ayoungpascallover

[ayoungpascallover]

material girl

THIS CONTAINS MATERIALISTS SPOILERS!

harry castillo x reader

age gap, female reader, contains themes of body image, chapter has not been edited

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You were born in the penthouse suite of Lenox Hill Hospital, wrapped in lavender silk instead of muslin.

The first sound you heard was the laugh track of your mother’s favorite 1950s sitcom playing softly in the background as she recovered on morphine.

You grew up in a six-story limestone townhouse off Fifth Avenue, the kind with frescoed ceilings and staircases so wide they made women feel like swans. The house smelled like bergamot and old paper. Always.

Your last name meant something—meant everything—in film. Directors paused when they heard it. Festival organizers offered you rooms. Cinematographers tried not to blink. Your family didn’t just fund films, they curated the atmosphere in which they were watched. Museums asked for your grandfather’s reel collection like relics. Your father’s voice had been immortalized in Criterion commentary tracks. You were born into the lighting. You were born on set.

By the time you were five, you knew what a backlot was.

By ten, you’d learned how to tell when a director was faking their references.

You could cry on cue, not because you were trained—but because crying got you what you wanted. You were always told you looked like your mother, which you hated.

But you knew it was true.

Same feline cheekbones, same bloodless complexion, same way of arching an eyebrow so it felt like an accusation.

Your sister, younger by three years, had always been the darling of brunch tables. You were the one who drew headlines when you spilled wine on a Cannes jury member’s lap and didn’t apologize. You were called “feisty” by Vanity Fair and “difficult” by your aunt’s third husband.

You hadn’t worked a day in your life, not in the way people mean it. You’d attended Columbia briefly, then left because someone on the faculty looked at you wrong. You dated mostly artists—photographers who lived in lofts and sculptors who never returned your YSL coat. Occasionally a screenwriter, someone who claimed he was writing you into something. They never did.

But lately, it had begun to sour.

Parties were too loud. Everyone looked like someone you’d already met. Men your age were either married or trying to get you to invest in something blockchain-related. Your doorman had started to pity you. He looked at you like you were an orchid in the wrong light.

It didn’t help that the world had shifted.

The industry, the city, the people you once dismissed as temporary had begun to stick. There were new families at the Met Gala now, new surnames attached to legacy tables at Polo Bar. You knew the kind of men you wanted. You just hadn’t seen one in a very long time. Not really.

But elsewhere, in a different corner of the city, another life was ticking along with equal weight and silence.

Harry Castillo stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows in his penthouse and read a memo he didn’t care about. The building was newer than yours, all glass and good taste. The kind of place where appliances whispered and marble was warm to the touch.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a slate-gray sweater that looked like it belonged in a film about grief. His hair was dark but threaded with silver, curling at the back of his neck. His eyes were the color of wet earth. There was something old-fashioned about the way he stood—shoulders slightly back, like he was ready to say something difficult but necessary.

Harry was born into money too, though it was newer and quieter than yours.

His mother founded the Castillo Group after taking an inheritance and multiplying it tenfold in under a decade. She built the firm with the kind of discipline normally reserved for surgeons. Harry's father and brother now worked under her. So did he. Not because he had to—but because it was what Castillos did.

Private equity didn’t thrill him, but it made sense.

And Harry liked things that made sense.

He liked structure. He liked the rhythms of quarterly reports and the smell of ink on legal pads. His world ran on spreadsheets and quiet dinners with men who owned things you’d never see.

He had recently ended things with Lucy Mason, a woman who had once been important to him. She was a professional matchmaker—poised, brilliant, and deeply concerned with emotional compatibility indexes.

He’d liked her. He’d tried to love her. But there had always been a small door inside his chest that wouldn’t open for her. Not all the way.

They ended things late at night.

It was civil, almost eerie in its neatness. She told him that if he ever wanted to try her service, he should.

“If you call the office,” she said. “They'll assign someone great for you.”

He nodded and never called. Not yet.

Back uptown, you were barefoot on the heated terrazzo floor of your kitchen, making a mess out of truffle honey and sourdough. Your sister was at the counter, scrolling through her phone like it was her real job. She looked too pleased. You didn’t trust her when she looked pleased.

“You’re not wearing those boots again, are you?” she asked, not looking up. “They’re very…divorcee.”

You ignored her. You’d been feeling unstable lately, a little trapped in the amber of your own life. You’d been googling people you once hated and found out they might have figured something out.

Before you.

You hated how that felt.

Your sister put down her phone. Too deliberately.

“So,” she said. “Promise not to get mad?”

You looked up. “No.”

She beamed. “Okay. Don’t freak out. But I might have filled out a little thing for you.”

You blinked. “What kind of thing.”

“It’s nothing. Just…a profile. For a matchmaking service. Very elite. Very low-profile. Super bespoke.”

You said nothing. You stared at her, hard enough that she briefly flinched.

“I knew you’d react like this,” she groaned. “But come on. You’ve dated everyone in Manhattan who’s not in rehab or under federal investigation. You need a reset. A new algorithm. Let the universe—or a very qualified stranger—take the wheel.”

You turned away, grabbed the spoon, stirred your espresso like it was someone’s fault.

“Please tell me you didn’t use my real name,” you said quietly.

She hesitated.

“I used your middle name,” she said brightly. “That counts, right?”

Outside, the city shuddered to life—cars moving like brushstrokes, old buildings watching from behind limestone brows.

You didn’t know it yet but Harry Castillo would open a drawer that night and find the business card Lucy once left behind. He’d hold it in his hand a little too long.

Today was for disbelief. For the kind of quiet before something tilts. For looking out at the city and wondering—against all logic—if maybe someone was already looking back.

You didn’t go out much that week.

Not in any performative way—no detoxes, no dramatic declarations to your group chat, just a slow unspooling of invitations you didn’t RSVP to.

A dinner at Lucien you skipped.

A gallery opening where someone’s assistant texted, They’re asking if you’re coming.

You weren’t.

