.”

Then, he happily hitched your legs over his shoulders, leaned forward, and dove in.

His tongue prodded into your heat, dragging down your walls and sending jolts of electricity down your spine. He worked fast and sloppily, sliding through your folds and flicking into your walls, urgently tasting you like he wouldn’t get another chance.

Your arousal coated the lower half of his face, his eyes were almost black with desire, obscenely wet noises echoed in the silence of the tiled room as his tongue eagerly devoured you whole—

“Fuck, almost forgot how good you taste. So fuckin’ sweet.” Joel mumbled against your sex, entirely, wholly bewitched. “She missed me, too, huh? Just drippin’ for me…”

He continued to furiously lap at your entrance, scruff rubbing against your inner thighs. And then he moved up, planting messy kisses higher and higher until he reached your swollen clit.

You gasped brokenly, flinging a hand to grasp his curls as his lips alternated from pressing messy kisses along your seam to greedily sucking at your bundle of nerves, latching onto it almost desperately.

After a particularly delicious drag down the roof of your core, you rolled your hips up into his mouth and brought him closer to you with your grip in his hair.

“Shit—sorry.” You panted, breathing heavily.

He barely pulled away to look at you.

“Don’t fuckin’ be. I can handle it, you know I can.” Joel all but growled, before returning to attend to your needy fucking pussy.

He was like a man possessed; lapping frenziedly, groaning lowly into your sensitive skin, curved nose swiping through your folds as he worked.

Very soon, a familiar tingle in your lower stomach introduced itself.

“Joel,” You called urgently, attempting to warn him.

He knew you were close. Oh, he knew. So, he went faster and harder, pressing himself further against you, suffocation be fucking damned.

His low, wrecked voice came slurred and slightly muffled by your sex, “Y’gonna come? Go on, baby, all over my face—thaaat’s it.”

A shattered moan escaped from your throat, and you felt your release take over your body almost violently. You couldn’t help the way your legs clamped down around his head, but Joel loved it, letting you smother him and humming happily into your heat as he worked you through your climax, swallowing your release and eating like a man starved.

Finally, he pulled away with a wet squelch, softly pressed a kiss to your inner thigh, and gently let your legs down.

And you were immediately greeted with the sight of his lower face shining with your slick.

A good look on him, if you’d say so yourself.

He smiled lazily, eyes blown-out and absolutely fucking pussydrunk.

“That good for you, sweetheart?” He mused.

“You, Joel Miller, are what we call a munch.” You smiled back.

Pride bloomed across his face. “Gladly, sweets.”

And you pulled him up by the collar of his flannel shirt into a filthy kiss, tasting your arousal on his lips.

He let his eyes fall shut and reached up to curl a hand around your jaw as he returned the kiss, his brows furrowed in concentration.

Not wasting any time, your hands flew to his belt, blindly fumbling at the leather material to slide it out of the loops of his jeans.

Joel chuckled, leaning forward to trail his lips down your neck, leaving a path of open-mouthed kisses.

“Need somethin’, baby?”

“Wanna return the favour,” You glanced down at the bulge in his lap.

“Mm-mm. That was more for me than you. Missed your sweet fuckin’ pussy.” Joel mumbled against your pulse point.

“Munch.” You couldn’t help but giggle.

“Yeah, yeah.” Joel sighed, lifting his head and undoing his jeans just barely enough to pull himself free from his boxers.

You heard yourself swallow.

Joel Miller was a big man, and you were very aware of that fact. It was written all across his body; from his impossibly broad shoulders, to his beefy arms, to his thick fucking cock.

He stroked himself, once, twice, as his eyes fell to your pulsating, slick core. Beads of precum leaked from his flushed tip and down his length as he did so.

“Spread those legs wider for me, baby. Let me see you,” He breathed lowly.

And you very willingly obliged.

“There’s my girl,” Joel hummed.

With a hand around his base, he guided himself closer to your drooling cunt, nudging his swollen head against you.

Sighing, “Deep breath, baby.”

And he slowly forced himself in, one hand on the small of your back, the other on the underside of your thigh, prompting you to wrap your legs around his waist as he steadily fed you his cock.

You gasped some variant of a plea.

Needless to say, he was a tight fucking fit.

“Takin’ me so well. That’s it, baby, let me in.” He blabbed mindlessly as he continued to sink deeper inside.

Deeper, deeper, deeper…

He winced. “Shit—there you go.”

When all of him was nested inside your welcoming channel, he let out a gasped expletive at the sensation.

Full. You felt so full with him inside. You always did.

“Fuck, missed this.” Joel panted, resting his forehead against yours.

You tried to echo the sentiment, but the only thing you were capable of doing was letting out an incoherent groan of his name.

Joel got the message, though.

Maintaining an unhurried tempo, he rolled his hips back and forth, slowly dragging his thickness against your walls, making you painfully aware of every last inch of him.

“How’s that feel, baby?” He mumbled, voice airy.

“Good. Feels so good.”

And, fuck, he did.

He felt amazing.

His tempo soon picked up, leaving your mouth to fall open as you took every inch of him again and again, stretching you open with enough pleasure to dull the slight pain.

“Tell me,” Joel hummed as he continued to drive ceaselessly in and out of your tight channel, adopting a false lilt of indifference. “Who’s fuckin’ you so good, huh?”

An incoherent syllable slipped from your lips.

“Who, baby?” Joel urged you, unrelenting in his pace. “Sure as hell ain’t fuckin’ Mark.”

Dumbly, you shook your head.

“You, Joel.”

Your words were almost drowned out by the symphony of your own moans, which were accompanied by the obscenely wet slaps that sounded every time his hips fully met yours.

“Louder.” He snarled, punctuating his response with an intentionally rough ram. “Neighbours can’t hear you yet, c’mon.”

“You, Joel!”

Satisfied, his hands went to hold you by your waist, keeping you as still as possible as he drove insistently into you, his tip now kissing your cervix with every thrust.

You cried out at the feeling, nails raking down his back.

Heat pooled in your gut, your vision blurred, a high-pitched ringing almost deafened your ears.

“Joel, Joel, I’m…” You babbled.

“Close? Go on, gorgeous. Let me feel you choke my dick.”

With his blessing, his name left your mouth in a high-pitched scream, and you felt yourself clench around his throbbing length as your orgasm rippled across your body like an earthquake.

Joel, being the overachiever he was, didn’t stop for even a second until your breathing slowed and your eyes fluttered open again.

And, once he saw that you had recovered, he leaned forward to slant his mouth against yours, swallowing your sighs.

“You okay?” He mumbled into the kiss, barely breaking away.

“Yeah.” You exhaled.

He smiled against your lips.

“Good. Almost there, baby. Gonna take you against the sink, now, and you’re gonna give me one more, how’s that sound?”

You nodded dreamily, feeling him slowly pull out.

He leaned back and, with his hands on your waist, delicately set you down.

“Turn ‘round for me, sweetheart.”

You acquiesced without hesitation, bracing yourself on the porcelain countertop.

Joel hummed, kicked your legs open even wider, and, not long after, sank the entirety of his cock into you in one deep thrust.

A sharp breath hit the air behind you, and an airy ‘fuck’ followed it. This angle made him feel bigger, if that was even possible.

He didn’t wait long after that. He couldn’t. Overcome with the need to feel you, he started moving. The first thrust was slow. Experimental. The second was hard. The third was harder.

Before you knew it, his big hands found a home on your hips, and he began to drive roughly into you, as if making up for lost time.

He certainly proved he was willing to atone for his absence, thrust after thrust.

“Oh, look at you.” Joel tutted and pulled your hair to tilt your head upwards.

You came face to face with the woman in the bathroom mirror.

Somewhere in between thrusts, your mouth had fallen agape, letting loose a long whine of pleasure, which was stuttered by every slam of his hips against yours.

Your hair was frizzy, your face was flushed, your hooded gaze was flooded with desire, and a light sheen of sweat doused every inch of your skin.

You were a wreck, thanks to the man fucking you so well behind you.

“Eyes up here.” Joel sighed. “Keep ‘em open. Gotta watch how well you take me.”

Joel was even more of a sight.

The top few buttons of his flannel were undone, his sleeves were haphazardly rolled up, his hair was wild, and the look on his weathered face was nothing short of territorial as he held you to him and fucked you with reckless abandon.

Your eyes fell to where your bodies were connected, hypnotised by how easily his tanned cock disappeared in and out of your puffy cunt.

Again.

And again.

The corners of his lips were coyly upturned when he cooed, “Don’t we look good, baby?”

You could only respond in broken syllables.

“Yeah,” He grunted. Then, after a particularly forceful thrust, “we do.”

He continued to ram into you, finding your cervix with each thrust, keeping his eyes trained on the mirror, fixated on how your tits bounced so prettily for him.

“Beautiful.” He whispered, jaw tight.

If your brain hadn’t been turned to mush after the two orgasms he forced out of you, you would’ve heard him. But all you were focused on was the rush of another climax approaching.

You gripped the countertop harder and gritted your teeth, feeling warmth collecting in your stomach and bracing yourself for impact.

As if reading your mind, Joel’s hand moved from your hip to your front, trailing down until he brushed your clit, rubbing sloppy semi-cricles and whispering sweet things as you whimpered.

“You gonna give me one more?” He murmured encouragingly, his nose nudging the side of your face.

You could only manage an open-mouthed nod.

His fingers sped in their motions, swiping at your clit feverishly as he continued to rut into you, grazing your cervix each time.

Again. And again.

“Come for me, sweetheart. I’ll catch you.” He whispered gently.

Your jaw slackened, your heartbeat quickened, and, in a blinding flash of pleasure, you came with his name on your tongue, helpless to the throes of your climax.

“There you go. Shit… so good for me.” Joel groaned. And then, urgently, “Where—where do you want me to–?”

Not even a full second later, “Inside.”

“You sure?” He panted, starstruck.

“I have an IUD, just—please.”

He didn’t reply. Instead, he pressed closer, his chest flush against your back, letting you feel every shaky pull of his breath as he caged you in. His hands found yours at the edge of the sink, lacing over them gently. His head dropped beside yours, his forehead nearly touching your temple, and a warm breath fanned across your skin as he sighed.

And then he resumed his earlier pace.

He rammed into you hard and fast, chasing his own release as if it were a life-or-death situation. And all you could do was take it.

After a dozen more jerky thrusts, his breath caught in his throat and, with a low curse, he came. Hot ropes of his spend spilled inside you, and he rode it out until he couldn’t give you any more, which took a few more lazy rolls of his hips.

His breath evened not long after, warm and steady against your browbone. Soothing, almost.

Gently, he pulled out of you, and you felt his come slowly drip down your thighs.

“Fuck,” He breathed, pressing a soft kiss to your hair, scruff rubbing against your crown as he did so.

And he bowed his head to rest it on the crook of your neck.

“That was great, George.” You panted.

Joel snorted tiredly. “Just couldn’t help yourself, huh?”

“Nope.”

He huffed out a chuckle.

Then, he languidly pressed a trail of open-mouthed kisses wherever his lips could reach—the underside of your jaw, your throat, your neck, and down, still.

A warm, fuzzy sort of feeling radiated from his touch, lulling you into a state of bliss. It felt like love; it felt like coming home.

You couldn’t help the smile that stretched across your face.

Joel mumbled something unintelligible against your shoulder.

“What?” You replied, breaking free from your trance.

“I said,” He pulled away and, with two fingers on your chin, tenderly turned your face to look at him. His voice was wrecked and so very earnest when he finally repeated himself. “Don’t send the papers. Please.”

He held the rest of his plea in his eyes in the way they shone with a certain sincerity.

You smiled softly and shook your head. Because you knew you never really had any intention to. Because you wanted to hold on to him. And you were glad he wanted to hold on to you, too.

Your lips found his. Gentle, delicate, a reassurance. He gave in to the kiss almost immediately, sighing into your mouth.

“I won’t.”

And you meant it.

thanks for reading!!! reqs are open, if you wanna send an idea or anything over :)

🏷️: @whaddupbaby, @pedritodowney08, @martuxduckling, @aadhinagony, @lanabobana, @pedr0swh0r3, @romancherry, @strawberriesandhotmen, @streamermattsgf, @bonneyzsk, @worhols, @serendippindots, @paprikainfurs, @lanternnightgarden, @12vamppp, @savvyisss, @umadirectioner, @tinawantstobeadoll, @not-the-teen-witch, @wundagre, @im-nowhere-but-also-somewhere, @guelyury, @joelspickle, @callofdiva, @hotnmad, @brightestxxwitch, @pearl-diver-m, @kungfucapslock, @hellokittyyloverrrr, @meganfoxismywife, @natalieispunk, @billionairecowgirl, @my-tearsricochet

8K notes · View notes

desuidesu · 5 hours ago

Text

Master List Of My TLOU Fics On AO3 & Artwork Made For My Fics

Fanfic Series

What Family Is For: Stories about the Miller family and how they take care of each other.

A Step to the Left: Stories that take a step to the left of the canon verse. Things may be a little different or a lot. But if the story is here, it definitely is not canon.

No Cordyceps AU's: AU's where the cordyceps outbreak did not happen.

What's Past Is Past: The early days of the Miller clan.

The In-Between Places: Stories that happen in between canon.

The Life of Bill and Frank: Canon Bill and Frank stories that fill in the blanks

Back on the Scene: Stories where Joel Miller is Bisexual.

Tumblr Ficlets: Stories I made from prompts on Tumblr

Fate Makes Fools of Us All: My Tess is Ellie's foster mom AU.

A Life Lived: An alternate universe where everyone gets to live. Except for David, he dies in every universe.

Baby Boy Miller: An AU where no apocalypse happens, and Joel has two kids with his ex-wife. Sarah, and a son called Junior.

Bad Things Happen All the Time: My Bad Things Happen Bingo Fics

Growing Up With My Two Dads: Stories where Bill and Frank get to be the best dads to Ellie.

Life's Little Surprises: AU, where Ellie ends up having a baby because of what happened in Silver Lake.

Tommy and Maria Stories: Stories that center around Tommy/Maria

Fanfic of Fanfic: These are Fanfics I wrote of other people's Fanfics

Smut Makes the World Go Round: Stories that contain Smut

Artwork For My Fics

Part 1

Part 2

PFP Ponies

All of my PFP ponies!

55 notes · View notes

desuidesu · 5 hours ago

Text

Sisters!Ellie & Sarah Fic Recs

Or: the thing literally no one asked for but I want to make anyway.

(it might get long)

MODERN AU

School by etz.

'Joel seems to think that Ellie is ready for High School.

He's right, because Ellie always kicks ass at everything.

a short little modern au fic where it isn't perfect, but it'll be alright.

(I literally love this one so much. I think it was the first modern sisters fic I read.)

modern sisters au by mirananananan/@mirananananan

(A lovely series made by one of my besties! (ily Miranda) There are two fics in it so far, but I believe it will be added to!)

saltwater burns, the tide always turns by biannabeth

“Tío Joel!”

“Ellie.”

The two of them collide, Joel lifting his niece into his arms with an ease that finds Sarah swallowing every ounce of envy she feels from when her father could hold her like that, back when she was as little as Ellie is. Guilt drowns the envy. She can’t possibly wish herself in Ellie’s position right now. Get a grip, Sarah.

She stands off to one side, her eyes scanning their surroundings. There’s a room behind Ellie with glass walls and a sliding door, but the curtains are partially drawn inside, so all she can see is a nurse hanging a blood bag on the metal stand by the bed. There’s a smartly dressed woman still sitting on a chair beside where Ellie had been. The woman offers Sarah a tight smile and her stomach churns about the fact that this complete stranger has a better idea of the situation than Sarah.