You sat barefoot on the windowsill instead, eating cold papaya and watching the fog crawl up like it was trying to forget where it came from.

Your sister had gone quiet. Not in a guilty way—she’d never been wired for guilt—but in that annoying, practiced stillness she slipped into when she was waiting to be proven right. You could feel it in the one word texts. The silence that followed. The smug, hovering dot-dot-dot that never became a message.

You lasted about two weeks like that. Then your mother called.

Lunch, she said. Cipriani, obviously. She didn’t ask if it worked for you. She didn’t need to.

You arrived ten minutes late on principle. She was already seated, already picking mint from her cocktail, already tilting her cheek for a kiss she never quite gave.

Her hair was perfect.

It always was.

Still pulled into a chignon so tight it made her face look slightly unreal. Her scarf—Hermès, naturally—was twisted just so, like she'd stepped out of a 1970s Italian film and never aged past the good lighting.

“I ordered the risotto for the table,” she said. “You look pale.”

“I’m fine.”

“Have you been working out? Your stomach looks soft.”

“I said I’m fine.”

She waved you off, already bored. Her nails tapped her wine glass with deliberate disdain. You knew the rhythm by heart.

She asked how you’d been, and you told her the sanitized version—books you were pretending to read, your new pilates instructor with that Finnish accent, something about how you were considering showing up on dad's set in Los Angeles just to feel something.

She nodded politely through all of it, eyes scanning the room.

Then, as the waiter laid down the salmon, she struck.

“You know,” she said. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting to be chosen.”

You didn’t look up. You kept slicing bread. Slowly. Cleanly.

She kept going, of course.

“I worry you’ve built this little moat around yourself. And for what? So no one can disappoint you? That’s not strength, darling.”

“Are you seriously—”

“And don’t say you’re not lonely. Everyone’s lonely. It’s boring.”

You could feel your jaw set. That was the thing with her. She never said it cruelly. She said it like it was just another fact, like the weather or your blood type. Like cruelty wasn’t personal unless you let it be.

“I didn’t come here for a lecture.”

“No. You came because I asked you to.” She smiled over her wine. “And because no one else did.”

The silence that followed was sour and expensive. The kind that doesn’t get broken by apologies, only by checks and limousines and the distraction of someone else’s scandal.

You got into the back of your car with your stomach a tight little fist. You didn’t cry. Not there, not then. You weren’t that girl.

But that night, the email came.

From a stranger.

Subject line: Matchmaker Profile Review – Please Confirm Details.

At first, you thought it was spam. Then you saw your middle name typed like it belonged to someone else. The same photo your sister had forced you to take last year, standing on the terrace in a white dress that had made you feel like a ghost. It was you. You, in some unnervingly accurate bullet points. Preferences. Dealbreakers. Love languages.

You hovered over the trash icon. Didn’t click.

Not yet.

Harry sat in his bedroom in silence.

The penthouse—more glass than walls—was hushed, interrupted only by the occasional hum of temperature regulation or the sigh of traffic five stories down. He liked it that way. Controlled. Calibrated. No echoes of someone else’s taste.

He sat in the reading chair by the window, laptop balanced across his thighs, a page open with the pale gray header: Castillo, H — Matchmaker Profile Review Requested.

Rose—his matchmaker—had told him to look it over. See if anything felt off. “Even the smallest thing,” she’d said, with her clipped precision. “We don’t want anything distorting the signal.”

He didn’t believe in signals. Not really.

Still, he scrolled.

He scanned the words—edited, carefully neutral. No photos. He’d opted out. There were photos of everyone now. He didn’t want that. He liked the idea of someone reading first. Imagining. Filling in the edges wrong.

Then he saw it.

Height: 6’0

He paused.

It was true. Now.

But it wasn’t always.

He shifted in the chair, legs stiff. That familiar ache, dull and ghostlike, stirred beneath his skin.

It had been eight years.

Still, some mornings he swore he could feel the break. The phantom throb of it. The remembering.

He’d been thirty-seven when he did it. His brother had gone first, dragging him into the consultation like it was some secret rite. The doctor spoke with an accent and wore a Rolex that glinted like a challenge.

They broke the bones. Femurs. Tibias. Stretched them millimeter by millimeter over months. Metal rods inside the legs. Physical therapy that made grown men cry.

Four hundred thousand dollars.

Each.

They were lucky.

Rich boys.

They healed in penthouses with private nurses and blackout curtains. Harry read biographies of ruined men while his legs screamed.

He never told anyone. Not even Lucy. Until she found his scars while he was sleeping.

The scars were faint. A pair of pale, wicked lines running along the outside of each leg, like punctuation marks on a story he didn’t talk about. He saw them in the mirror sometimes and thought, What did I gain, really?

Six inches, yes.

But also… something unspoken. Some strange edge. A new way men listened when he spoke. The way women didn’t ask questions, just tilted their heads in approval, as if the air had shifted.

It wasn’t vanity. Not exactly.

It was about scale. About not disappearing in rooms where power stood tall.

Still, seeing it there, written down, made something in his throat tighten.

He shut the laptop and leaned back. The city glowed below him. Red tail lights inching up West Broadway. People moving, choosing, being chosen.

He reached down and rubbed his shin gently, as if to remind himself...this is yours.

You paid for this height.

You earned it in bone.

Meanwhile in another penthouse just a few blocks away...you were lying on your back, staring up at the crown molding, thinking about the things your mother said.

The idea that being chosen was something worth wanting.

You hated that it echoed.

You hated more that it almost sounded true.

Downstairs, your doorman signed for a package. Something sent from an office you’d never heard of. A folder sealed in black. Your name printed in serif.

You wouldn’t see it until morning.

But it was already in the building.

Already waiting.

When you woke, the light in your bedroom was soft and dull, filtered through gauzy curtains your mother had once called tragically optimistic. The air had that filtered morning silence that felt vaguely judgmental, like even your apartment was waiting to see what kind of person you were going to be today.

You padded barefoot across the terrazzo floor, still in last night’s silk camisole, your stomach a soft ache from too much wine or not enough food. You didn’t remember which.

And there it was.

A black envelope.

Just outside your penthouse door. Laid neatly on the marble like it belonged there. No branding. No return address. Only your middle name printed in thin serif font.

You stood there for a moment, coffee-less, suspicious, bare-legged in a building where people wore jewelry to take out the trash.

You thought...spam. PR. A strange flex from a failed suitor.

But then you saw the initials etched lightly on the back seal...R.S.

Your stomach curled slightly.

Your sister. That smug, beautiful demon.

You carried the envelope inside like it was cursed.

At the kitchen island, you made espresso and stared at it like it might blink. Your phone had seven unread messages and none of them mattered. You’d spent too many mornings like this—floating in your own life like it was someone else’s bathwater.

Eventually, you slid your finger under the flap.

Inside a slim folder. Matte cardstock. Minimalist. Heavy enough to feel expensive.

A letter on the front.

Your sister mentioned you were hesitant. I understand hesitation—it can be a sign of intelligence. But I also know a match when I see one. The following is not a pitch, nor a promise. It’s just a possibility. — Rose

You blinked. That was it. No company logo, no contact info. Just a name and a voice like the inside of a glass of wine—dry, elegant, a little smug.

You flipped the page.

There were bullet points. Controlled, curated, clinical. Every line written like it had been vetted by lawyers and therapists.

Age: 47

Height: 6'0

Marital Status: Never married

Children: None

Occupation: Private Equity (Partner, Family Firm)

Residency: Tribeca

Education: Ivy League (Economics)

Religion: Agnostic

Languages: English, Spanish

Temperament: Observant. Principled. 

Emotional Availability: High—when trust is earned.

Love Language: Acts of service. 

Looking for: The real thing.

You stared at it.

Private equity. Tribeca. Forty-seven. You groaned.

He sounded like the kind of man who corrected waitstaff and had a framed blueprint of a yacht in his office. The kind of man your mother would politely destroy with a single glance and a casually cruel remark about his tie.

But you kept reading.

There were notes. Margins full of them. From the matchmaker, apparently—this unseen curator pulling invisible strings.

"He listens more than he speaks. But when he speaks, everyone listens."

"Very tactile with people he trusts. Rare, but notable."

"He likes reading before bed. Not out of habit. Out of need."

"Wants children. Not urgently. But honestly."

You felt yourself bristle. Then soften. Then bristle again.

Because you knew men like this didn’t exist. Not really. And if they did, they didn’t submit themselves to algorithms. They didn’t hand over their inner lives to professional matchmakers in New York City. They didn’t wait around for women with baggage and beautifully designed boundaries.

But then—

Then there was the smaller envelope.

Sealed. Black wax. No flourish, just the words...

Only open if interested.

Which, of course, was exactly the kind of thing that made you want to open it.

So you did.

Inside, a deeper profile. Not his answers. Her notes.

No photo. Of course not.

But somehow, without seeing him, the image began to form anyway.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. A man who dressed like he didn’t think about it—because someone else always had. Dark hair, graying in a way that made you think of salt, of restraint, of stories not told too soon. Eyes like wet bark. The kind of brown that held heat, not just color.

There was a line under Romantic Compatibility, written in Rose's careful script...

“He doesn’t flirt. He focuses. Makes you feel like the only room he’s ever stood in is the one you’re in now.”

Your stomach did a thing.

You hated that it did a thing.

You closed the file. Too fast. Like the words could see you, like they knew.

Who was this man?

You’d known hundreds of men. Dated enough to recognize types. Models. Trust fund poets. One devastating poet’s assistant. You could smell performative vulnerability from two rooms away. But this wasn’t that.

This was something else.

Across the city, Rose sipped her espresso in a glass office with zero personal items. She tapped a pen against her tablet and refreshed her inbox.

Harry still hadn’t responded.

She didn’t blame him. He was slower than most. A man who considered decisions like he was building a bridge over water he hadn’t named yet.

So she’d done it herself.

She'd read your sister’s submission, then read between the lines.

Googled you. Googled your grandfather.

Saw the name in festival archives, on lost reels from the sixties. Watched the grainy interview with your mother in a Paris cinema.

Saw the haunted brilliance in your face, the face of a legacy you hadn’t asked for.

She knew then.

She knew.

It wasn’t about wealth or aesthetic parity—it was energy. Containment. Quiet power looking for a counterpart.

So she sent it.

Let the rich girl read. Let the serious man stall.

Let the city do the rest.

Back in your kitchen, you refilled your espresso. Opened the file again. Not because you believed in it. But because something in your chest had begun to hum.

You hadn’t seen his face.

But you couldn’t stop picturing it.

And when you went to bed that night, you didn’t throw away the folder like you had planned to do.

You didn’t talk to your sister about it either.

You just let it sit there, glowing in your building.

A match you hadn’t chosen.

But maybe—

Just maybe—

One that saw you anyway.

The next tine you blinked it had been six days since the envelope.

Time moves fast when you are stressing over a man who doesn't even know you exist. 

You hadn’t opened the envelope again. You’d slid it back into the matte folder and tucked the whole thing into the shallow drawer of your vanity—the one usually reserved for lipsticks in limited-edition packaging and love letters you never responded to.

You told yourself it didn’t mean anything, that it was just some expensive exercise in curated loneliness.

Like horoscopes for people with trust funds.

You’d stopped searching the internet.

There were too many men. Too many firms.

Every time you typed “New York private equity, 47, no kids,” the results made you want to burn your laptop. Sleek men in sleeker suits, blinking across LinkedIn headshots like a smug carousel. Half of them looked like the villain in a thriller, the other half like your ex’s father.

None of them looked like him—whoever he was.

And you told yourself you didn’t care.

You were busy, anyway.

Your grandmother had summoned the family.

She did this sometimes. Not for holidays, not for birthdays. Only for matters. The kind that required linen blazers and polite expressions, and the ceremonial silence that came when she mentioned death like it was something chic and inevitable.