But if Ellie’s inconsolable out here in Joel’s arms, then that means that behind those curtains, must be—

(they get through it together, because that’s what families do)

(This one is very heartbreaking! Tommy is Ellie's father but he dies and Joel takes her in)

Putting too Much Faith in the Make Believe by BurnandBe

What if there wasn't an apocalypse? What if Joel's biggest purpose was simply raising his two kids?

(I love this one! I think it was the second modern sisters fic I read!)

swiftly by penandinkprincess/@penandinkprincess

So busy trying to eat her snack and not her gloss, she doesn’t actually look up until “dressing for revenge,” a little curious about why it’s prompting so many “wooo!”s.

One look at Taylor gliding a hand down her bejeweled onesie has her choking on the pretzel, inhaling cinnamon sugar.

It takes Sarah pounding her on her back to save her from becoming an Auntie Anne’s casualty, and even then, she has to look away from the stage to catch her breath, her entire face prickling with heat. Jesus, who the fuck approved this choreo? She thought Taylor Swift was supposed to be about dumbass exes and being girly and shit.

She peeks up under her lashes just in time to see some wildly compelling manspreading.

This time she chokes on air.

(modern era/no apocalypse ellie goes with sarah to a taylor swift concert and has A Gay Panic)

(as a swiftie I loved this Very Much)

comfort and chaos by gotmelikett

When he’s downstairs, he sees his girls.

(Okay, this one is a mix of canonverse and modern au. Joel's dreaming. BUT IT'S GOOD/a little bittersweet.)

tall white house with an empty room by elizabethisnotcool

"The windchimes are what tipped her off.

When she’d woken up, she’d been so warm and so content, she simply kept her eyes closed and stayed as still as she could. Maybe if she didn’t move, she thought, this feeling won't go away. Maybe she could stay this healed forever.

But the windchimes twinkled outside her window, and she lurched up in fear.

No one in Jackson had windchimes, and last she checked, she and Joel were nowhere near Jackson."

Ellie finds herself somewhere strange, and no one will tell her what's going on.

(also like the previous one, except Ellie is dreaming)

if it weren't for second chances, we'd all be done by elizabethisnotcool

"Ellie’d been squished between them in the back of a squad car, covered in blood that wasn’t her own and staring at nothing. It had been Tommy that shuffled a tentative arm around her shoulders, pulling her in. Joel had been too numb to do anything but stare at the blood on his boots."

Ellie's best friend dies, and a second chance rises to life.

(this one is beautiful, but also really sad. So as a warning: Sarah dies, but Joel adopts Ellie. It also involves theatre as well.)

CANONVERSE

Placeholder by Banch/@banchywanch, my beloved.

Just a regular day, but they were the days Ellie liked the most.

Then Tommy came over.

That, in itself, wasn’t the problem. The problem was the fact that he had interrupted their breakfast by pounding on the door like someone was dying. Ellie flashed a look to Joel, but he was already standing, looking slightly worried as he walked toward the front door just beyond the kitchen. Tommy beat him to it, opening their front door just as Joel reached it.

“Joel.”

The word was spoken with such soft desperation that Ellie was on her feet in an instant. Something was wrong, something was happening, and whatever it was had Tommy shaken enough to say Joel’s name like that.

“Joel. There’s a woman at the gate.”

(Or Sarah lives! somehow! And Ellie is forced to realize her place besides Joel now that his REAL daughter is home)

(I literally have no words for how amazing this story is and it's made by my amazing friend, Banchywanch!)

and if i didn't know better, i'd think you were singing to me now by jcniper

"My uncle sacrificed his life to save me and my dad. I get feelin' guilty about...everything,"

(Full stop, I haven't read this one. But it's a nice and juicy longfic that's been on my TBR for a while! It looks really good. Basically Sarah lives, and Tommy dies)

Save your tears (It'll be okay) by idontwriteoften

(Ellie's been with the Miller family long before the pandemic happens.)

"Bye-bye, Joel. Happy birthday!"

"Bye, baby girl two, you be good, okay?"

"I'll try," Ellie nods as she goes towards her and she gets her usual morning goodbye hug, and with lightning speed, Ellie's out of the car and walking down towards her school building.

"That girl's backpack's gets bigger and bigger than her everyday, what does she carry in that thing?" Uncle Tommy shakes his head in amusement.

Her escape plan, she wants to say but doesn't.

(this one is good! But alas, unfinished. And I'm not sure how much it counts because Sarah still dies.)

BONUS

there will be blue skies, my friend by biannabeth

Joel is holding his daughter in his arms, the two of them sobbing together as Tommy stitches the gaping wound in Sarah’s leg. They’d managed to make it back home, but Sarah had been drooping ever closer to unconsciousness and Joel was terrified that if she slipped a little bit further, he would lose her altogether. “You’re okay,” He whispers the words into her hair like a mantra. “I’ve got you, babygirl. You’re doing so good.” what if… Sarah lives. Joel gets his girls.

(So Ellie and Sarah aren't sisters in this, but Sarah adopts Ellie and is her mama and it's the cutest thing ever!)

Lmk if I missed any!

18 notes · View notes

desuidesu · 5 hours ago

Text

Fifteen Masterlist

Din Djarin x Cam Girl Reader AU

Rating: Explicit. 18+ (Minors DNI) Summary: Being a cam girl isn't as exciting as people think it is, that is until you fall in love with your favorite customer. Warnings: Smut, voyeurism, sex work, Din reveals his face, Din is bad at feelings, Din's a virgin, premature ejaculation, mutual masturbation, face sitting, unprotected p in v sex, oral sex. Chapters will have individual warnings.

Chapter 1 - Fifteen Minutes Chapter 2 - Fifteen Weeks Chapter 3 - Fifteen Months

Masterlist

441 notes · View notes

desuidesu · 5 hours ago

Text

Breaststroke

18+ MDNI!

Summary: Joel, single dad extraordinaire, is struggling to teach his daughter how to swim. You end up teaching Sarah over the course of a few weekly swimming classes. One fortunate day, Joel accidentally stumbles upon a rather intimate situation involving you in the shower rooms after hours. He’s about to leave, but right before he can, he hears his own name spilling out in a desperate moan from your lips.

TL;DR: It’s more fun to stay in the YMCA (shower rooms) (because that’s where Joel fucks you.)

W.C: ~7.7k

Warnings: Singledad!Joel x swimmingteacher!reader, softdom!joel, accidental voyeurism, mutual masturbation, blowjobs, praise, fingering, unprotected p-in-v, shower sex, pull out and pray, implied age gap, Joel’s got that daddy humour (no outbreak!)

Note: waiter! waiter! some plot with my porn, please! sorry, you freaks, mama had to stretch the narrative before the rawdogging. and sorry for the late upload, the flu was not gucci. hope y'all enjoy as always, though! and if you got any reqs, feel free to send them my way 🤓

@pedrospurplerain

According to HealthyChildren.org, most children in America begin to learn how to swim by their fourth birthday. Basic abilities like floating and treading water can be ingrained in their motor skills at that point, and by the ripe age of five or six, most children will have been able to freestyle across any urine-defiled public pool.

Joel sighed as he watched his five-year-old angel scream and hiss at the local YMCA pool, refusing even to dip a toe into the chlorinated abyss.

“Sarah, pumpkin, you’re not a cat.” He sighed, pinching his curved nose bridge.

Sarah merely shot him a dirty look, the dirtiest a toddler could muster. She crossed her arms over her chest, the bright orange inflatable armbands around her upper arms squeaking as she did so.

“I don’t wanna go in there, daddy.” Sarah humphed.

Joel shook his head, looking up at her from where he sat in the shallow area of the gym’s pool. His little treasure, bless her heart, was stubbornly standing over the ledge and peering down at him with both fear and unwavering defiance.

“Y’gotta, pumpkin.” Joel ran a hand through his wet hair.

Of all the dads in the world, Joel would not say he was among the worst percentile. He certainly tried his best to do anything and provide everything for his little girl; working as many shifts as he could to pay for her school (his kid somehow, thankfully, didn’t get his brains and was starting first grade ahead of schedule), moving into a ‘nicer’ neighbourhood, and spoiling her with all the stuffed toys and lego sets her little heart desired.

Being a single dad wasn’t easy, to put it simply. Joel would’ve thought, owing to karmic nonsense, the universe could have been a bit nicer to him for the measly crime of forgetting to teach his daughter how to swim. But there he was, staring up at a child more hydrophobic than a rabies survivor.

“Can we go home, Daddy? Please?” Sarah stomped her little foot down onto the tiled floor.

“We will, sugar, I promise. Just, not until you at least try to step down here.”

Sarah shook her head wildly.

“No.”

“No?”

“No.” She said, more decisively.

“Says who?” Joel raised a dark brow.

“Me.”

“Remind me again, pumpkin, are you the adult or the child in this relationship?”

“You’re the one in the kiddie side of the pool, Daddy.” Sarah giggled, revealing a toothy grin.

Joel sighed through a smile. God, this kid was too smart for him. She was gonna be the death of him.

Mumbling something to the effect of ‘smartass’ under his breath, Joel treaded to the end and hoisted himself up, towering over his three-foot-nothing daughter and dripping chlorine-infected water down onto the ground.

“You wanna switch places?” He crossed his arms over his broad, bare chest, nodding his head toward the pool.

“Nope!” Sarah smiled.

Joel was about to give up for the day and take his troublemaker home only to return the next weekend, when he suddenly felt a tentative finger tap his shoulder.

He whipped around to see a girl, much younger than him—and much shorter, too, dressed in the standard red lifeguard one-piece uniform.

“Sorry to intrude,” You began, biting your lip. “I couldn’t help but overhear.”

Joel blinked, not realising he had to reply to your remark like a normal fucking human would. Instead, he opted for the less popular, uncivilised caveman method of furrowing his brows and blinking madly.

He was too distracted by the way your swimsuit clung tightly over your body. Too mesmerised by the droplets of water sliding in slow motion down your curves. Not to mention that disarmingly pretty smile of yours.

God, he’d been too single for too long.

“Hello!” The reason for his singleness beamed up at you and waddled closer. “I’m Sarah.”

Your smile stretched wider as you bent down to meet her eye level and introduce yourself in return. Sarah repeated your name back to you delightedly, like it was the most fascinating thing in the world.

After making a comment about how ‘cool’ her floaters were, you straightened up and met Joel’s coffee-brown gaze.

“Anyway.” You absentmindedly tucked a stray piece of wet hair behind your ear. “Um, well, I overheard your situation. And, uh, just wanted to let you know that the gym hosts free introductory swimming lessons every Saturday afternoon. I teach the classes, actually, and you and your daughter are more than welcome to come, mister…?”

By some miracle, Joel was able to move his mouth and properly communicate this time.

“Miller. Joel Miller.” He managed to say without so much as a stutter, smiling politely at you and sticking out a hand.

You took his hand in yours and shook it.

“Nice to meet you, Mr Miller-Joel-Miller. That Italian?” Your laugh was a sweet sound and, at risk of being completely predictable, music to his ears.

“The only Italian in me, sweetheart, is from the canned ravioli we had for lunch today.” Joel chuckled. “And we’d be more than happy to come, wouldn’t we, Sarah?”

To punctuate his claim, he flashed Sarah a look.

A frown cut into her soft features, but she relented.

“Yes, we would.” Sarah sighed dejectedly.

“Great! Um. Here’s the flier.” You produced a colourful leaflet and held it out to Joel. He took it. “It has the times and details and, uh, that’s my phone number on the bottom, there.”

“Thanks, sweetheart.” Joel pocketed it. “We’ll be there.”

“I look forward to seeing you two then.” You smiled again.

Joel would’ve fallen to his knees if you had stayed longer with that damn smile of yours. But you turned around to speedwalk towards the other side of the pool, blowing your whistle and reprimanding a bunch of teenagers running across the slippery poolside.

And if he thought the front of you was stunning, he was quickly shown that your back view was just as providing.

“You’re staring,” Sarah observed, tugging at his arm.

Joel cleared his throat.

“Let’s go home, pumpkin.” He ruffled her hair, much to a fit of giggles, and led his daughter away from the outdoor pool.

—-------

Saturday afternoon did not come quickly enough.

After a week of late nights spent finishing drywall and early mornings making Sarah’s lunch—because there was no way in hell she was going to eat whatever junk-filled shit the American school system provided in cafeterias—Joel was tired, to say the least.

By three o’clock sharp, he had arrived at the pool with his daughter dressed to the nines in a robot-themed swimsuit and bright green goggles that suctioned so hard into her little face that she looked wide-eyed and cartoonish.

And when four o’clock had rolled around, Joel was happy to report that his daughter had finally worked up the nerve to get in the pool. With your help (and some floppy-haired assistant coach), Sarah had also managed to do some basic swimming manoeuvres without clinging to the side for dear life and frothing at the mouth.

“Hi, sweetheart.” Joel approached you after the session had officially ended, and Sarah was dried off and warm. “Just wanted to thank you. And, uh, Coach Bryan for, you know…”

“No thanks necessary, Mr Miller.” You winked, then bent down to Sarah, who stood beside her father. “You did great, Sarah. Really.”

Sarah smiled sheepishly. Joel chuckled at her bashful demeanour and ruffled her hair affectionately.

“Same time next week, Coach?” He asked.

“Yes, sir.” You saluted him and walked off toward the shower rooms, a towel around your shoulders and a spring to your step.

Joel shook his head, smiling, and took Sarah home in a better mood than he had been that morning.

—-

Joel quickly learned that the swimming lessons were beneficial to both him and his daughter. Sarah was speedily conquering her fear of water, and Joel was… well, Joel spent a lot of time talking to you when you weren’t in the pool. And afterwards, too, when the rest of the kids had already left and there were no other parents to chat your ear off.

“You’re taking a gap year?” Joel mused after one particularly smooth sailing session, taking off his sunglasses and hanging them on the hem of his shirt.

“Yep. Just taking a break after college so I can figure out what I wanna do in life.” You shrugged. “Is being a contractor any fun?”

“Well, sweetheart, I doubt you’d like it very much.” Joel smiled, glueing his eyes to yours with steely resolve.

He was not going to look down at your body this time. He was not going to ogle the tight fit of your one-piece. He was better than the average man.

Besides, you were definitely too young for him. Possibly even young enough to be his daughter. You’d likely recoil in disgust and horror and, possibly, contact the local authorities to capture him, the creepy older man, if he were to ever make a move.

“Eh. I was open to the idea.” You laughed, shaking your head. “But I guess it’s dominated by big, strong hunks like you, huh?”

“I mean, I—” Joel began, but cut himself off upon realising what you had just said.

He blinked. Did you just flirt with him?

As if sensing that Joel was getting somewhere other than friendly banter with her swimming teacher, Sarah jogged up to the two of you.

“Daddy, I’m hungry. Let’s go home!” She pulled at his wrist.

Joel cleared his throat, offered you a quick goodbye, and led his daughter outside back to their car.

—-

“I promise it’s funny.” Bryan nudged your shoulder, giving you a very indiscreet once-over.

Joel was shamelessly eavesdropping on your post-lesson conversation as he towelled Sarah’s unruly hair nearby. Not to be nosy, of course, just to find out whether he was your boyfriend or not. Out of pure curiosity, really. No ulterior motive whatsoever…

“I somehow doubt that.” You hummed, no amusement evident in your unimpressed tone.

“Okay, so, there’s this ginger, a brunette, and a blonde—”

“I’ll stop you right there, Bryan, is the punchline, by any chance, ‘breaststroke’?”

“Well, shit.” Bryan sighed.

Joel chuckled to himself, giving Sarah one last tousle with the towel before settling it over her shoulders.

He concluded you either hated your boyfriend, or he wasn’t your boyfriend at all.

Joel preferred the second option.

—-

“I’m just getting some water. You okay with the kids?” You pulled yourself out of the pool, glancing at Bryan.

“Yep. All good here,” He called back.

With a nod, you draped your towel over your shoulders and made your way towards the deck chair that held your things.

It seemed that the heavens were smiling on you that day, too, because none other than Mr Miller himself occupied the chair beside yours.

And what a sight he was.

Sun-bathing, his sunglasses resting over closed eyes, and his broad, bare, tanned chest exposed to all.

“Having fun there, Mr Miller?” You smiled, taking a seat on your chair, bringing your water bottle to your lips.

Joel lowered his sunglasses and very discreetly let his gaze travel down your body.

You bit back a grin. He always thought he was so subtle.

“Absolutely, coach. Need to set a timer, though, or I’ll end up medium well-done.” Joel sat up, facing you.

You snorted at his dad-humour.

“Tan looks great.” You commented, wiping your brow with your towel.

“You think?” Joel smiled, reaching for the can of soda on his side table and taking a sip. “Thank you very much, sweetheart.”

“No problem at all, Mr Miller.” You licked your lips, your gaze momentarily caught on his … form-fitting trunks. “Well, I better get back to it.”

“Yeah. Wouldn’t want to keep your boyfriend waiting.” He pushed his sunglasses back up his aquiline nose.

“My—oh! Oh. Bryan? No. Ew,” You held back a gag. “No. No. God, no.”

Joel chuckled.

“I think you may need one more ‘no’ to prove your point there, darlin’.”

“No.” You played along. “Him and I are strictly friends. Besides, he isn’t my type.”

“He isn’t?”

“I like my men like I like my cheese.” You shrugged, standing up.

“Don’t say smelly.” Joel laughed.

You opened your mouth but decided to leave your preferences shrouded in mystery as you began walking off.

Well, until you threw him a look over your shoulder, catching him in the act of staring at your ass, but pretending not to notice.

“Aged.”

Joel choked on nothing while you innocently walked away like you hadn’t just made a heavily suggestive remark.

—-

“Daddy? Can I go talk to Amanda for a second?” Sarah asked, her gaze flickering over to a plait-wearing blonde girl nearby.

“Yeah, okay, sugar. Be quick, though. Tommy’s coming over soon.” Joel squeezed her shoulder before letting her run off, her wet flip-flops squeaking against the tiled poolside as she approached her friend.

Joel shook his head and smiled. He was so proud of his girl for overcoming her phobia. Maybe he needed to treat her to ice-cream one of these days–

“Hi, Mr Miller.”

After craning his head, Joel found you standing behind him. Bright-eyed and wearing that same, impossibly tight, lifeguard swimsuit. Thank God for nylon.

“Hey, coach.” Joel offered you a lopsided grin.

“I just wanted to say, I’ve been really impressed with your daughter over these past few weeks.”

“She’s a fast learner.” Joel moved beside you, still facing Sarah and her little friend but keeping his eyes trained on you. “Unlike me.”

“Does she get it from your wife, then…?”

Joel couldn’t shake his head faster. “No wife.”

And there went his eyes, dragging down your slightly wet body. Christ, it was like you jumped straight out of a Baywatch episode—keep it together, Miller!

“Oh.” You coughed. “So that’s why all the moms flock around you.”

Joel let out a short laugh. “I think you’re exaggerating, sweetheart.”

You took a quick glimpse at the hoard of middle-aged women unabashedly staring at the wide-shouldered man next to you before returning your sights to the wide-shouldered man himself.

“I don’t think I am.” Your lips pulled upward in a small smile. “Well, anyway. Just wanted to catch you before our final lesson next week.”

“Our final lesson’s next week?” Joel sputtered out, sounding way less calm and collected than he had intended.

“Yeah. Unless you want to learn how to swim, too.”

“I think I’m all covered in that department, darlin’.” Joel smiled. “But thank you. For everything. I know this whole shindig is free, but I just wish there was some way I could repay you.”

You clicked your tongue and, if Joel caught that correctly, lowered your voice.

“I’m sure we can find some way for you to pay me back, Mr Miller.” You said innocently, but your half-lidded eyes told another story.

Before he could so much as utter out the first syllable of a reply, Sarah came darting back.

“Okay, Daddy, let’s go!” She took her father by the hand and spared you a glance. “Bye, coach!”

Joel tried to hide both his shock from your very obvious innuendo as well as his disappointment from his daughter’s very poor timing.

He rubbed a hand down the lower half of his face and nodded at his daughter. “Let’s go then, pumpkin.” He gripped her hand and turned to you with a slightly dazed smile. “I’ll see you next week, sweetheart.”

“That you will, Mr Miller.” With a quick wink, you spun around on your heel and made your way toward the shower rooms.

—-

As fate would have it, barely half an hour later, Joel found himself sighing unhappily and looking down at his daughter as he attempted to contain his frustrations.

“We just got home—what do you mean, you left your goggles at the pool?” Joel said through a deep exhale.

“Sorry, Daddy, I didn’t mean to forget them.” Sarah shuffled her feet, her eyes locked on the floor in front of her and her fingers twisting the bottom of her t-shirt.

Tommy stuck his head out from the kitchen, one hand clutching a can of Bud Light and the other braced on the doorframe.

“Yeah, Joel, she didn’t mean to.” He piped in, unhelpfully.

“Shut up, Tommy,” Joel grumbled, shooting him a quick glare.

His brother just smirked and took a sip of his beer.

Joel sighed and turned back to Sarah, pinching his nose bridge. “Look, pumpkin, it’s fine. I’ll just drive back to the pool and get ‘em for you, okay?”

Sarah frowned. “Will you be back in time for dinner?”

“Yeah, Joel, you better be. You’re the one making it.” Tommy let out a dramatic huff.

Joel ignored him.

“Won’t take but a hot minute.” Joel ruffled Sarah’s unruly curls and pressed a quick kiss to the top of her head before turning away toward the front door.

“Say ‘hi’ to sweetheart for me, if you see her!” Sarah smiled up at him.

Joel paused mid-step, his shoes halfway on.

“Hi to who, now?” Tommy leaned closer.

“That ain’t her name, pumpkin.” Joel chose not to look directly at Tommy as he huffed out another sigh and yanked his shoes fully on.

“Ain’t that what you call her, though?”

“Now, who are you callin’ ‘sweetheart’, Joel Miller?” Tommy wore a shit-eating grin on his face.

Joel decidedly ignored him, believing it to be the best course of action.

“Watch my kid, Tommy!” He called as he stepped out of the house.

—--

The pool area was mostly deserted by the time Joel returned to it, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows over the lengthy stretch of lane-roped waters.

Joel walked a slow lap around the perimeter of the pool, scanning the tiles and lounge chairs and the lone lifeguard tower for any sign of Sarah’s goggles.

Nothing.

Turning around, Joel’s eyes landed on the entrance to the womens’ locker rooms. He huffed out a heavy sigh, running his hand through his grey-flecked hair. He would have preferred to not snoop in there in fear of startling any lingering guests, but he decided that there wouldn’t be anyone this close to closing time on a Sunday and, moreover, didn’t want to come home empty-handed and disappoint his daughter.

So, on he went.

The locker rooms were quiet when he tentatively stepped inside, the scent of chlorine and cheap soap clinging to the air.

Fortunately, it seemed that he was the only one in its vicinity.

And, even more fortunately, Joel immediately spotted Sarah’s bright green goggles lying by its lonesome on a bench near the showers.

Gotcha.

He was ready to make a beeline for them and head quickly home, but upon taking a few steps forward, Joel’s ears caught the distant sound of a shower running.

Turning his head toward the source of the splashing sounds, Joel’s eyes immediately noticed a swimsuit hanging precariously off the shower curtain rod.

But not just any swimsuit. It was a red one-piece with what appeared to be ‘lifeguard’ in bold, along the front.

It was your swimsuit.

You were in the shower.

Joel pursed his lips. Just his fucking luck. Of course, the inappropriately young girl he tried not fantasising about for weeks was the only other person there.

Mentally chastising himself for even entering the locker rooms in the first place, Joel pivoted sharply and began making his way toward the exit.

He didn’t get very far, though, because, after two intentionally light steps, he heard his own name drifting from the steaming shower.

“Joel…”

He stiffened. Evidently, he was caught. He’d have to apologise profusely and somehow testify that he was not, in fact, a perverted Peeping Tom—

“Joel,” You sighed, followed by … shit, was that a moan?

And at that moment, Joel realised that, alongside the splashing of water echoing from the stall, there was the unmistakable clap and squelch of—

“Joel! Oh… fuck,” Your breathy moan carried easily down the short hall.

You were fucking yourself to the thought of him.

Shit, shit, shit.

If Joel were a better man, he would already be in his car, driving home. He would have forgotten this encounter had ever occurred, tucked it deep into the depths of his mind, granted you a curt farewell for the final lesson the coming week, and proceeded to never see you again.

But Joel wasn’t a better man.

Judging by how quickly his dick came to life to rest, half-hard, against his thigh in his swim trunks, Joel was an awful person.

Well, he couldn’t come home nursing a semi, now could he?

Yeah. Reaching down to pull his throbbing cock out of his waistband was the right thing to do.

At least, that’s what he told himself as he leaned against a corner and slowly slid his fist down his stiffening length.

“Joel! Fuck, your cock feels so good!” Your pitchy whine floated down the room, amplified by the generosity of the tile acoustics.

Joel’s dick twitched in his hand.

Out of habit, he tightened his grip around his base and fucked up into his fist, squeezing his eyes shut and pretending it was your tight cunt he was jutting in and out of.

And it wasn’t hard to pretend, either. What with the sinful noises you were making a few stalls away, and the desperate pleas of ‘that’s it, Joel, fuck me harder!’

With pearls of precum dribbling down his tip and smearing along his hand with each thrust, Joel felt himself near his release. Judging by the increasingly airy quality of your whines, you were facing the same predicament.

Joel continued to fuck his fist, picturing you in various filthy scenarios.

You, slowly wrapping your dainty hand around his hard-on and eagerly taking over.

You, on your knees, choking on his cock.

You, tits smushed against tile as Joel fucked you with reckless abandon under the hot torrents of the showerhead.

Ramming brutally into your greedy fucking pussy, watching as his come-soaked dick disappeared in and out of your tight channel—

“Fuck!” Joel cursed aloud after a particularly enthusiastic thrust.

Suddenly, the water stopped. So did your noises.

Joel stilled. Oh, shit.

“Hello?” Came your voice, meekly. “Is … Is someone there?”

As silently as he could, Joel released his hold on his cock and carefully tucked himself back in his trunks.

Shit. What was he going to do?

Almost immediately after he regained his decency, the shower curtain slid halfway open with a faint metallic rattle, and you cautiously peered out, hiding most of your body behind the vinyl barrier.

“...Mr Miller?” You said, uncertainly, as if half-convinced he was some kind of dreamlike apparition.

Joel cleared his throat and took an instinctive step back.

“Uh—yeah. Just, uh… goggles. Sarah’s goggles.” He stuttered, holding them up weakly. “Her goggles. She left them here. The goggles.”

“Well, thank god you clarified that.” You smacked your lips, a sarcastic bite to your tone. The snarkiness soon faded from your expression once you added, with knitted brows, “you’re in the womens’ showers.”

“Yeah, I—” Joel winced. “I know.”

Silence.

After a moment or two, you opened your mouth to say something else, but the words died in your throat as your eyes fell on Joel’s trunks.

More specifically, the raging bulge making itself known in his lap.

“You’re hard.” You stated, your cheeks flushing a pretty shade of pink.

Joel’s eyes shot wide open. He glanced down, too, and sure enough, he was hard. It was almost as if he was fucking his hand to the thought of you only moments before. Oh, wait, that’s because he was!

To preserve the last shred of dignity in Joel’s inexecusably shameful body, he threw his hands over his groin and attempted to stammer out a valid excuse.

“Sorry, sweetheart—” No, he wasn’t. “—I, um… well, you see, I…”

Your eyes found the faint traces of precum on his right hand.

“Were you … jerking off to me in the shower?”

Yes, yes, he was.

“Frankly, darlin’, I think the better question here is, were you jerking off to me in the shower?” Joel coughed.

Your eyes trailed over his body, lingering again on where he covered his hard-on.

“I was.” Your stare found his. “Your turn, Mr Miller.”

Joel sucked in a breath through his teeth. There was definitely no backing out now.

He nodded slowly. Reprehensibly.

Shame churned within him as he desperately wished for the ground to open up at his feet and swallow him whole, possibly even spitting him back out into the fiery pits of hell where he so clearly belonged after what he had done. Unfortunately for him, the earth, indifferent to his suffering, remained stubbornly solid beneath him, leaving him stranded in his own mortification.

“Look, sweetheart, I can’t express how sorry I—lord almighty.”

Instead of letting him scramble to finish whatever bullshit he was cooking up, you decided to pull the shower curtain all the way back.

Joel gulped, taking in your newly-exposed bare body, from the soft curve of your breasts to the thickness of your thighs to the seam of your … fuck, to the seam of the same pussy you were probably fingering just moments before; glazed in glistening beads of water under the cool fluorescent lights.

You were fucking gorgeous.

So gorgeous, in fact, that Joel felt his cock fully spring to life at the sight of you, standing naked and dripping-wet from the rain of showerhead.

“Let me… let me help you out.” You bit your lower lip, your eyes hazy.

“H-Help me out?” Joel breathed, staggering backward, his hands still persevering to conserve his modesty.

You slowly approached him, stopping when any semblance of personal space was lost, and dropped down to your knees.

Jesus Fucking Christ.

Joel heard himself swallow.

“Don’t you want this, Mr Miller?” You looked up at him, your eyes pleading and almost doll-like from that angle.

While waiting for his response, your hands softly wrapped themselves around his, guiding them away from his lap to meet his tenting swim trunks head-on.

Joel, meanwhile, was busy trying to convince himself this wet dream of a situation was really happening whilst simultaneously refraining from spending his load in his trunks, because the vision of you, bare and waiting patiently on your knees, looked downright sinful.

“Doesn’t matter if I do.” Joel shook his head slowly, not registering the fact that his grip on the goggles loosened to a point where they fell to the floor in a dull clatter. “This… this is wrong.”

“The way I see it,” You hummed, your hands finding gentle purchase on his hips. “I’m naked. And already wet. And you’re…”

Your eyes flickered down to his bulge and wet your lips. Upon seeing this, Joel’s breath hitched in his throat.

“Ain’t there some—some rule against, I don’t know, a coach fraternising with a parent in this way?” Joel furrowed his brows, distractedly taking your chin in his hands and tilting your head upwards.

“No.” You eagerly let him direct you, moving at his will.

“You sure?”

“Positive.” The corners of your mouth pulled up in a small smile.

“What if someone comes—yeah, fuck it, I ain’t gonna keep pretending like I don’t want this.” Joel shook his head, his eyes dragging over you unabashedly.

“Oh yeah?” Your smile only widened.

“Go on then, darlin’.” Joel purred, his voice a low and rough timbre, his eyes overtaken with want. “What was it you said a while ago…? Help me out.”

With his less-than-reluctant approval, you tossed him another heart-stuttering wink, slipped your fingers past his waistband, and pulled him out.

And, fuck, you were not disappointed.

Joel was big, to say the least; in both length and girth, and you may have felt your cunt quivering at the mere thought of the possibility of taking him inside you later, but you were quickly overtaken by need upon seeing the drops of precum spilling from of his head.

With a hand wrapped around his base, you stuck your tongue out to lick a stripe up his length, tasting the salt of his skin and his arousal.

At your actions, Joel inhaled a sharp breath.

“You gonna finish what you started now?” Joel mused from above you, closing a fist around your grip on his cock and bringing it closer to your parted lips. He gently tapped your cheek with his free hand. “Open up for me, sweetheart.”

And you gladly did so, taking his tip into your mouth and swirling your tongue around his head like a fucking lolipop.

“Fuck,” Joel gritted his teeth, tossing his head back against the wall.

Taking his expletive as a sign to continue, you proceeded to hollow your cheeks and take his length deeper, as deep as physically possible without making you choke.