Your grandfather had passed five years ago in Italy, holding a cigarette and laughing at a joke you never heard. He’d left behind vaults of film, four ex-lovers at his funeral, and a will that could’ve passed for a screenplay. Your grandmother had been quiet since. Not sad, exactly—just...theatrical in a colder register. As if grief was a role she’d aged out of but still wanted to audition for.

She’d asked the family to meet with a firm. Something about reorganizing trusts. Future-proofing. “Estate things,” your mother had said vaguely while buttering toast with her rings on.

All you heard was...meetings.

So now you had one. A meeting with a private equity firm that sounded like a wine label. It was supposed to be “the best,” of course. It always was.

The name meant nothing to you.

Castillo Group.

Sounded clean. Impersonal. Like a gallery that only sold work in black and white.

You were barely listening when your sister explained the structure of the meeting.

“…and we’re meeting with one of the partners,” she said, scrolling through her phone while icing her jaw. “They assigned us someone directly. It’s serious, apparently. Gran wants to talk about legacy clauses.”

You made a vague sound of acknowledgement and stole a sip of her green juice.

She slapped your hand without looking up.

“Don’t be weird,” she said.

You weren’t weird. You were bored.

The week passed in lacquered hours.

Days filled with pilates, wine, group chats muted indefinitely.

You ignored texts from men you didn’t remember giving your number to.

You wore sunglasses indoors. You bought a vintage Schiaparelli coat you didn’t need. You stared out windows longer than was socially acceptable.

And still—

The man lingered.

The match. Him.

Not directly. Just in flashes. The way someone brushed your wrist on the subway. The way the barista called your name too softly. The memory of Rose’s notes, scribbled like a diary for someone else’s soul.

You didn’t even know his name.

So you stopped thinking about it.

You went to pilates instead.

It was one of those spaces that didn’t call itself a gym—more like a “wellness lab.” All eucalyptus mist and minimalist lighting. The front desk staff were beautiful in that beige, uncanny way, like they’d been grown in a vat labeled Miu Miu campaign.

Your friends were already on the reformers when you arrived.

“Nice of you to join us,” said Inez, legs in straps, gold hoops catching the morning light. “Thought maybe you’d died of aesthetic fatigue.”

You dropped your mat bag dramatically. “I almost did. Someone tried to pitch me a podcast on legacy healing at Dries.”

Sophia snorted and gestured for you to take the spot beside her.

“Guess who’s instructing today,” she whispered, eyes gleaming.

You didn’t have to guess long.

The instructor—Matteo—looked like a poem someone wrote after watching too many Prada ads. Italian. Arms covered in tattoos that didn’t need stories.

You tried not to notice. You failed.

Midway through class, he came over to adjust your form. His hands grazed your hips, featherlight, intentional. He said something low in your ear—“You hold tension here, no?”—and you didn’t even pretend not to smirk.

After class, he caught up with you by the locker rooms. Said your movement was better than anyone in that class. You laughed, genuinely. He asked if you wanted to get a drink sometime.

You paused. Tilted your head. Let the moment breathe.

And then, “You wouldn’t survive my family,” you said, brushing past him with the smile you reserved for temporary men.

Your friends howled when you told them.

“I give it two weeks before you sleep with him,” said Sophia, adjusting her sunglasses.

��Two days,” Inez countered. “Max.”

You shook your head. “He’s a rebound I haven’t even earned yet.”

You didn’t tell them about the envelope. You hadn’t told anyone. Not really. It wasn’t shame—just…a strange refusal to share something you didn’t understand.

The man. The notes. The way they settled under your skin like they belonged there.

Later that evening, your mother texted.

Confirming tomorrow’s appointment. 11 AM. Don’t wear that thing with the fringe.

You didn’t respond.

Instead, you stood by your window, barefoot again, staring down at the city.

Somewhere out there was a man who might’ve been made for you.

And you were about to walk into his building.

Without even knowing it.

The next morning, the light came in soft again—but this time, you were ready for it.

You woke early. Not from an alarm, but from something subtler...the shifting silence of the city beyond your window, the almost imperceptible creak of your building adjusting to the day. There was a feeling in the air, taut and irritable, like silk snagged on a nail.

You didn’t hesitate.

Slipped out of bed, bare feet meeting cold terrazzo, body moving through the motions of your morning like choreography. Coffee first. Then the shower, where steam curled like memory and water hit your back in steady, punishing streams. Your playlist—jazz, something you played when you needed stability.

At your vanity, you moved with purpose.

Silk robe open at the shoulders. Skin dewy from serum. Hair twisted into a low chignon so severe your mother might approve. Your makeup was minimal. A little contour, a matte lip, the faintest shimmer on your cheekbones.

Then the dress.

Vintage Givenchy, the kind of black that absorbs your body. Sleeveless, high-necked, sculpted like you’d been poured into it. It flared just slightly at the hem. You added earrings your grandmother had once described as “impractical for daylight” which of course meant they were perfect.

You checked your reflection only once.

Perfect posture. Unbothered elegance.

Then, you descended.

At the lobby, your driver was already waiting.

Claude had been with your family since before you were born. He'd taught you how to parallel park in Montauk and once threatened paparazzi with a tire iron outside your prep school formal. He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t need to.

You slid into the back seat, legs crossed at the knee, coat draped over one shoulder. He merged onto Fifth with surgical precision.

“Traffic?” you asked.

“Not terrible.”

You nodded. Looked out the window.

Then the camera flashes hit.

Paparazzi. Two of them—lurking just outside the florist’s on 74th, lying in wait like roaches with thousand-dollar lenses. You didn’t flinch. You turned slightly, letting them get your better side.

Later, someone would send you a tabloid screenshot with the headline...Heiress En Route to High-Stakes Family Meeting. Your hair would tried to be recreated on TikTok. Someone in the comments would say you looked like a bitch.

Everything is great.

You arrived fifteen minutes late.

Because of course you did.

Claude pulled up in front of the building, not caring about the no parking sign,

Castillo Group read on the glass. The entrance was flanked by planters so perfectly symmetrical it felt aggressive.