“That all you can take?” Joel tutted, caressing your cheek.

Much to your determined efforts, you only managed to fit a little more than half of him in your mouth. Because, fuck, was he big.

You whined around his cock in response.

“Shh,” Joel murmured. “‘S okay. ‘S okay, sweetheart.”

His deep brown gaze met yours, and for a second, you could have mistaken the emotion swimming in his eyes as affection.

“Nice and slow, hm?” Joel said through a satisfied exhale, his brows furrowed at the sensation of being enveloped by the warmth of your mouth.

His fingers threaded through your hair, coming to grasp at your roots, but remained stationary, waiting for you to make the first move.

You looked up at him through your eyelashes and held that eye contact as you began moving your head back and forth. Seeing his eyes briefly flutter in pleasure, you flattened your tongue against the underside of his cock, feeling it twitch as you continued your movements.

“Fuck, sweetheart. That’s it.” His grip in your hair tightened.

You started to bob your head up and down at a quicker pace as you sucked him greedily, your hand moving in deft strokes along the stretch of his length your mouth couldn’t entertain.

Joel cursed under his breath and guided you on and off his cock in a steady rhythm as he fisted your hair.

And, fuck, he let himself thrust into your mouth once or twice, but upon hearing you gag, resolved to let you take charge of the speed entirely.

“Sorry sweetheart,” Joel breathed. “Sounded pretty chokin’ on my cock, but I guess I went too far, hm?” He sighed, caressing your cheek again.

You moaned with his cock heavy on your tongue, signalling your eagerness to die of asphyxiation from a fucking blowjob, and begun to take him even further into your mouth, feeling his head touch the back of your throat.

“Shit, darlin’.” Joel groaned. “That’s a good girl. Taking it so well.”

A strangled sound escaped from your otherwise occupied throat as you continued to deepthroat a man old enough to be your father.

Truly realising the situation you found yourself in, you felt a needy sensation thrum from in between your legs. Whilst continuing to bob your head around his cock, your hand went to trail down your front and relieve some of that tension you ached to be rid of, rubbing your clit furiously.

“Oh, my poor girl.” Joel cooed, seeing this. “Come on, now. Up you get,” He gently pulled you off his cock (wincing at the loss of your mouth) and up to stand in front of him.

“Not good?” You breathed, resting a hand on his chest while his hands settled on either side of your waist.

“No, sweetheart, it was very good.” Joel dipped his head down so his mouth was less than an inch away from yours, every word releasing as a warm breath against your lips.

And then he leaned down to capture your mouth in a desperate, hungry, horribly sloppy kiss, licking into you and no doubt tasting his own arousal on your tongue.

You didn’t even register he was walking you backward until your back hit the shower wall.

“Just wanna fuck you now,” Joel mumbled, his half-lidded stare drifted down your bare form before flickering back up to meet your eyes.

“Well, since you asked so nicely.” You smirked, pulling him back into another frenzied kiss.

Joel smiled against your lips.

“So mouthy,” He tutted in that authoritative, paternal voice you’ve heard him use before, in between eager kisses. “I’d like to teach you a lesson, sweetheart, but I’m afraid I’m too fuckin’ impatient myself right now.”

At the sound of that, you clenched your thighs together.

The slant of his mouth trailed down your jaw to your neck, sucking and biting at your wet skin, humming in pleasure as he did so. Simultaneously, his big, calloused hand made their way from your waist down to your lower abdomen, and lower, still, until you felt his fingers ghost over your slick entrance.

You gasped.

“Mr Miller–”

“‘Joel’, darlin’. It’s ‘Joel.’” He mumbled against your neck, his stubble scraping lightly against your skin. “Heard you moanin’ it in here a while ago, I’m fairly certain you know how to pronounce it.”

“Joel,” You obliged, biting your lower lip as you felt Joel’s fingers meander nearer to your core.

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“You don’t have to… you know,” You glanced down in between both your bodies.

Joel followed your gaze and saw his own fingers hovering close to your aching mound.

“Think I do.” He clicked his tongue. “Need to get ya ready. Wouldn’t wanna hurt that pretty pussy of yours when I… well, to put it bluntly, darlin’, I don’t wanna hurt your pretty pussy when I’m fuckin’ you in a little bit.”

“Oh,” You breathed.

“Yeah,” Joel hummed, nudging your cheek with his nose. “That sound good to you, sweetheart?”

You nodded almost too avidly.

“Good,” Joel sighed, his fingers skimming over your aching cunt and just barely dipping inside your folds. “Just relax, darlin’. I gotcha.”

That was the last of the preamble before you felt one of his fingers slip inside, dragging up and down against your walls.

Normally, if left to your own devices, you were barely satisfied with a singular digit of your own. But here you were, gasping and clenching around just his middle finger.

Content with your reaction, Joel kissed your neck and slipped another finger to crook alongside the first in an even rhythm that began to spark a familiar warmth in your gut.

“There we go.” He mumbled against your skin.

“Fuck,” You whispered as you felt his thumb settle on your clit.

You felt Joel smile against your pulse point. And then, with his other big hand, he gently held your face and titled it to the side to pepper kisses along your jaw.

“You can take another, can’t you? Yeah, you can.” Joel hummed, and before you could respond, you felt a third finger slip inside, stretching you wider.

Your eyes squeezed shut as Joel’s fingers curled inside you at a faster rhythm while his thumb graciously swiped at your clit.

Blood pounded in your ears. Your breathing shallowed. You were so, so close.

“Joel, please…”

“Please what? C’mon, baby, use your words like a big girl.”

His fingers only sped up, dragging against your walls so deliciously and filling you better than your own hand could have ever done.

You inhaled.

“Please don’t s-stop.” Your breath hitched in your throat. “I’m so close.”

“You wanna come for me? ‘S that it?” Joel cooed, his breath warm against your skin and right beside your ear.

“Please,”

“Come for me then, sweetheart. Let me hear you,”

With a scream of his name, your orgasm washed over you like a tidal wave, sending you into a light-headed bliss as you clutched his big upper arms.

His fingers only began to slow once your cunt stopped pulsing rapidly around him, and when you caught your breath again, he tenderly slipped them out.

“Made a mess of my fingers, huh?” He mumbled, staring down at how his hand glistened with your arousal.

You felt your cheeks redden.

“I’m sorry–”

“Don’t fucking be,”

And you watched as Joel stuck a finger in his mouth and sucked your slick off it like it was a world-class dessert.

“That was hot,” Was your breathless response.

Intelligent.

“Oh yeah?” The corner of his lips tugged upward as his eyes danced from your own to your parted lips.

“Yeah,”

A soft, low laugh rumbled in his throat.

“Come here,” Joel sighed, placing a hand on the small of your back and another on the side of your face, leaning down to devour your lips in another messy kiss.

His tongue slid inside your mouth as if starved, licking against your tongue and letting you taste your own pleasure. All while the hand on your face brought you closer and gently stroked the curve of your cheek.

After a few moments, Joel broke the kiss almost regretfully.

He barely pulled away, his lips closely within reach of yours, and his breath mingling with your own as he spoke in a deep, gruff rasp.

“You still want this, sweetheart?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely.”

Joel smirked. “A simple ‘yes’ would’ve sufficed.”

Before you could form a response to his slightly snarky remark, your breath was stolen from you at the sight of Joel tugging down his trunks fully and stepping out of them.

Glancing down, you found that he was still incredibly hard. Almost painfully, by the look of how his cock practically bounced up to his navel. Clearly, your recent oral assistance did nothing to tame the lust in his body.

Joel crowded you up against the wall once more, his tall frame easily looming over yours. One of his big hands went to caress your jawline, angling your head up toward him, and the other went to your thigh, wrapping your leg around his waist.

“Been a while for me.” He sighed, a hint of embarrassment peeking through his tone. “You tell me if I get … carried away, yeah?”

Instinctively, you hung your arms around his wide shoulders, bringing him even closer.

“Yes, sir.” Your lips quirked upward.

“Good girl,” He hummed, his thumb absently running along your bottom lip.

Then, the hand cupping your face went to guide his aching dick to notch against your entrance, sliding against your wet mound.

And, with a shaky inhale slipping past his lips, he sheathed himself inside you.

“Fuck, you feel good,” Joel muttered lowly.

You let out a whine at the feeling.

Despite being barely halfway in, Joel was already proving to be more than sufficient, especially from the way your velvety walls were already pulsing wildly around his length.

“I know, I know, I know,” Joel sighed, his thumb caressing where he held a grip on your thigh. “‘S okay, sweetheart. Shh, you can take it.”

In response, you nodded.

And Joel drove himself the entire way, balls-deep, his greying pubic hair tickling the inside of your upper thighs. He gasped in your ear at the feeling of the first full thrust and at the sensation of your channel clamping desperately around him.

He filled you up so fucking well.

“You doin’ okay? Hm?” He mumbled, leaving lazy, aimless kisses along your neck.

“Need more.”

“Oh? She wants more, huh?” He smirked against your skin. “That what you were imaginin’ in the shower?”

“Y-Yeah,” You whispered.

“Flirtin’ with me for weeks now, and here you are bein’ all shy.” Joel tsked. “Don’t worry, you’ll get more, darlin’.”

Joel began sawing in and out of you at a relaxed pace, letting out low groans of satisfaction.

With every sloppy thrust, you heard the distant wet thud of your back against the shower tiles, sounding in a steady rhythm. But, despite each measured roll of his hips sending white-hot shivers throughout your throbbing cunt, you found yourself dangerously craving even more.

“Harder.”

“Harder?” Joel hummed coyly.

“Joel,” You whined.

“Careful what you wish for, sweetheart,” Joel mumbled against the corner of your mouth.

You only realised you were moaning obscenely loud when the echo had bounced around the room, and Joel was muttering something encouragingly into your skin.

“That’s it. Y’sound real fuckin’ pretty.”

Joel’s thrusts had picked up the pace. The only sound competing with the volume of your moans were the crude wet slaps of his body against yours.

Slap, slap, slap.

You thanked your lucky stars the shower rooms were deserted after the swimming lessons, because you were sure even if someone happened to walk in on you two fucking like wild rabbits, you wouldn’t let him stop.

And some part of you knew that he wouldn’t want to, either. Not with the way he was breathing airy curses beside your ear and mumbling about how ‘fuckin’ tight’ you were and other such filthy ramblings.

After a particularly harsh thrust, you felt his pace falter and his dick twitch against your walls.

“Fuck,” He whispered sharply.

Out of the blue, Joel pulled out, leaving your slick mound vacant for a heartbeat or two before he spun you around roughly, forcing you to brace yourself against the wall.

And, not long after, he fed you the entirety of his cock again in one deep thrust.

“Joel!” You gasped.

Your hands, stretched out in front of you and anchored against the wall, scrambled to find a grip on the smooth, slippery surface.

“Sorry, sweetheart.” He said from somewhere behind you, beginning to ram into you at a brutal pace as he held you in place with an iron grip on your hips. “Needed—fuck… Needed this.”

With your tits pressed against the tiles and his length kissing your cervix after every drag against your pulsing walls, your vision began to blur and your lower gut began to flutter.

You were very fucking close.

As if reading your mind, one of Joel’s hands trailed from your hip to your front, sliding down until he brushed your clit. And then he began rubbing the sensitive nub in sloppy semi-circle motions, tutting sweet words as you whined nonsensical syllables.

“That’s it, sweetheart. Let me hear you,” He cooed soothingly.

You let out a pitchy whine, “feels so good.”

“That right?” Joel mumbled distractedly, using a rough hand on your neck to turn your head toward him despite the awkward angle, and claimed your lips hungrily, licking desperately into your mouth as if it was the last thing he’d ever do, and letting out hoarse noises of appreciation as he did so.

His hips continued to jut into you, setting an erratic, jerky pace.

Slap. Slap-slap. Slap. Slap-slap-slap.

You arched back against him and unintentionally broke the kiss when the overflowing pleasure spiked incredibly high.

“J-Joel,” You breathed.

The man, who was single-mindedly pistoning in and out of your splayed legs, hummed a sound of acknowledgment in response, his warm breath ghosting over your cheek.

“Joel, I’m close,” You whispered, the heat of both your bodies meeting where your back leaned against his front.

“Are you?” He replied almost casually.

His fingers only sped in their motions, swiping at your clit almost feverishly as he continued to rut animalistically into you; each thrust stretching your aching cunt impossibly wide and oh so easily finding your cervix—

“Fuck!” Your chest tightened.

“Ask for it.” Joel’s gentle yet commanding tone nearly made your knees buckle.

That, and the manic force at which he was fucking into you.

Slap–slap-slap-slap—

“Go on, baby. Ask.” His nose nudged at the side of your face, breathing in your scent as he tutted lowly, “hate to see you all worked up like this.”

“Shit—please! Can I come, please?” You acquiesced.

You felt the muscles of his rugged face pull up in a small smile against your cheek and his dick twitch inside your tight walls, sending shivers down your spine.

“Be a good girl and come for me then, sweetheart,” Joel said in between strained breaths. “Come all over my cock, I gotcha.”

Your climax came rippling over your whole body, a prolonged resonance that sent you into the territory of overstimulation—much more powerful than your first orgasm—as neither his fingers nor his cock slowed down in their frenzied pursuits.

So, there you were, chanting his name like a prayer and clenching tightly around his relentless length.

When the fluttering of your cunt subsided, Joel hurriedly pulled out and wrapped a hand around his throbbing cock, fucking up into his fist frantically and cursing under his breath. You all but folded against the wall as you felt his loss, sticking your ass out and waiting for the inevitable.

Soon, his breath caught in his throat, and you felt hot ropes of his come spill over your back.

“Shit.” Joel sighed, gently rubbing along your sides.

He pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder once he recollected himself a few moments after, still softly trailing his hands up and down as both of your breaths evened.

“You okay over there, sweetheart?”

You nodded weakly, unable to voice your satisfaction with your brains all fucked out.

Joel huffed a short laugh. “C’mon, I’ll clean you up.”

Somewhere behind you, the shower handle groaned with a faint squeak. A dull clunk followed, and then, with a sudden rush, water erupted from the showerhead, dousing the two of you in a sputtering cascade.

Gently, Joel tugged you away from the wall to stand directly under the jet of water, softly helping you wash away any reminders of your reckless impropriety.

He pressed reverent kisses along your jaw, down your neck, and around your collarbone as you got cleaned up.

There was no hidden, lustful agenda to this, as far as you could tell. You assumed it was either a result of his years of fatherhood or some testament to his overall caring nature, but either way, you weren’t complaining. You happily let your eyes fall closed as sheets of warm water streamed down your body, all while Joel’s lips tentatively found yours, then your neck, and his strong hands moved along your body.

“Um…” Joel began after he had turned off the shower, looking at you with his big, soft eyes. “I know this is the completely wrong order of things, but would you like to–”

“Yes.”

A faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “You didn’t even know what I was gonna say.”

“Were you gonna ask me out on a date?”

“Yeah,” Joel laughed bashfully. "Is that... is that okay?"

You stepped closer, wrapping your arms around his neck, and rising on your tiptoes to meet his lips in a lazy kiss.

“The answer’s yes.” You mumbled without breaking away for too long.

You felt Joel smile against your lips.

4K notes · View notes

desuidesu · 10 hours ago

Text

Lmao

Me looking through AO3: ughhh I need to find a fic to read

My 62 open AO3 tabs: 👁️👄👁️

#I feel outed

8K notes · View notes

desuidesu · 2 days ago

Text

25K notes · View notes

desuidesu · 4 days ago

Text

Did a wrong turn and may have violated traffic laws and am feeling like shit…anyone have any Joel Miller x Tess Servopoulos fanfics they wanna recommend????