You didn’t wait for the concierge. You just walked in, heels clicking like punctuation, coat draped over your forearm, eyes scanning the marble-and-brushed-brass lobby like it might bore you.

The receptionist blinked.

Everyone blinked.

You were used to that.

You gave your name. She gave a floor number.

“Your family’s already up there.”

Of course they were.

The elevator was silent, mirrored. You caught your own reflection and didn’t look away. You didn’t fidget. You didn’t check your phone. When the doors opened, you walked out like you belonged there.

Upstairs, in a glass-walled conference room designed for bids and negotiations, Harry Castillo was already seated.

He didn’t see you at first. He was focused on your grandmother—who’d arrived ten minutes early and was now seated at the head of the table like a bored monarch.

Your mother was beside her, glancing at her nails like they might betray her. Your sister, chewing invisible gum, scrolling on her phone. Your father, thank God, smiled when Harry greeted him. Warmly, even.

Harry liked your father. Had met him briefly before—quietly magnetic, the kind of man who’d aged into his cynicism with charm.

The meeting was already in motion.

Legacy clauses. Trust restructuring. Long-term tax shelters.

Harry had learned long ago how to focus on the numbers without being distracted by the jewelry, the veiled insults, the family lore. Your grandmother referred to their fortune like it had been bestowed by Zeus himself.

Then the door opened.

And you entered.

Harry didn’t look up right away. He was mid-sentence, something about generational liquidity and stepped-up basis calculations. Then his eyes lifted.

And the sentence died in his mouth.

You walked in like the room had been built around your arrival. Back straight. Expression unreadable. Not arrogant—just certain.

Black dress. Earrings that shouldn’t have worked, but did. A face that held a thousand stories and dared you to ask for one. You didn’t apologize for being late. You didn’t even pretend to care.

You took the empty seat beside your father.

Harry watched you like a man trying not to be caught watching.

His colleagues—the senior associate, the analyst, even the usually-unflappable estate attorney—reacted like something seismic had shifted. A cough. A fidget. A clearing of the throat.

You didn’t notice.

Or you did—and chose not to respond.

Harry looked down at his notes.

You, he thought, were exactly what Rose had sent. Except he didn’t know that yet. Couldn’t know. Because the sleek black envelope was still unopened. Still sealed. Still sitting in his office under a stack of quarterly earnings reports.

And you?

You barely looked at him.

You were polite. Dismissive. Tired in a way that didn’t show on your face but echoed in the way you crossed your legs. You asked two questions—sharp, surgical. You answered one of your grandmother’s passive-aggressive remarks with a half-smile so lethal the paralegal accidentally knocked over his water glass.

Harry watched it all.

Took it in like a study.

You didn’t look like a woman who needed anything.

Which is why, when you leaned slightly toward your father and murmured something that made him laugh, Harry felt something strange stir behind his ribs.

You were nothing like Lucy.

You were...burnt edges and quiet glamour, the kind of presence that made people straighten their posture without knowing why. The kind of woman who didn’t smile to make others comfortable.

The meeting continued.

You didn’t speak much.

But when you did, it changed the tone.

You challenged who would earn the rights to certain films.

Asked about film archive clauses.

Corrected your mother without blinking.

And when Harry finally did address you—only once, to clarify a section on trust structure—you nodded.

“Understood,” you said.

No smile. No flirtation.

Just clarity.

And still—Harry felt it. That tilt. The quiet shift. The thing that lives in the breath between two people before they ever really speak.

When the meeting ended, your grandmother rose first.

She didn't thank anyone. She didn’t need to. Her rings did the talking.

Your mother followed. Your sister made a quip about the chairs being bad for her hips. Your father lingered, shaking hands, making small talk with the estate attorney about his late father-in-law's cinema.

You were the last to stand.

And Harry—Harry watched you go.

Not in a way anyone would notice. Just a glance. A flicker. But enough to feel something crack inside his well-constructed, well-curated sense of detachment.

He didn’t know your name.

You didn’t know his.

Not yet.

And the black envelope in his office remained untouched.

But the city was shifting.

And the string had already pulled tight.

That night, Harry couldn’t sleep.

He didn’t usually have this problem. His apartment—if it could still be called that—was engineered for silence. Floor-to-ceiling windows, blackout shades, temperature calibrated to lull any insomniac into submission. The kind of place where sound had to ask permission.

But still, he laid there, one arm behind his head, shirt off, the city beyond the glass blinking like a pulse.

You’d been in his head all day.

Since you walked into that conference room like it owed you something. Since you’d crossed your legs and tilted your chin and answered your grandmother like a diplomat with a dagger under her tongue.

He’d barely heard a word of the financial summary after that. The analyst had repeated himself twice.

He’d nodded. Pretended. Said all the right things. But your face had lingered—cool, sculptural, with eyes that didn’t wander. Like you didn’t need the room’s approval. Like the room had already lost its chance to impress you.

Which is exactly why he needed to get you out of his head.

He rose sometime past midnight. The floor was cold against his feet. He poured himself a glass of water and crossed to his office.

The space was minimalist, but not impersonal. Books lined the walls. A single photograph—his brother Peter’s wedding—sat framed in the corner of his desk.

He had been Peter’s best man. Smiling, tailored, solemn in that way that made women say he looked like someone who had stories and the discipline not to tell them.

Peter had married Charlotte—sharp, beautiful, meticulous. A match made by Adore Matchmaking, by Lucy herself. The agency Harry had never believed in.

But Rose...Rose had sent him something weeks ago. Something he hadn’t touched.

He got to his desk slowly. The envelope was still there. Black wax seal. No branding. Just two letters.

R.S.

No flourish. Just intent.

He cracked the seal. Slowly. Like it might burn.

Inside, a folder. Matte. Heavy. Clinical. His name written at the top in neat serif.

Castillo, H. — Match Profile Review

He almost laughed. Almost.

Then he flipped the page.

And saw your photo.

It hit him like a held breath.

You.

You, in a white dress, standing on a terrace that looked vaguely Roman, vaguely imagined. You weren’t smiling. Just watching something beyond the frame, your posture perfect, your mouth slightly parted like you were about to say something.

The city dimmed around him.

He set the photo down, too gently.

The rest came after—your name (middle only, smart), your background, the carefully-worded notes Rose had stitched together like myth.

He read the line about your grandfather and felt it click into place. The film family. The legacy. The reason everyone in the room had sat straighter when your father entered.

But it was you.

It had been you all along.

And you had no idea.

He sank into the leather chair, your photo still resting beside his wrist like something too sacred to touch again.

It felt impossible. Too neat. And yet—

He thought about that moment in the meeting. When your eyes flicked over him once, unreadable. When you barely spoke to him at all.

He’d assumed it was because you were used to men noticing you. That it was nothing.

But now he wondered...was it better that you didn’t know? Or worse?

He rubbed his hand absently along the outside of his thigh. Scar tissue.

The faint ridge where bone had once been broken, slowly stretched, made new.

If you ever saw it—if you ran your fingers down his legs in the dark, tracing those pale punctuation marks—would you recoil? Would you laugh? Would you ask why?

Would he tell you the truth?

That it wasn’t vanity. Not really. That it was something more primitive than that.

Survival.

He closed the folder. Not to hide it. Just to think.

Because suddenly the idea of seeing you again—of meeting you, really meeting you—felt unbearable and inevitable all at once.

He hadn’t believed in fate. Not until now.

He looked out at the city.

Somewhere, not far, you were probably asleep in a bed the size of a country, one arm flung over your eyes, dreaming of nothing because you refused to give the universe the satisfaction.

And he—

He leaned back in his chair, your name like an electric thread running behind his ribs.

He would see you again.

He knew it.

He just didn’t know when.

But he hoped—quietly, selfishly—that it would be soon.

tag list: @lizziesfirstwife @bluevelvetpedro @thatpinkshirt @i-wanna-be-your-muse @okiegal68 @buckyandlokirunmylife @sohaaa6 @saltyfartdreamland @catharinamarea @cassiuspascal

[ayoungpascallover]

The other woman pt.1

Summary : Torn from your coastal homeland to seal an imperial alliance, in a wedding crafted for power, not love, you vow to fulfill your duty and perhaps find something more. But on your wedding night, you discover a colder truth: Marcus’s body is yours, but his heart is somewhere else. Still, you are determined to prove your worth, to decode his silence, and to uncover the man behind the armor.

Marcus Acacius x f!reader

Warnings : arranged marriage, mentions of politics, smut, cold behavior, age gap ? (not really mentioned or important), infidelity (towards reader), secret relationship, no y/n

Words : 5,8K

A/N : alright first part of the request ! Thanks again @negrita2345 for your excellent idea, hope you'll like it. Kind of anxious bcs I hope it’s good, I mean in the way you imagined it. Anyway if you have a better title, I'll take it lol. Anyway not much of angst but we need to start slow and setting the context

Marcus' masterlist | next part

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

The olive groves whispered like priests in prayers, swaying beneath the salt-heavy breeze that rose from the sea. From your terrace, the horizon gleamed, a stretch of molten silver where sky met water, endless and unreachable. White sails drifted across it like wandering souls: merchants, imperial messengers, galleys bearing soldiers with polished helmets and unseen orders. 

But today, the wind carried no peace. It was too quiet. Something had shifted, you could feel it long before anyone spoke it aloud. 

The household moved with unnatural quiet, servants murmured behind closed doors and hurried theirs steps as though silence might shield them from whatever was coming. Your father had not touched his breakfast. And you mother—your serene and inscrutable mother—sat rigid at the head of the table, her fingers endlessly smoothing the same fold in her silk robe, over and over, as of the repetition might erase the tremble in her hands. 

When a servant found you in the gardens and bowed deeply, announcing with careful reverence that your presence was requested in the atrium, your feet already knew where to carry you. The click of your sandals echoed off sun-warmed stone as you passed under the colonnade. It smelled faintly of crushed herbs and old parchment, your father’s scent, the scent of duty and legacy. 

Then you saw them, your father stood as though carved from granite: arms behind his back, posture impeccable, chin lifted with imperial resolve. His face was unreadable, but not empty, no. There was something behind his eyes, calculation, or maybe regret. Your mother was seated beside him, her back stiff but her gaze soft, resting not on you, but the floor. 

Two imperial envoys flanked the far pillars. Strangers in gleaming bronze, with helms tucked beneath their arms and scroll slung at their side. Their armor shone like mirrors, catching shards of sunlight that danced across the walls. One of the scrolls had a seal on, a red wax pressed with the mark of an eagle glinted like fresh blood. 

Your heart stuttered once in your chest. Not fear, not quite. Just the cold certainty that your life was about to be unmade. You stepped forward, voice calm and practiced. The same voice you would use at your father’s side while translating foreign decrees and entertaining Roman governors at the harvest feasts. 

“You summoned me, Father ?”

He did not look at you right away, instead, he dismissed the nearby servants with a flick of his fingers. Only when the last one bowed out the room, did he extend one hand toward the envoy. The scroll was handed over in a heavy silence, consuming a part of your soul.

You watched the wax break under your father’s thumb, a clean sound, like a lock opening. He read aloud, his voice loud and clear, “By order of the Roman Emperor, and with the blessing of the Senate, a marriage is hereby decreed…” He continued, but the words grew distant. Your ears filled with the sound of your own blood. 

A marriage ? 

You felt the floor tilt slightly under your feet, your stomach tightening as though braced for an all and your head spinning. Your breath snagged in your chest as you looked around for something—your mother’s eyes, the sea, anything steady—but the stone walls began to feel too close.

Still, you did not speak. You took a breath, deep like diving into cold water, and moved to your mother’s side. Her hand reached instinctively for yours, but you remained still. 

Your father’s voice dropped in tone, “You have been chosen.”

You had always known this day would eventually come. But you never imagined it would happen like this…. Not so early.