#gihee 💕#tess x joel #tess servopoulos #joel miller #tlou au #tlou fic

0 notes

desuidesu · 5 days ago

Text

I live for Tess Lives! AU ❤️❤️❤️

WIP Wednesday

Thank you so much for the tags @bumblepony and @consultingzoologist.

I've finally had time again to get some serious writing done and this Tess Lives AU is not leaving me alone until it's done. It'll be coming in the near future!

No pressure tags, @seethesunny @hypnotisedfireflies @lavendercoloredglasses @dancingonmoonbeams

#the last of us #can’t wait to see more ❤️#tess servopoulos #Joel miller #ellie williams

17 notes · View notes

desuidesu · 9 days ago

Text

BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH AT 4AM!!! 😭😭😭😭😭

𝐕𝐈𝐈. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐬

Summary : As waves crash and memories churn, you're still bleeding from his betrayal. But Marcus won’t leave—not without a fight. What unfolds isn’t forgiveness, but the raw ache of two souls still bound, even when everything else is broken.

Marcus Acacius x f!reader

Words : 14K (sorry?)

Warnings : arranged marriage, angst, betrayal and heartbreak, no y/n

masterlist | previous part

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

You had never known silence in such place could feel like punishment. But here, in the wide corridors of your childhood home, it wrapped around you like a shroud: suffocating, thick, heavy. Every familiar scent was sharp. Every warm thing a reminder of what had burned you.

It had been days since you had left Rome, since you had leaved before dawn with your cloak barely fastened, with tears still drying on your cheeks and a bruise blooming somewhere beneath your ribs. Not from violence, not the visible kind anyway, but from the way he looked at you. From the way he did not run after you fast enough—if he even tried. From the way Lucilla had kissed him, and he had not moved until it was too late.

He did not protect you.

Not from them. Not from himself. Not even from your own feelings.

You had not spoken much since your return. Not to your mother, whose eyes dimmed more each day she watched you pick at cold bread and leave the rest untouched. Not to the maids, who moved around you like ghosts—or maybe you were the ghost. A hollow, walking echo of a woman once soft and alive.

Even now, lying curled in your old bed with the windows shuttered against the golden weather, you felt numb in places you did not know could go numb. Behind the ribs, behind the eyes—where love once lived.

There were moments you cried without sound. Others where you did not cry at all, just stared at the cracked pattern of the ceiling and wondered what you were doing. What you had done. What it meant, learning to love someone who made you feel so small, and to miss him still.

Because that was the most unbearable thing. You were slowly drifting away, letting your guard down and letting yourself fall slowly. Not only in his arms, but letting him truly enter your heart.

Even after Rome. Even after Lucilla. Even after watching him become the man you were afraid he had always been. The shame of that love clung to you like smoke, and it felt like you could not wash it off.

You hated yourself for it. For the nights you curled in on yourself with his name burning behind your teeth. For the ache that throbbed behind your sternum when you remembered his hands, his voice, the way he had looked at you once, like he wanted to try. Like he meant it—if he ever meant something. Had it all been a lie ? Or worse, was it real, but simply not enough ?

Every night, your mother brought you tea that would go cold beside your untouched bowl of fruit. She did not ask questions anymore, she just kissed your temple and left the door open a little longer, as if she was hoping the corridor’s candlelight would coax something alive back into you, back into the daughter she knew.

But you were not sure that girl still existed. You did not know when exactly she disappeared—maybe in the Gardens, between two fists and blood on the marble. Maybe the first time he pulled away when you tried to love him. Maybe that night in the bath, when your clothes clung wet to your skin and his mouth kissed the bruises he had never meant to leave.

You had given too much, and you had certainly tried too hard. In the end, you had still been made to feel like the fool. Now the weight of knowing sat on your chest like a stone. You breathed around it, shallow and slow. You were not healing, but simply trying to survive. And some days, you were not even sure you wanted to do that.

The day passed like the others. Slow. Heavy. Gray. Outside, birds called in the trees—life went on. But inside, you remained where you had always been since returning: somewhere between yesterday and nothing at all. Your mother knocked gently before she entered. She always did, but today, she did not wait for you to answer.

She stepped in with quiet grace, a linen shawl wrapped around her shoulders despite the heat. Her hands held a tray—warm broth, honeyed bread, a small bunch of lavender tucked beside the napkin like a peace offering. She set it down beside your untouched breakfast.

“I had the cook make the soup you liked.” She said softly. “From when you were small.”

You did not look up. You did not want soup. Or lavender. Or the pity in her voice.

She lingered, too long for your licking. “I am fine.” You murmured, the lie cracked and dry on your tongue.

“No. You are not.”

That made your jaw clench. Her voice was not unkind, but there was weight in it. A mother’s knowing. A woman’s worry.

“I just need time,” you said flatly.

“You had days. You have barely eaten. You do not sleep. You cry when you think no one hears you—”

“I said, I am fine.” Louder, this time. A flicker of anger you had not meant to show.

She stepped closer, hesitant. “You do not have to pretend. Whatever happened in Rome—”

“Do not.” You snapped, the words tumbling out sharper than you meant, the sound of them cracking through the quiet room. You stood too quickly, the rush of blood behind your eyes making you feel slightly dizzy—that terrible feeling that you were about to break again, and could not bear to do it in front of her. “Do not talk about it.” You said, louder this time. “You do not know what it was like !”

Your mother stilled. Her mouth parted, but she did not speak.

“I was alone !” Your voice cracked. “You sent me away—Gods, Mother… you let them take me. You let them dress me up and hand me over like some offering !”

She tried to reach for you, but you stepped back, trembling. Still, she held her ground. “You are right. I do not know. But I know for sure what it means to love someone who tears you in half.”

You opened your mouth to fight, to scream, to deny—anything—but the words dissolved before they reached your tongue. What was left instead was a raw, quiet sound, something between a sob and a breath. Your knees gave under you, the heat of anger vanished, leaving only ash. You sank down onto the floor, the weight of your words folding you in two.

“Sorry,” you whispered, sobbing now. “I did not mean that, I did not—I just… I am tired, Mother. I am so tired.”

Your mother knelt beside you, wrapping her arms around you in a quiet, wordless embrace. She held you like she had when you were small, not asking you to be strong, or composed, or brave. Just there. Just present.

She held you through the storm of your sobbing, rocking you gently like she had in childhood, murmuring soothing nonsense and half-formed lullabies into your hair. Your fists clung to the fabric of her dress like you were afraid of the world slipping from under you again. At some point, the tears dulled to hiccupping breaths. Your head grew heavy on her shoulder, exhaustion flooding in now that your pain had broken loose.

“Come, sweet girl,” she whispered, brushing the hair from your damp face. “Let’s get you to bed.”

You did not resist when she guided you to your feet, or when she led you gently back to your bed with a sure hand at your back. The bed was cold though, but her hands were not—tucking you in with the same care she always had since you were a child and scared of the dark. She lingered a moment, sitting at the edge of the mattress, her palm smoothing over your brow.

“You do not have to speak. Not now,” she said softly. “But you are home. And you are not alone anymore.”

You did not speak as your fingers found, a fragile, wordless thank-you. Only when your breath had evened, and your lashes stilled against your cheeks did she move again. She kissed your temple, straightened your blankets, then stood in silence for a long, long time—watching the rise and fall of your chest like it might be the only anchor in the world.

Then, without a sound, she turned and left your room. But her footsteps, once beyond your door, were not soft. Not anymore. They moved with a purpose—down the corridor, toward the chamber where your father still sat by the hearth, unaware that the storm he thought he had weathered a long time ago was finally, finallyreturning to break.

And this time, it would speak with your mother’s voice.

She did not bother to knock, the door slammed open against the frame with a force that made the old bronze handle rattle. Her silhouette stood in the firelight like a blade drawn from its sheath: straight-backed, eyes burning, her breath sharp from the fury that had built in silence for far too long.

He looked up from his chair by the hearth, startled—the words ready on his lips died when he saw her face.

“You will not send her away again.” She said. Not a plea. A decree. “Do you understand me ?”

He opened his mouth, but nothing came. She crossed the room, each step like a strike of thunder. “She was my baby. And you threw her into that nest of vipers as if duty meant more than blood.”

“It was the Emperors wish—”

“Do not you dare hide behind that !” She snarled. “You let her go like she was a pawn, not your own daughter. You knew what Rome would do to her.”

“I thought—” His voice was hoarse. “I thought the General would protect her.”

She laughed bitterly. “Well, he did not.”

Silence fell—the kind that hums just before something shatters. Her hands were trembling at her sides, but she did not fold. She had not come for understanding. She had come for reckoning.

“She came home to me broken,” she whispered then, lower but no softer. “Bruises in places she did not speak of. Her voice, gone. Her light—” Her voice cracked. “You took it from her when you sent her away.”

He was still as the firelight flickered against the lines of his face, but he did not interrupt.

“You do not get to be her Father when it is easy,” she said, and now her voice shook. “Not only when she smiles in public. Not only when Rome claps its hands. You failed her when she needed you most. And I—I should have stopped you.” Her voice finally broke, crumbling at the edges like old parchment.

A beat passed. Then another.

And still he said nothing.

Until at last—quiet, almost broken—he whispered, “I know.”

She turned away, swallowing down the rising wave of grief and disappointment in her throat. But then—a sound. Not loud. But it rooted her in place. A single breath caught. A single tear traced down his cheek. He blinked and it fell, vanishing into the fabric of his robes.

“I am sorry,” he said, and it was not the kind of sorry that expected forgiveness. It was the kind that knew it might never come. She stood there for a long moment—back to him, fists clenched, heart still racing. Then she left him with his silence and his fire and the ruins of what he had done.

Days passed like mist, without sharpness or shape. Each morning, you woke with the heavy weight of disappointment in your chest—not at anyone else, but at yourself. For still waking. For still remembering.

You moved through the Palace like someone who had forgotten how to belong to it. Your old rooms—once a haven—now felt too silent. Your mother would find you curled on the same divan for hours, unmoving, your fingers absently grazing the embroidery you no longer had the heart to finish. Even the birdsong outside your window, once so familiar and bright, now felt distant, muffled.

You ate when asked. Spoke when required. Smiled only when you remembered someone else might be watching. Your world had gone dim. Not cold—not quite—but dulled, like gold left in shadow.

Sometimes you would walk the halls barefoot, trailing your fingers across the stone, letting it anchor you. There was comfort in the roughness beneath your feet, the cool certainty of home. And yet, you felt like you were living beneath a glass bell: untouched by sound, unreachable.

You did not speak of Rome. Not for days. Not until one night—very late, when the world outside had stilled and the fire in your hearth had burned low—you sat beside your mother and spoke everything.

All of it.

And when your mother cried with you, silently, not interrupting even once, it felt like a wound finally being bathed in clean water. But even after the telling, the ache did not fade.

One afternoon, a week or more later, you stood in the sun-warmed Gardens, arms crossed over your chest, your hair tangled by the wind. Your mother had joined you, quiet as ever, simply existing beside you.

It came without warning, your voice rough, sudden: “I hate myself for missing him.”

Your mother turned, slowly. Your gaze remained on the horizon, your eyes were glassy but not spilling. “I should not. Not after what he did. Not after what I saw. But I do.” You continued. “It is stupid, I know. He hurt me, he humiliated me, and still…” Your throat caught. “I wake up and wish he would walk through the door. Is not that pathetic ?”

Your mother did not answer right away. Just reached out and took your hand, gently, firmly. “It is human,” she said, correcting you softly. “And love is rarely kind.”

You did not answer—could not anyway. You only lowered your gaze, ashamed of the storm that still raged in your chest.

You missed him.

Even now.

Even still.

Even after everything.

And somehow, that hurt worst of all.

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

The sky was stained in watercolor hues, soft purples melting into peach, the last threads of gold clinging to the horizon. From the terrace, the land stretched out endlessly, familiar and still. The same view you had looked upon the day your life changed—the morning your father told you, that you would leave for Rome. You remembered the sun rising that day, not setting. A beginning, not an ending.

Now it felt like both.

The breeze lifted strands of your hair as you leaned against the balustrade, quiet, heavy with thoughts you could not name aloud. Time had passed—but not enough to dull the weight in your chest. You were no longer crying every night, but the ache remained. Softer, deeper. A wound becoming a scar.

You sensed your father before you actually heard him, his steps slow and somehow hesitant. He stopped behind you and, for a moment, said nothing. Just stood there, as though trying to see what you saw. As though the distance might offer answers he could not find in your face.

Then, gently, he spoke. “You used to love this view.”

You nodded. “I still do. Just… differently now.”

A pause. A breath. He cleared his throat, “I tried to give you space,” he said, his voice careful, like stepping through something fragile. “But I can not pretend this does not affect more than just your heart. I did not want this for you. But you are hurt.” He looked away, jaw tight. “And so is Rome. The Emperors, Marcus…” He paused, his throat working around the name like it pained him. “Your mother hates me for letting you go without a word. She thinks I failed you… And perhaps she is right.”

It stinged to hear him say that, but you knew it was true in a way. “I know,” you said quietly, your barely more than a breath. “I know what I did. And I am sorry, Father. I did not leave to cause a scandal or to shame you. I left because I could not breathe anymore. I was afraid I would break if I stayed any longer.”

And he looked at you then, not as a daughter to be managed or corrected, but as something older—someone changed. He nodded, slowly. His features were drawn, but not angry. Just tired. Just… human perhaps. The lines of the years etched deeper.

“I understand.” He said quietly and you glanced at him surprised, blinking in slight confusion. “Well,” he added with a dry, small smile, “I try to.”

The two of you chuckled, and for a brief moment, the warmth returned, curling through the space between you like a fragile olive branch.

“But you must understand this too,” he went on, “You are no longer just my daughter. You are a woman of Rome. Every step you take echoes through chambers far beyond this Palace. Every breath is now a whisper in someone else’s ear. Your choices are not yours alone anymore. Your actions ripple farther than your own pain.”

A pause.

“I will not force you to return to him. Not ever. But I need to know what to tell the court. What to tell the Senate. What to do.”

You turned to face him, eyes glassy but steady. “I will fix it,” you said, the words trembling with resolution. “I will write to Marcus. Or speak with him if that is what it takes. I promise. I just needed time. But I know I can not run forever.” Your voice cracked a little as you finished, “I am not a child anymore...”

Your father studied you in silence for a long moment, and when he finally spoke, his voice held something like sorrow. Or maybe pride, turned bittersweet. “Do not do it unless it is what you want. I will find another way if I must. Rome has waited before, she can wait a bit more for you, I am sure.”

But you shook your head firmly, “I want to. Not because of duty. Not even for Rome” You exhaled slowly, lifting your chin. “I will speak to him. Soon.”

And then—as if the air itself responded to the tremble in your voice—a sound came. A voice, low and steady, worn like a blade dulled from too much use. The voice, summoned by the very weight of your words, spoke, “You do not have to wait.”

You turned.

There, standing just past your father’s shoulder, shadowed by the dying gold twilight, stood Marcus. The last edge of sunlight licked at the side of his face, catching in his hair, lighting him up like a relic half-buried in flame. But his eyes—his eyes—were not angry, they were not cold, nor pleading. Just full of something unbearably and so painfully human, it nearly hurt to look at him. And he was watching you like he had crossed the entire Empire just to see your face again.

For a breathless moment, not even the wind dared to move. Even the silence seemed to brace itself.

Your eyes shifted slowly back to your father, narrowing slightly, reading the flicker of unease in his face. You knew it.

You knew that look.

You had seen it before. He wore it the day he signed away a soldier’s pardon behind closed doors. The face of a man who did what he believed was right, even if it broke something in the doing, even if it would cost him.

Your voice came out low, like the calm before the storm. “You let him in.”

Your father straightened but did not deny it. “He came of his own will.” He said carefully. “I did not summon him. I did not plan this.”

“But you let him in.”

A pause. Then—quietly, “Yes.”