Your knees bent beneath you, and you let yourself fall beside your mother. You looked straight ahead, heart beating heavily, like a drum echoing down a long and empty corridor. You let the silence stretch until you had the strength to speak.

“To whom ?” you dared to ask because not asking would have felt like a surrender. 

Your father eyes finally met yours, “General Marcus Acacius,” he read, “a man held in highest favor by the Emperor himself.”

Each word struck with brutal precision. Marcus Acacius. A name carved into the bones of the Empire. You had heard it before, whispered with reverence by soldiers passing through your father’s court. Stories of battlefield valor, of loyalty, of a man more iron than flesh. You had never seen his face, but now his name felt heavier than gold. 

Your throat tightened. Rome. You were being sent to Rome. Your lips parted, but no sound emerged. You pressed them together again, holding in the cry that threatened to escape, just a crack in something old and unspoken. 

Your mother stood then, as if stirred by some silent storm. “Aretas,” she said, her voice urgent. “The General-”

“-is a man of honor”, your father interrupted sharply, giving her a warning look. “And this is not a request.”

“Aretas,” your mother hissed, stepping toward him, voice sharp with fear and something dangerously close to rage “You would send your own daughter like a sacrifice ? Offering her like some- some tribute to the Gods of war ?!” 

Your father turned his head slowly, his jaw clenched tight. “Mind your words.”

“She is too young !” your mother snapped, the tremble in her voice now pushed aside by fury. “She still walks barefoot in the garden. Still sleeps with the shutters open to hear the sea. You promised she would have a say, that there would be time-”

“-I promised,” your father cut in, louder now, “that she would be protected. That she would have a future.”

“She is not livestock to be bargained for land and influence !”

“She is the daughter of this house !” Aretas barked, the echo of his voice crashing against the walls, as one of the envoys shifted uncomfortably, “She bears my name and my blood. And that blood will mean something in Rome. Do you think I have not considered what this will cost her ?” he turned away as if the sight of you was too much. “what it will cost me ?!”

Your mother pressed her fingers to her temple, massaging them as she tries to steady herself. Then she looked at him again, her voice aching. “She was meant to be more than this…” she whispered as a cried escape her throat, “meant to choose who she loved.”

“She was born into a world where we do not get to choose,” your father replied calmer now, but his voice sounded like a man bearing the weight of a boulder no one else could see. “Not you. Not I. And not her.”

Your mother’s voice cracked, “You would give her to a man she has never met.”

“I would give her to a man who commands the loyalty of Rome. A man the Emperor trusts himself.” He glanced at you finally, “A man who will keep her alive and safe.”

“And what of her heart ?! What of her joy ?”

“Mother-” you tried to calm her down.

Your father looked away. “She will learn without it.”

She turned back to you and grasped your hand tightly, and this time, you let her. Her fingers trembled. “You do not have to accept this,” she whispered. “You are not a piece on the board.”

But you were. You had always been. And you knew it.

You rose slowly, gently letting go of her hand, and walked to the terrace again. The sea stretched before you, wide and glittering and full of vanished sails, the scent of salt stung your nose. A warm wind lifted the hem of your gown. You remembered running through those olive trees, chasing shadows between the rows. You remembered laughing, barefoot and free, before anyone asked anything of you.

You closed your eyes and then you nodded. “I will go,” you simply said.

Your mother gasped loudly, like something inside her had crumpled. She turned away, pressing her fingers to her lips.

You stood still, facing the horizon. “I will do my duty,” you whispered.

That was the beginning. The moment the Empire reached across the water and placed its claim upon your life.

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

The marriage was held beneath a sky as blue as tempered steel, Rome’s finest stage set for politics disguised as ceremony. Marble gods stared down from their pedestals, unmoved by the day’s union. Senators stood in rings of gold-threaded togas, murmuring among themselves like old crows. Red petals were scattered over the flagstones, crushed underfoot like drops of blood. Every detail had been carved and calculated with purpose. 

Not for love, but for the Empire.

The Forum itself had been cleared, roped off by imperial guard. Lictors lined the periphery, their fasces polished, gleaming in the sun. A choir of flutes and lyres played from the steps of the temple, slow and solemn, not joyful but dignified, like the funeral of your freedom.

And yet, when you looked down the aisle, past the priests and the marble gods, you saw only him. He stood like he had been carved into place by fate, a figure of stoic poise and discipline. He wore the ceremonial breastplate of a General; gold and leather laced over his chest like armor made for myth. A dark crimson cloak draped over one shoulder, clasped with the mark of the Emperor’s seal.

He was taller than you had imagined, broader too. There was a steadiness to him that unnerved you. Not exactly stillness but what seems to be contained power. His face was carved from shadow and sunlight, jaw squared, and eyes the cold color of rain-smoothed stone. A thin scar curved along the left side of his jaw, not disfiguring, but sharp, like a signature. And those eyes, when they finally found yours, held no flicker of joy, no welcome. They were grounded, unreadable—everything but empty.

You had expected indifference, arrogance, perhaps. But what you found was something far more dangerous. Intrigue. He inclined his head in a silent greeting, a soldier’s nod; respectful and impossibly formal. Not a smile, not a spark. But not disdain either. Your breath caught when he looked at you, like a man preparing for a siege. And yet, something in you shifted. Not in fear, not even in disappointment, maybe… fascination ?

Your gown swept the marble behind you; white silk, embroidered with silver and copper threads in the style of your homeland, a small rebellion your mother had insisted on preserving. The veil shimmered behind you like mist, long and soft. At your side, your father walked stiffly, his expressions carved into diplomacy. He held your arm like he held his blade, firmly, not quite gently. Then, he had to leave you, let go of your arm and give you to the stranger you were about to marry. The man that would now take care of you.

The altar was lined with fresh-cut laurel and pomegranate. The priest chanted the sacred rites. Your name, and his, spoken aloud and you did not even know the sound of his voice. Yet, your fingers touched when the rings were passed, and that single brush of skin sent a whisper of something electric up your spine. 