The betrayal hit low, where the breath catches and will not return. You turned slowly to Marcus, as if bracing yourself for the weight of him. Your jaw tightened. Your lips parted as if to speak, but closed again. Your mouth did not need to say what your eyes already screamed, even though the way your mouth twitched said enough—fury.

You were furious. And burning underneath that fury, far more dangerous, you were hurt. The kind of hurt that sinks in and carves out the parts of you that once knew trust. Your chest rose and fell once, deep and slow, as if keeping something inside from escaping.

Marcus took a small step forward, hands at his sides, palms open. “Please. I did not come to make things worse. I just—”

You raised a hand, quieting him without a word. Your face was composed, almost eerily so. But Marcus saw it now—what your father had seen and told him about. The trembling beneath the stillness. The fury boiling behind your silence.

Your voice, when it came, was like cut glass. “Do you think showing up here, unannounced, was brave ? That this would fix something ?”

Your chest rose again, breath uneven now, tremors in your shoulders betraying the storm brewing inside. ““I have been trying,” you continued, voice breaking slightly, “trying to stand still since the night I left. Trying not to shatter from the weight of what you did. And now you come here like some... specter, as if that night did not burn through me like fire.”

“Let me explain—”

“No !” You snapped. “No more. You do not get to explain.”

You were shaking now. Your hands curled into fists at your sides as you looked at your father again, betrayal clear in your eyes.

“I trusted you,” you said to him. “I told you I would fix this when I was ready. I begged you to give me space. And still... you opened the door before I said a word.”

He stepped forward, guilt on his face. “He begged to see you. I thought—”

“You thought,” you spat bitterly. “Everyone thinks. Rome thinks. Marcus thinks. And now, you too ?!” You laughed—hollow and exhausted, like something inside had been scraped raw. “Everyone decides for me. And then they wonder why I disappear.”

Your feet moved before your thoughts could catch up, pacing, turning, fleeing the pressure building in your own ribs.

Marcus tried again, more desperate this time. “Please, just look at me—”

You whirled, fast, heat blazing through your veins. Even the guards stiffened at the force in your movement.. “Do not tell me what to do !”

Your voice cracked, no longer sharp but loud. The heat behind your control burst open like a dam snapping under pressure. “I begged you to be honest. I begged you not to lie. And now you come here like a ghost in the twilight and expect what ? Forgiveness ? Resolution ?!”

Marcus reached toward you—not to touch, not even to speak, just to calm. But that was too close. You stepped back like he was fire. Like he had scorched you once and might again. Your breath caught, our body taut like a drawn bow, ready to snap.

“Get him out !” You shouted suddenly, to no one and everyone at once. “I do not want to see him !”

The command rang out, savage and absolute, but the guards flinched, unsure, glancing at one another in hesitation. You were still royalty here, still their lady. But the storm in your voice gave them no time to think. As one advanced with a dubious step, your father stopped them with a wave of his hand, after all, he was the one who wore the crown.

“Take her to her chambers.” Your father said quietly, pain in every word. “Gently.”

You blinked as confusion cracked through your anger. “What ?” You gasped. A sharp, incredulous laugh escaped your throat. Bitter, ragged, like it hurt to even make the sound. “No. No—you do not get to do this too !” You exclaimed in surprise, a grimace of confusion still forming on your face as if he had just twist the knife he had stuck in your back once again.

You took a step toward your father, shaking your head, expression twisted in disbelief. “You knew. You knew how I felt and now you send me away like I am the problem ?”

Two of the guards landed beside you, taking you by the arms. You did not fight them because you knew it was not worth it, but your fury clung to you like armor as they led you away, your spine rigid and your eyes burning with unshed tears, your gaze fixing Marcus with an expression that could only be disgust on your face.

He did not move, he stood frozen, rooted in place by the silence you left behind. And on the other side of the doors, behind wood too thin to hold pain like this, you sank to the floor, sobbing. Not out of love. Not out of hate. But because you had never been more exhausted in your life—and still, some part of your heart whispered his name.

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

The days passed in a haze.

Your chambers remained quiet, the curtains drawn like the sun itself was too cruel to bear. You ate little, slept less. The fire in you had burned so brightly that now only the ash remained—heavy and choking.

Maids came and went on silent feet, your mother checking in from time to time with soft eyes and folded hands. But no one spoke Marcus’ name. You would not allow it. You would not even let yourself think it.

You were curled on the edge of your couch, wrapped in a soft robe, staring at nothing when a knock came—one soft, measured knock against the carved wooden door.

You froze.

Another knock. Slightly louder.

You knew that rhythm too well. That restraint disguised as courtesy. That familiar silence between the taps.

You heart dropped.

Then surged.

Then dropped again when the latch turned and he opened the door. He was not wearing his armor, or any symbol of Rome. He just looked… tired. Maybe as much as you were; he was unshaven, paler than usual. His eyes found yours instantly, and they held.

You stood too fast. “Guards !” You shouted, already backing away from the door. “Guards—do not let him—”

But it was too late, he already took a step in your chambers. You grabbed the nearest thing—a ceramic cup—and hurled it at him but he ducked. Then another—a book this time, then a small pillow, then your voice—fierce and furious: “GET OUT !”

You were shaking now, rage rolling through you like a storm with no place to go.

“I said get out ! I do not want to see you, I do not want to hear you—”

“Please.” He said, soft, unarmed.

“Do not please me !” You were yelling again, tears building fast behind your eyes. “You do not get to come here again ! Have you not taken enough ?!”

Marcus did not move, did not flinch this time. “I needed to see you.” He simply said, very calmly.

Your breath caught as you backed into the edge of your desk, chest rising and falling hard. “What else do you want from me ?” You asked—and this time, your voice broke. “What more can I give you ? I left my home, my mother, my country. I bent myself into something else for Rome, for duty, for you.” Your hands trembled at your sides. “And every time I tried to breathe, you held me under.”

He stepped forward, just one slow step.

“I did not come to take anything.” He said. “I came because I think I finally understand what I have done.”

Silence hung there between them. Heavy. Suspended. Breathing. You did not answer, nor scream again. You just stood there—trembling and small in the golden light—and for the first time since you saw him, the pain cracked through your anger.

Your chest rose and fell like you had just escaped drowning, but only barely. The silence stretched again, thick like smoke in your lungs. And then it shattered with the sound of your sobs. “I hate you,” you choked out. “Gods, I hate you.”

Tears streamed down your face, hot, unstoppable and furious. “You ruined everything. You made me trust you, you made me feel something and then you— you let it rot. You stood there and let them humiliate me. You let Lucilla kissed you like I did not matter. Like I was nothing !”

You voice cracked, but you kept going, gasping between words now. “And then you show up here, like some cursed shadow, like everything is not broken !”

Marcus stepped closer slowly, like approaching a wounded animal.

“I have not been able to breathe since you left. I do not sleep. I can not think. I would give anything—truly anything to go back and do it right. Just to have a chance to be the man you needed.”

Your shoulders shook violently as he continued, barely above a whisper. “I am ready to give everything up. Rome. Title. Power. I would burn it all, if it meant I could start again with you.”

You laughed. But it was not joy. It was sharp and bitter, carved straight from the pit of your rage. “You,” you said, voice twisted in disbelief. “You dare say that now ?”

You pointed a shaking finger at his chest, your voice rising like a scream pressed through clenched teeth. “Maybe I was not crazy, Marcus. Maybe you are the madman. All this time, I thought I was the problem, but it was you ! You tore through everything like fire and now you act like I am the ungrateful one for being burnt.”

And then—slap. Hard. Open palm against his chest. Not enough to wound, but just enough to feel. He did not block it. Did not move. Just stood there, breathing your pain in like it was the only air he deserved.

You pressed both of your palms to his chest now, hitting him again and again in small, broken bursts—not to hurt, but because you needed to. He had let you hit him over and over again, letting you vent. Maybe then you would be calmer and able to converse.

Finally, your hands dropped from his chest, trembling, spent. The tears still streamed, silent now, carving tracks down your cheeks as your breath came in stutters. Marcus opened his mouth—to speak, to explain, to reach for something that might still be saved—but you lifted your hand again.

Not to hit, but simply to stop him.

“If you really care,” you said, your voice cracking but deadly clear, “if you actually care so much that you came all the way from Rome…” Your eyes locked with his, dark with pain. Unflinching. “Please, leave me alone.”

He stood frozen. The words hit harder than the slap—harder than any blow. He had crossed mountains, seas, his own pride to stand here. And still, it was not enough. You turned from him, shoulders tight with restraint, your entire body screaming to collapse, but you refused. Not in front of him. Not again.

For a moment, he did not move. Then, slowly, Marcus turned. His steps toward the door were heavy, slow. Before crossing the threshold, he looked back once.

You did not.

And so, he left.

The door shut behind him with a finality that echoed in the chambers like thunder and you stood there, alone in the quiet storm you had not asked for, tears still falling, fists clenched to keep from reaching out too late.

The silence after he left was deafening. It pressed in on all sides: thicker than walls, heavier than the air. You stood motionless for a breath, then another. Then your legs finally gave in, slowly folding beneath you as you sank to the cold floor.

Your body trembled. From anger, from exhaustion, from a grief you had not yet named properly, one that carried too many names already. And the tears came again, this time quiet and unrelenting. The kind that came from too much. From holding everything in for too long. From being wounded, stitched up, and torn open all over again.

You buried your face in your hands. “What is he doing here ?” You whispered into the quiet. Your voice barely cracked the air.

No one answered. Not your heart, which beat too fast. Not your mind, which was too full of memory—of Rome, of laughter that felt real, of the way he had touched you in the bath with a gentleness that did not match his cruelty. Of his eyes tonight, soaked in guilt. Of the way he had begged. Of the way he had not tried then, when it mattered.

Was it love, this ache ?

Was it punishment ?

Was it a trick, some illusion of tenderness your heart was too desperate to believe ?

You wanted to hate him. Gods, you were praying for hating him. And yet the part of you that shattered the hardest was the part that remembered the man who had changed. The one who had tried. The one who had looked at you like you were made of something more than duty.

But even if that man existed—even if that part of him was real—did it matter now ? He had broken your heart. That did not heal just because he wanted it to.

You curled onto your side, as you were trying to understand if the trembling coming from your body was from fury or heartbreak. Perhaps both—perhaps it did not matter anymore. All you knew was that Marcus should not have come. And yet, some broken, splintered part of you whispered: he did.

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

The next morning, the walls felt thinner. Not kinder—just… less suffocating. The air still felt too heavy to breathe, but at least you could stand beneath it now. You stepped out alone before sunrise, when the halls were still dim with sleep, and let your feet lead you.

Through the quiet corridors, past the empty Gardens, and then—toward the sea. It was the only place left where you could still feel untouched by everything that had happened. The only place wide enough, endless enough, to make your heart feel a little less crowded.

The horizon stretched in silver and rose, the sun not yet risen, and you stood barefoot in the wet sand, cloak fluttering around your legs like a memory. The sea whispered and pulled at the shore, again and again, like it had nothing better to do than exist beside your sorrow.

When you were little, your parents warned you never to wander into the eastern corridors—the oldest wing of the palace, where time itself seemed to hang heavy in the air. They spoke of crumbling stone and sea-misted drafts, of halls too ancient to be trusted.

But their warnings were no match for your hunger to know.

You were young then, wild with curiosity and the quiet defiance children wear like second skin. It was not long before you found it: a narrow stone staircase, hidden behind a half-rotted door cloaked in ivy and silence. The steps were slick with salt and age, carved not by craftsmen, but by centuries of waves slamming against the cliffside beneath the palace.

Before Rome, this was where you came when the weight of the world felt too loud. Tucked away from duty, from noise, from the constant expectations carved into your name, this place had been your quiet sanctuary.

Here, time slowed. You could breathe.

You had once spent hours by the shore, letting the wind tangle your hair and the salt kiss your skin, losing yourself to the rhythm of the waves until your heart beat softer. Until it beat only for you.

But today… you had no strength for that. No desire to meet the sea on its terms.

Still, you came.

Not to heal, not yet—but to pause, at least. To watch the sea perform its ancient ballet against the rocks, to feel the cool air sting your face, to steal a few minutes of silence before the noise found you again.

It was not joy. But it was something close. And for now, that was enough.

Here, Marcus could not follow. This place was yours, untouched by courts, crowns, the weight of his gaze. Sacred. Hidden. Safe. At least, you thought so.

But the sand shifted behind you—the soft crunch of footsteps, careful and too familiar. You turned slowly, dreading what you already knew.

He stood there. Still in his travel-worn clothes—certainly the only thing he packed with him actually—face shadowed by sleeplessness, hair unkempt by the wind. He looked like a man unmade. A man undone. But it was the ache in his eyes that struck your deepest: hollowed, hungry, afraid.

He did not speak at first. Then, quietly, like he knew he was crossing into something sacred: “I wondered if this is where you came to find silence.”

You throat burned with all the things you wanted to throw at him, but you did not answer. Instead, you turned your attention back to the sea and as the waves rolled on, the wind tugged at your cloak.

Marcus took a hesitant step forward, then stopped again. He did not reach for you—did not dare

“I am sorry.” He said, as if the words had been etched into his bones during the night. “For yesterday. For before. For… all of it.”

Still, you did not speak, your hands curled at your sides, tight, your jaw locked to hold back the flood.

“I told myself I would not come again.” He continued; voice raw with the weight of his restraint. “That I had no right. That you made it clear. And yet…” He looked down, almost ashamed, then back up, trying to meet you gaze. “…I could not stay away from the only place that still felt like you.”

You swallowed hard. “I came here because I knew you would not be able to follow,” you said finally, your voice low and scraped thin.

“I know,” he said. “And I am here anyway.”

That broke something in the silence—not in you, not yet—but in the stillness around you. The sky began to light and the sea grew brighter. For the first time since you had left Rome, you let yourself look at him fully.

He looked older—not in years, but in sorrow in something else too. Something like love, but worn and wounded.

You hated him.

You missed him.

You did not know who you were around him anymore.

The silence stretched between them, brittle as glass, as your eyes shimmered, but your mouth remained closed—and Marcus, standing in the sand like a man stripped of armor and skin alike, felt every heartbeat rattle inside his ribs like a prayer gone unheard.

So, he spoke. Low. Hoarse. Measured only by pain. “I am ashamed, truly.” His voice nearly cracked on the word. It was too small for what he meant, but it was all he had. “I have spent days trying to hold it in. Days trying to act like I knew what to do. Like I deserved to return. But I do not.”

He looked at you then, the hollow under your eyes, the way your shoulders curled inward like you were protecting something broken deep inside. Something he had shattered. “I hurt you,” he whispered, “and still I came. Because I am not whole without you.”

The tide reached for your feet again, whispering around his boots and your bare toes.

“I walked those halls in Rome, and they were quiet without you, but not the kind of quiet I could live with. It was not peace. It was absence. I could not sleep. Could not breathe. I stood in rooms and saw only you not in them.”

He took a careful step forward. Still not close enough to touch you. “I know I do not deserve another chance. I know that every bruise, every silence between us, every time I failed to see you is my doing. I live with that.”

His jaw clenched. His hands trembled at his sides. “But I would give anything to feel you once more beside me. I would give everything to have your hand in mine again—not because I want to claim you, not because I think I own anything in this world, but because I remember how it felt the first time you touched me. When I was stone, and you were sunlight.”

He exhaled, a slow shudder. “I have been many things in my life, a son, a soldier, a servant to an Empire. But never a man like this. Never so… broken. Never so willing to kneel.”

A pause.

“I am hurting,” he confessed. “But I know your pain is worse. And if I could take it from you every tear, every wound,… I would. I swear it.”

The sea moved where she stayed silent.

And Marcus—shoulders bent by the weight of everything unsaid—stood before you not as a man of Rome, but simply as a man in love, begging the one person who had ever made him feel like more than the sum of his scars. But you did not answer. You had not moved. Marcus could not even tell if you were listening, or if the wind and the waves were all that kept him company now.

Still, he spoke. Because silence was the last thing he wanted between you. His voice softened, almost like he feared it might break you. “Titus… that night said something.” He said, staring at the sea because he could not bear to look at your face while opening his walls even more. Then, steadier: “But he was wrong.”

His eyes found yours then—slowly, like it pained him. “I know you saw it. Even in Rome. Even when things were falling apart. You looked at me like you knew I was not that man anymore. Like you believed I was trying.”

A muscle jumped in his jaw. “I am not the man I was with Lucilla. Truth is, I never really was. That version of me was armor. A shape I had to wear to survive. I let it consume me. I let it hurt you. But you—” his voice broke then, just slightly, “—you looked at me like I was more than that. And for the first time in my life, I wanted to be.”

The sea reached again. Colder this time. Marcus stepped forward, but not too close. Not yet.

“I am not asking you to forget,” he said. “You have every right to be furious. You should be. But I need you to know I have changed. And if there is still something in me worth holding on to—”

He paused.

“Then I will give up everything else. I will leave Rome. I will leave my name behind if I must. You will never have to step foot in that city again if you do not want to. Just say the word.”

His hands clenched at his sides.

“I do not care about power. I do not care about legacy. All I care about is you. And if loving you means disappearing from the world they built for me… then so be it.”

The sky bled orange behind you as the sun began to fully rise. And still, you said nothing. You did not even turned to look at him, not even a side glance. He just stood there, his heart in pieces on the shore. Waiting for you to tell him whether hope was still alive, or if it, too, had drowned the day you left Rome.

The sea moved like breath below, rising and falling in quiet rhythm, and yet, nothing weighed more than the silence stretching between you. Marcus stood beside you, not daring to speak. He did not know how long he had been waiting—counting the seconds like prayers, like footsteps to a gallows—before he let go of the hope that you might answer. Words had abandoned him, and maybe he had earned that.

So instead, he turned to you, just slightly, the way a dying man might turn toward a final warmth. He studied your profile, memorizing the curve of your brow, the way your lashes cast shadows when you blinked too slowly, too tired to pretend. There was pain there still, and he could feel it like a wound under his own skin. But more than pain, there was distance. That unreachable space he’d built with his own hands.

And yet, he watched you like it was the last time he would ever see you. Because maybe it was.

His chest tightened—not with panic, but with the quiet ache of someone who had finally realized that remorse was not enough. That change had come too late. He let his gaze trace you, not hungrily, not even longingly, but reverently. Like a man saying goodbye to something he never truly deserved.

And he thought, if this was all that remained—this silence, this shared breath over the restless sea—then he would take it. He would cherish it. Because having you near, even like this, was better than not at all.

When all of sudden, “I used to think you were cold,” You said surprising him, your voice flat and bitter, as though tasting something sour in your mouth. “But I think now… it was easier to accept you as cruel than to believe you were just weak.”

Marcus flinched like you had just struck him. “I was afraid,” he said quickly, stepping forward. “That is not the same—”

“No.” You cut in with a laugh—but it was not soft or warm. It was mocking, hollow. “Afraid ? Of what, Marcus ? Of me ?”

Your eyes turned to him then, slow and sharp, glinting in the dying sun. “I was a girl when I came to Rome. And you—you were the man who watched me disappear piece by piece and said nothing. Do not talk to me about fear.”

He opened his mouth but quickly closed it. You smiled, cold and brittle. “But maybe it is true what they say… even the mighty can kneel if you kick them in the chest hard enough.”

Your cloak snapped behind you as you turned. You stormed up the stone steps of the Palace, the wind at your heels like fury made flesh. Your breath came sharp through your nose, your eyes stinging not with tears but with rage you had not finished tasting. Sand clung to the hem of your dress, salt and dusk in your mouth.

You tried to not care about him anymore but he followed you through the hallways with a decisive step. “Do not.” You snapped, throwing the chamber door open so hard it bounced against the wall. You stepped in, tried to shove it closed—

A hand stopped it. Firm. Inevitable.Marcus pushed the door back open with quiet strength and stepped inside, his jaw tight, his breath uneven.

You spun to him, chest rising and falling. “What are you doing ?”

“You did not let me finish,” he said lowly, closing the door behind him. “You never let me finish.”

“I do not care what you have to say !”

He moved closer but you stepped back. “I said leave—”

“No.” His voice was firm now, rough with something deep, nearly broken. “Listen.”

He reached for you, catching your wrist gently—but you tried to pull free. “Let me go—”

“No,” he repeated, quieter this time. Not a command. A plea. “Please.”

His grip was not cruel. It was steady, warm, trembling faintly as if he was holding back more than just your body. As if he was trying to hold together what little thread remained between you.

Your lips parted, fury bubbling up. But when you looked at him, you saw something else beneath the surface. The eyes of a man desperate. Haunted. Shaken to the core.

And still you whispered, trembling, “You should have let me go that night.”

He did not loosen his hold. “I have already lost you once,” he murmured. “I will not let it happen again without fighting for it.”

“You never did anything !” You said, the words cutting out of you like a blade unsheathed.

Marcus stilled. It was not shouted. Not spat. But it struck deeper than all the screaming from before. And you saw it—the flinch. The ache he tried not to show. But he did not deny it.

“I know,” he whispered. “You are right.”

His grip loosened, not enough to let you go, but enough to say he was not here to hold you prisoner. “I was a fool,” he went on, eyes searching yours. “An idiot. The worst kind of man. One who sees the damage hecaused only when it is too late to undo it.”

You looked at him, eyes gleaming with disbelief, but more than that—exhaustion. You were tired. Tired of talking, tired of feeling, tired of reliving it all every time he opened a door or said your name like it still belonged to his mouth.

“I just want peace,” you breathed. “That is all I ever wanted.”

His chest rose slowly as he nodded. “I will leave then,” he said, voice low, steady. “I swear it— just… let me say what I came to say. Then I will go. I will not come back. I will not ask again.”

You stared at him. Cold. Quiet. Bone-deep tired. “Your promises mean nothing,” you said. “They never did.”

The pain that flickered across his face was immediate. Visible. But he swallowed it. “I know,” he said again. “But let me try. Just this once. Even if you never believe me.”

Silence stretched like steel wire between you. You said nothing, and so took that as his only chance.

“I did not kiss her,” Marcus said quietly, his voice hoarse, as if dragging the truth out of a wound he had tried to bury. “Lucilla—she followed me to the balcony. She said something cruel about you, and I—I was already leaving, I swear it. But she—she grabbed me. She kissed me.”

You did not move, nor your face shift. And yet he seemed to feel the coldness in the air between you like a wall rising higher with every word.

“I left her. I tried to find you, I ran after you the second I could, but you were gone. I did not know where you went—Titus found you first. I saw you with him and I—” he stopped, jaw tightening.

You laughed bitterly, sharp and sudden, and it broke something. “She was there the first night,” you snapped. “Do you think I forgot that ?”

Marcus froze. His mouth opened, but nothing came. Your voice trembled now, not with weakness, but fury long held down. “You speak of Lucilla as if she came back from nowhere. But she never left. Not from your mind. Not from your past. And I… I was just the little offering sent from the provinces. The one you had to marry.”

“That is not—”

“Not what ?” You cut him off. “Not true ? You think I do not know what I lived with ? You think I do not remember the silences ? The coldness ? The way I shrank under your gaze because I did not know what would make you snap that day ?” His grip on you loosen completely, letting you the choice to free yourself from his claws.

Your hands were trembling now, but you did not care. You took a step back from him like the air around him was poison. “I lived hell with you,” you whispered, and the words came out like a confession choked through salt and steel. “You made me smaller every day without even lifting your voice.”

Marcus looked wrecked. He was not blinking. His hands hung at his sides like he no longer knew what to do with them. “You want to talk about Lucilla ?” You said, voice cracking. “She may have kissed you, but at least she chose it. I did not choose any of this ! Not Rome. Not you. Not the way you made me doubt my own breath.”

Silence. Thick. Crushing.

You ran your hand over your face, trying to repair the damage caused by the hot tears, but it was already too late. You turned on your heel and left him stranded in the middle of your chambers.

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

The storm had not ceased since morning, only shifted in temperament. Sometimes a quiet weeping across the windows, sometimes a furious pounding that echoed through the sone corridors mike the footsteps of some ancient grief.

Rain streaked the tall glass panes in wavering lines, blurring the view of the garden beyond into a swirling mess of silver and messy green. Trees bent under the wind’s weight, their branches scratching faintly against the glass like they too sought refuge from something unbearable.

Inside, the fire murmured softly in the marble hearth, its glow flickering across polished floors and heavy drapes. It was the only sound, save for the quiet clink of porcelain—the delicate touch of your mother’s teacup meeting its saucer. You sat across from her, curled slightly into yourself on the velvet couch, one leg tucked beneath you. Your eyes were fixed on nothing in particular, watching shadows shift across the rug, your mind elsewhere.

She had been watching you, though trying, in her own way, no to make it obvious. But you felt her gaze as surely as if she had placed her hand on your shoulder. The concern in her presence had become a constant, a low hum in the silence between words.

“You have been quiet.” She said softly, though the rim of her voice ringed in hesitation. Still gentle, still careful. But weighted, carrying the worry that had sat behind her eyes for days.

You did not look at her. Your fingers moved aimlessly over the embroidered threads on your sleeve, picking at them as if they might unravel something more than fabric. “I am tired.” You said simply.

A pause, then cautious: “Is it… Marcus ?”

Your flinch was involuntary, like something struck just beneath the ribs. The quiet snapped for a moment, and though you kept your eyes averted, your jaw locked visibly.

“Yes. No.” You muttered. “I do not know anymore.”

Another silence stretched between you, longer this time. The fire cracked.

She hesitated. Then, carefully, “He is still here.” She said gently. “He must care, to have followed you here. To stay, despite—”

“Do not.” The words came sharply, a whisper blade. It caught in your throat and cut your breath short. You felt her recoil in the stillness.

Your mother’s voice softened further. “I am not trying to push. I just… want to understand. You do not have to tell me everything. I only ask—was it only the banquet ?”

You stood abruptly, the sudden movement slicing through the still air. Your hands trembled at your sides. You could not look at her, could not bear the weight of her softness, not when everything inside you was frayed and howling.

“It is not just the banquet.” You said tightly, each word carved from something deeper than anger. “It is everything. Months of holding my breath. Of being someone I did not recognize just to survive. Of nights I spent wondering if I would ever feel like myself again.”

Her expression broke, you caught it in the corner of your eye before you turned away, before you could fall apart in front of her. You walked toward the hallway, your footsteps quiet but unsteady.

“Will you join us tonight ?” She asked gently behind you, though her voice held the weariness of someone who already knew the answer.

You stopped at the archway, hand resting on the carved frame as you let your eyes fall shut. “No. I do not have the strength to pretend.”

Then you disappeared down the corridor, your silhouette swallowed by the dimming light and the echo of rain on stone. Your surroundings felt colder now. Each step echoed slightly off the stone, the marble cool beneath your bare feet.

Shadows stretched long in the torchlight, cast by the storm’s fitful rhythm outside. It was darker here—quieter too, save for the far-off moan of wind threading its fingers through the halls like a searching hand.

Just as you passed the top of the stairwell, voices floated upward—muffled, but clear enough to stop you in your tracks.

“…it is just a dinner.” Your father’s voice said, low and composed. Controlled in the way only men with guilt tried to sound.

“I understand,” came the reply—rougher, worn. Marcus.

You held your breath. Your body stiffened, instinctively listening as if the air itself had stilled to make room for their words.

“If she chooses not to attend, I will not press it,” Marcus said quietly. “I am here because I gave her my word. I came to fix what I broke. But I will not make her look at me if she is not ready.”

There was a silence between them. And then… the ache. It bloomed without mercy, deep and familiar, settling under your ribs like it belonged there. Like it had always belonged there.

You turned, moving quickly back toward your chambers before you could hear more, before your legs betrayed you and carried you down to them. You closed your door behind you, pressing your back against it. The rain roared louder now—like a heartbeat in the silence.

He was going. To the dinner. With your parents.

And a part of you—ashamed and aching—wanted to know how he would have looked at you if you had gone.

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

A thunderclap tore the sky wide open, a jagged crack that made your whole chest jolt.

You startled where you lay, curled in your bed, thin blankets wrapped tightly around you like a second skin. Your fingers clutched the fabric with white knuckles, the same heart thudding beneath your ribs. The wind groaned against the glass, as if something monstrous were crawling across the walls outside. Rain lashed the windows, relentless.

It felt like the storm had followed you here from Rome, like it had tracked your sorrow across countries just to remind you how heavy it could be. The air in your chamber had turned suffocating. You needed warmth. Light. Something steady.

You rose without thinking, dragging your thin robe from the bedpost. It clung to your skin, sheer and whisper-soft—barely a barrier between your body and the cold. It was short, translucent in the firelight, falling loosely around you as you stepped into the darkened corridor once more.

The marble bit at your feet. The silence between thunderclaps had turned eerie now—thick and waiting, like the villa was holding its breath. Not a servant in sight. Only the hush of old stone, the creak of wood behind walls, and the storm pressing its face against every window.

You turned the corner toward the west parlor, where the old hearth was always lit—always warm. A small sanctuary from the shadows.

And then, your froze.

Marcus was already there.

Seated near the fire, sleeves pushed up, elbows on his knees, hands laced in front of his mouth like he was praying or bracing for blow.

His eyes snapped up the second you appeared.

You stilled like a prey and his expression shifted instantly—something between apology and reverence—and he rose to his feet slowly, careful not to move too fast, like you might vanish.

“I did not know you would be here.”

“You can have the room.” He said quickly, voice raw from hours of silence.

The firelight spilled across the room in golden pools, casting soft shadows over velvet and marble. The warmth, the silence—the not being alone—anchored your feet to the floor.

He saw it. The hesitation. The need you did not name. He stood hands loose at his sides, a thread of pleading in his voice. “Please,” he said more gently, the words cracking at the edges. “Just stay. Just for a little while.”

You let out a breath you had not realized you had been holding. Whether it was defeat or mercy, even you could not tell. “Do not think it is because of you,” you muttered, brushing past him with your chin lifted. “I do not like storms.”

“I remember,” he said softly—so softly, it nearly sounded like regret.

The fire snapped and shifted between you as you sank into the nearest chair, tucking your bare legs under you. The hem of your robe slid dangerously high along your thigh, and you noticed the way his eyes darted quickly away—too quickly. A muscle in his jaw clenched.

You rolled your eyes, though something inside you coiled at the attention.

The storm clawed at the windows, thunder peeling through the air like a threat. Between each crack and sigh of the house, the two of you simply breathed—cautiously, like truce had a sound.

Marcus sat again, but further this time. Careful. Controlled. He kept his eyes on the fire at first, the lines of his face pulled tight as though unspoken things gnawed at the inside of his mouth.

Eventually, he glanced over. And when he did, it was with that same look you had seen once before—when you had left him in Rome. Like he had not breathed since. Like he was still trying to find air.

“Thank you,” he murmured. “For not running.”

The quiet stretched. Not comfort, not exactly—but something raw and unnamed sat between you, too fragile to touch, too real to ignore. Then, your voice cut through it—quiet, but pointed. “Why are you not at dinner ?”

Marcus blinked, surprised. “Your mother told me you would be there,” he said slowly. “She said you had changed your mind.”

Your heart tightened. Your eyes narrowed. Of course she did. So, she had sent him here. Planted the pieces, knowing you would come to the fire like a moth, like a memory.

You scoffed under your breath. “She lied.”

Marcus straightened slightly. “I can leave, if this was a trick.”

“No,” you said, voice flat. “She meant well.”

You both fell silent again. And in that silence, something old and aching shifted under the surface of your chest. Not forgiveness. Not yet. But something cracked open. And it waited.

You kept your arms crossed tightly over your chest, not just for warmth, but like armor—as if you could hold everything in, everything unraveling beneath your skin. The firelight danced across the stone hearth, casting gold across the floor, but its heat never quite reached the cold that coiled inside you.

Outside, the storm still raged. Rain struck the windows like thrown pebbles. The wind howled like a wounded thing.

Marcus did not speak right away. He watched you for a long moment, the way your jaw tightened, how your shoulders curled inward like you were bracing for another blow that never came.

Then, quietly—gently—he shifted closer. Not much. Just enough for the air to change.

“May I ?” He asked, voice low and careful, as though any sudden move might send you scattering like ash.

You gave the smallest nod. The kind that was not yes, not fully, but not no either. His hand lifted slowly, a pause at every inch—as if giving you time to stop him. You did not. His fingers brushed lightly against your temple, catching a stray lock of damp hair and tucking it behind your ear.

The touch was featherlight, but it burned against your skin.

Your breath stilled in your throat. You felt it everywhere—in your chest, in your stomach, in the space where pain and longing had long since tangled into one indistinguishable knot.

You should have pulled away.

You wanted to. Or you wanted to want to.

But you did not.

You leaned into it, just barely, a tilt of your head that gave him permission he had not asked for.

Marcus looked at you then. Truly looked. Like he was seeing you for the first time in months. There was no smugness, no charm, no Roman steel behind his eyes—only something raw and unguarded, like a man who had been wandering in exile and finally found his home in the wreckage.

“You are safe here,” he said. “I am here.”

And Gods, you hated how much you wanted those words to be true. Your fingers curled into your robe, knuckles white. Safe. That word twisted in your chest like a blade. With him. You swallowed hard, gaze locked on the fire, because if you looked at him too long you might shatter.

Then you felt it—his fingers against your arm, slow and tentative. He did not grip. He did not claim. He just… reached. A quiet touch, asking nothing. Then he closed the last of the distance, his warmth bleeding into yours until his presence became inescapable.

“I am sorry,” he whispered, voice barely audible above the thunder outside. It was rough, choked with all the apologies he should have made long ago. “For everything.”

Still, you did not move.

And then—before either of you could think—your head dropped. Gently. Carefully. The edge of your cheek pressed against the slope of his shoulder, just where his tunic had slipped enough to let warmth pass between skin and skin.

Marcus went still.

Not with hesitation, but reverence.

His breath caught. Then he let it out slowly, his chest rising beneath your touch. You felt him inhale the scent of your hair like it steadied him. You stayed there for a heartbeat. Two. Maybe more. Then you pulled back, only slightly. Just enough to look at him.

Your voice came quiet, barely more than a murmur, but it carried a sharp, deliberate weight.

“Why did you came here, Marcus ?”

He blinked, lips parting. “I already told you—”

“No,” you cut in, sitting up straighter now. Your eyes met his like a challenge, storm light flickering in them. “Why did you really came here ?”

Suddenly, Marcus found himself drowning in your gaze—those eyes that once held softness and now guarded every glance like a fortress. The firelight carved shadows across your face, turning your expression into something he could not read, only feel. And Gods, how he felt it.

Words failed him.

His certainty—that reckless, Roman thing—dissolved like smoke. What was left was silence. Raw, trembling, and impossibly loud. Then you turned your face away, shielding whatever flicker had nearly risen in your eyes.

You moved, rising swiftly, a signal he knew too well. Retreat. But his hand caught your wrist—gently, instinctively—fingers wrapping around yours like the last thread of something slipping fast.

“I came for you,” he said, quiet but fierce, voice roughened by emotion. “Not for your parents. Not for absolution. Just you.”

His grip was not tight, but it anchored you. His eyes searched yours with such aching intensity it nearly burned. “I have been a fool,” Marcus breathed, his jaw clenching. “A coward hiding behind pride and silence. But every day away from you was like drowning, and I— I could not do it anymore.”

He took a breath, like it hurt to speak. “I do not expect forgiveness. I am not here to beg for something I have not earned. I just needed you to know—” His voice cracked. “You were the only thing that ever felt real.”

The rain outside whispered against the windows, a distant hush compared to the chaos unraveling in your chest. “If you let me… I will fight for us. I will fight until there is nothing left of me to give. Because I swear to the Gods, I am not that man anymore. I never want to be him again.”

You stared at him. Not moved, not softened but searching. The doubt in your chest hissed louder than the wind outside. “Then choose,” you said coldly. “Lucilla or this marriage.”

Marcus did not even hesitate. “You.”

The word landed between you like thunder. But your laugh was bitter, fractured. “Of course you say that now. Because it is raining, and we are alone, and guilt makes men sentimental. But tomorrow ?” You shook your head, mouth curving into something almost cruel. “Words are easy, Marcus. It is action you have always failed.”

He flinched—just slightly—but did not look away. Instead, he stepped even closer, like the distance was unbearable. “I want you,” he said, voice firm but low. “Even if you do not trust me. Even if you hate me. You can leash me, chain me, command my every step—I would rather be yours in pain than be whole without you.”

That startled a dry laugh from you, one filled with disbelief and the edge of something softer beneath. “Only I could have a Roman man on his knees and still wonder if it is real.”

Your smile trembled. Marcus moved then—his hand brushing your cheek, tentative and reverent. He leaned in, slow, lips barely grazing the air between you. But just before he reached you, your eyes darkened with something unreadable. You pressed a hand to his chest and pushed him back—gently, but firmly.

You shook your head, voice a whisper: “Gods, you are so difficult.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I am difficult ?”

“I can not think when you look at me like that.”

“Like what ?”

“Like you actually care.”

He paused—then said, quieter, slower, “But I do.”

And there it was again. That impossible, maddening, dangerous softness. Neither of you moved. The fire hissed behind you, thunder echoing overhead like war drums.

You met his gaze—and in that suspended breath between heartbeats, the world collapsed into silence.

Only him.

Only you.

The fire behind you flickered like breath, casting shadows that danced across Marcus’s face—strong, yes, but stripped of the mask he so often wore. In the stillness, he looked heartbreakingly real. His eyes were not just looking at you—they were searching, like you were the last truth he had not lost.

And for a moment, you let herself feel it. Your breath hitched, the heat rising to your chest like a tide you could not hold back. Your lips parted—just slightly—as your heart betrayed you, pounding in your ribs with that familiar, dangerous ache. Every part you had locked down began to tremble awake.

But no—no. It was too much. Too close. Too late.

You pulled away abruptly, your body recoiling even as it longed to stay. Your chest heaved, lungs too tight for breath, the pressure in the room collapsing around you. You needed air. Space. Distance.

You turned on your heel, the sound of your heartbeat louder than your footsteps.

“Wait—please,” Marcus said behind you, voice low and straining, like he felt you retreat like a wound.

You did not stop. You did not dare stop.

Your pace quickened, panic chasing you down like the wind, but his footsteps followed—calmer, heavier. He was relentless, always had been, and you hated how much part of you wanted him to catch you.

“Just go !” You yelled, but it cracked in the middle, too soft and too late.

Marcus did not slow. He came after you like a tide, knowing exactly what you were doing—running not from him, but from yourself.

You veered left, nearly slipping as you flung open the terrace doors and stepped out into the night. The cold hit you first, sharp as a slap. Then the rain—pouring, pounding—drenching you in seconds. The storm that had once been far away was suddenly inside you.

And still, he followed.

You whirled on him, eyes flashing, rain streaking down your cheeks like tears you refused to name. “Why will you not just leave me alone ?” Your voice was sharp, but the pain bled through it.

Marcus stood just behind you, soaked and unflinching, his voice rough and steady. “Because I can not. Not when you are hurting like this.”

You shook your head, a choked laugh bursting from your lips. “You do not get to care. Not now. Not after everything.”

Then you turned again, stepping out from the stone terrace and into the open garden, each step squelching in the wet earth. The cold water lashed at you, clung to your skin, numbed your bones—but it still was not enough to quiet the war inside you.

“Wait !” Marcus’s voice broke through the storm. “Please—stop !”

But you kept walking. Because if you stopped—if you turned around—you did not know what you would do. Scream ? Cry ? Throw yourself into his arms ? You did not trust yourself anymore.

The garden blurred around you, the downpour turning everything into streaks of gray and silver. Your gown clung to you like a second skin, heavy and translucent now, and the robe you had thrown on was useless against the cold. But you hardly felt it. You were already lost.

In him. In this. In all the things you had not said and all the things you had.

And as you slowed—just for a heartbeat—something inside you whispered the truth you had been running from: You did not want him to stop following you. Not really. Because if he did—if he let you go this time—you would not know how to come back.

Finally, he caught up. His hand grasped your arm—not harsh, but firm enough to stop your momentum—and spun your to face him. The rain plastered his hair to his forehead, water dripping from his lashes, his face a mask of exhaustion and something dangerously close to anguish.

The rain poured in relentless sheets around you, cold and punishing, drenching everything—his tunic clinging to his skin, water dripping from her lashes like tears she refused to shed. Thunder rumbled low above the hills, a deep growl of the Gods themselves, watching.

“You are going to be sick out here !” He said, voice tight with worry.

You ripped your arm free, fire in your eyes, lips trembling from cold and fury alike. “If being soaked means being far from you, then so be it.”

A muscle in his jaw tensed. He exhaled through his nose, blinking against the rain as if trying to find steadiness in the storm. “Stop being so Godsdamned stubborn.”

But even as he said it, his tone softened. His hand reached for you again, grabbing your arm desperately and spun you to face him. “You think I came all this way to break you again ?” He said quietly. “I did not come to win. I came to yield.”

You stilled, just enough for him to step closer. “I am not here because I want to own you, or convince you, or erase what I did. I am here because I do not know how to exist in a world where you are not beside me. I do not want that world. Not now, not ever again.”

His voice cracked, raw with emotion, his words falling from his lips like confessions torn from his chest. “I know I hurt you. I failed you. And every night since, I have lived with that silence in my ribs like a blade.”

You swallowed hard, but said nothing. Still, your eyes did not leave his. Rain hammered the earth around you, the scent of wet plants and lighting thick in the air. “I do not want forgiveness if it costs you your strength. I do not want your love if I have not earned it every single day. But Gods,” he whispered, stepping closer, soaked to the bone, “I am in love with you. Utterly. Fully. I do not know where I end and you begin anymore.”

His voice dropped, low and trembling as a rainwater slid down his temples, soaking his lashes, trailing over the cut of his cheek. “You changed me. You ruined me, in the best way. You made me feel things I did not believe I was allowed to feel. Peace. Hunger. Fear. Hope. And I am terrified—because I know you could walk away now and I would never stop loving you. Even if I never touched you again. Even if you never said my name.”

He searched your face, desperate, open. “I love you more than my pride, more than Rome, more than any future that does not have you in it. And I swear—on my name, my honor, my life—that I will never let myself become the man who loose you again.”

Lighting cracked behind him, illuminating the rawness in his eyes—the fear, the love, the aching honesty. “I have fought wars. I have survived blades to the flesh and poison in my cup. But nothing has ever hurt like watching you walk away from me.”

A sob threatened you throat, but you bit it back. The rain was a wall between you, blinding and relentless. Still, you did not move. “I would trade every victory. Every piece of power I have ever held. Every friend. Every favor. I would let Rome crumble, the whole damn Empire, if it mean holding you for one more night without guilt between us.”

Rain slide between you like silver threads as you did not stopped him, “You asked me to choose. Between Lucilla and this marriage.” His hand reached up, trembling, brushing wet hair from your face. “I choose you. A thousand times, I choose you. If the Gods stood before me now and said I could have glory without you, or ruin with you—I would take ruin, and I would call it blessing.”

You stared up at him, your lips quivering. The storm seemed to pause around you, as if even the wind was listening. “I will spend the rest of my life proving it,” he said, softer now. “Not just that I love you—but that I see you. That I remember the way your voice goes quiet when you are scared. The way you look away when you are angry so you will not say something you regret. The way you laugh when you forget to be guarded.” He reached for your hand, water pooling between your fingers. “Let me try again. Let me be the man who kneels beside you when you are tired, who listens when the world is too loud, who walks beside you—not in front, not behind.”

A sound escaped you—a soft gasp, a whimper, a sob. You did not know what it was. Your chest felt like it was tearing open, your breath locked somewhere between fury and forgiveness. And Marcus, seeing you crack, tenderly caressed the finger on which was the wedding ring you had not removed, to his surprise.

“You do not have to say anything,” he murmured. “You do not even have to love me back. Just—do not walk away again without knowing what you are to me. You are everything.”

You stared at him, jaw tight, heart pounding. Then, suddenly—like fury finally broke into grief—you yanked him closer by the collar of his rain-soaked tunic, dragging his face down to yours. Your voice was a low snarl, wild with love and pain. “I swear to the Gods, Marcus—if you fool me one more time… if I even see a flicker of doubt in your eyes… I will kill you with my own hands.”

Your breath hitched, rain mixing with the tears you refused to shed. “And if I have to… I will burn all of Rome down myself.”

His eyes darkened—fierce, sure, filled with a depth that shook the very air between you. “You will not need to,” he whispered, voice hoarse and breaking. “Because I will burn it all first, if it means keeping you.”

And before you could move, before your fury could rise again or your fear steal your words, Marcus surged forward—grabbing your face in both hands and kissing you like a dying man drinking his last breath.

The kiss was desperate and reverent, raw and consuming. It was not an apology, but a vow. A surrender. A promise written in skin and rain and the trembling beat of two hearts refusing to give up. And for one long, eternal moment—there was no Rome. No betrayal. No storm. Only them.

When you finally parted, both breathless and trembling beneath the relentless downpour, Marcus leaned his forehead to yours, rain trailing down his cheeks like tears he had not allowed himself until now. “I do not know how to live in a world where you are not mine,” he whispered, voice cracking. “Every sunrise without you felt like a lie I had to keep living. Every night, I reached for your absence and begged the Gods to make it hurt less. But it never did. It never will.”

You stayed quiet, your breath unsteady, your heart pounding loud enough to rival the thunder.

“I love you,” he said again, like it was a truth he could carve into the bones of the earth. His hands, at your waist, trembled. “You are in every part of me. Even the broken parts. Especially the broken parts.”

The rain spilled over you, thunder grumbling overhead, wind pulling at their soaked clothes like nature itself could not bear the tension. But Marcus stood still, heart bared, waiting for judgment. You tried to stop him, your hand pressing lightly to his chest, but he was not done—not yet, not with the storm still burning in his throat.

“I do not care if you never trust me again,” he whispered, voice soft and solemn. “I will earn every look, every breath, every second you give me—even if it takes the rest of my life.”

When he finally spill the last of his heart into the rain, breathless and aching, you leaned in, voice sharp. “Shut up. You will tell me everything later, but right now, just shut up. Do not ruin everything with your words for once.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Then in the midst of thunder and trembling hearts, you kissed him—like a prayer made flesh, a vow sealed in water and want. And he kissed you harder, like a man drowning in the only thing that could save him.

You.

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

masterlist | previous part

Tag-list : @negrita2345 @immyowndefender @aretha170 @isabella-rose-trastamara @simpingforjoel @suzysface @unmagically @carpediem1219 @whirlwindrider29 @babukat @marrowfrog00 @hsudikis @lefroggie @bbyanarchist @radha-sakhare @flw3rrr @stormseyer @picketniffler @leah-halliwell92 @keseqna @gloryofroses19 @missladym1981 @sesdeuxyeux @marauvderss @himikoquack

#pedro pascal #marcus acacius x you #marcus acacius x reader #marcus acacius #gladiator ll #gladiator ii #gladiator 2 #general marcus acacius #pedro pascal characters #gihee 💕

373 notes · View notes