His palm was cold. Yours trembled once. He did not look at you, not directly. But you saw his jaw tighten, like he had felt it too, and did not know what to do with all that knowledge. You wondered, absurdly, if he was nervous. The rings were slipped on, and the oaths exchanged, a scribe to the side of the altar wrote everything down on a parchment. 

And then, it was done. The General slowly bowed his head to you, like a man offering deference. As if you were a queen or at least something close enough to one. You barely breathed and then, without ceremony he stepped closer and pressed a kiss to the corner of your lips. It was not a kiss of a lover, nor even a husband. It was warm, brief, controlled, a brush of lips against your mouth—soft as breath and gone before your body could register it fully. It felt more like a vow than anything spoken aloud, enough to give the impression of a real kiss to anyone in the room. A promise, you told yourself, or at least, the possibility of one.

When he pulled back, his face remained unreadable, but his eyes lingered just a second longer than necessary. Your pulse caught and something in your chest uncoiled, just slightly.

He offered you his arm and you took it, not because you had to, but because in that moment you wanted to. The applause rose behind you, Rome roaring her approval. The marriage had ended not in intimacy but in spectacle. Trumpets blared, laurel wreaths were raised, a sea of dignitaries, senators, Generals and foreign envoys surged toward the newlyweds like waves crashing. Rome really knew how to honor herself with grandeur. 

You followed the General—now your husband—through the ceremony’s afterbirth, your arm still looped lightly around his. His pace faltered, but he did not speak, not a word since the vow. He only nodded to those who saluted him, eyes scanning the crowd like a commander in unfamiliar terrain; polite, present but unreachable. 

He escorted you up the steps of the banquet hall, a domed, opulent chamber overflowing with gold-threaded cushions and garlands of flame-colored flowers. Long tables were set with silver bowls of figs and honey-glazed. Musicians played a slow, elegant melody that failed to cover the growing thrum of conversation and political hunger. You were sat beside him on the raised dais. He poured your wine without being asked, a gesture so rehearsed it barely felt real. 

“Is everything alright ?” he asked at last. His voice was low and measured, like someone asking after a guest, not their wife.

You looked at him, studying the face everyone in Rome revered; hard lines, eyes like winter stone, no warmth and no cruelty. He had done nothing wrong, but he also had done nothing at all. 

“I am fine.”

He gave you a short nod, then returned to scanning the room. You sat in silence for another few minutes, listening to the rustle of silk, the laughter of people who knew how to perform joy. Rome was a chorus of masks, and you had not yet found your own. Suddenly you could not breathe under the weight of it all, the crowd, the wine, the stifling future curling around your throat like incense. 

“I need a moment.” You murmured.

The General turned slightly, “Do you want me to come with you ?”

You hesitated when you thought you saw a hint of concern in his eyes, until you realized it was more impatience. As if he was waiting for you to leave in a hurry and that you will not ask him to follow you. His question, actually, was not a question, just an illusion of goodwill. “No. I will manage alone.”

You slipped away down one of the side corridors, grateful no one stopped you. The quiet found you quickly, pressed between the walls and the cool hush of shadow. You exhaled as your footsteps slowed. And then, you saw her. She stood beside a bronze basin, one hand lightly skimming the water’s surface, she had the posture of someone who belonged to every palace she ever entered. The low torchlight painted her in gold and shadow. The gown she wore was violet—not just beautiful, but deliberate. Imperial.

You had never seen her face before, even not during the ceremony, or at least you thought so. There were so many people today, that, you had not even been able to talk to your own mother since the ring around your finger sealed your future. The woman was older than you and impossibly poised, the kind of woman whose presence made others instinctively stand straighter. A circlet of hammered gold rested in her hair. 

“Oh,” she said, her lips curling into the beginnings of a smile, a kind expression on her face as she turned to see you. “You needed a moment too ?”

You paused, just outside the doorway, unsure if you were intruding. “Yes,” you said. “The hall is... a storm.”

She gave a quiet laugh. “That is a generous word for it.”

Her voice was soft but assured—a voice trained in courtrooms, or perhaps something even older. She stepped slightly away from the basin and folded her hands loosely before her. “I watched you, during the ceremony,” she continued gently. “You carried yourself well. I remember my own wedding…my knees would not stop shaking.” She adds with a chuckle. There was no bitterness in her tone. Only memory.

“Thank you,” you said, your voice more honest than you had expected. “I had no training in how to marry a stranger.”

She tilted her head. “No one has. Not really.”

There was a quiet, companionable moment. And in it, something settled. Her gaze on you, curious, thoughtful, without a hint of superiority. Just as you began to ask something—anything, out of instinct more than strategy—footsteps clicked at the far end of the corridor. A servant appeared in a rush, breath shallow, eyes darting between you both.

“Domina—” the girl began, before catching herself. “Mar— the banquet awaits your return.”

You turned your head, but not before seeing her expression falter, just for a flicker. Not shame, just the lightning-fast reflex of someone used to secrecy. 

Her smile then returned effortlessly. “Of course,” she said, with a nod. “Thank you.”

The servant bowed and backed away quickly. The still unknown woman looked at you again, her voice calm. “It is never truly your night, is it ? Not in Rome. Every moment belongs to someone else.”

You did not know what to say. Her eyes searched yours, not intrusively, but with a strange gentleness. “I hope,” she said softly, “that he will be kind to you.”

And then she turned, leaving you in silence, the scent of myrrh and rose trailing after her like a veil. You stood alone for a long minute, your breath lodged somewhere between your ribs. 

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

The villa was quiet now, the revelers long since departed. Torchlight flickered along the walls of your new chambers. Servants had come and gone, laying out fruit, wine, flowers. Silk robed folded neatly, oils on the table and perfumed water in basins in which you had bathed and dried your hair with trembling fingers.

The door closed behind him without a sound. You had been sitting by the window—watching the night spill over the city like ink. The moon hung heavy and indifferent as its rays reflected off your skin, a strange shade of blue—the silk robe clinging to your skin still damp from the bath, the scent of rose oil ghosting over your collarbones. You did not look up at first, you had imagined this moment so many ways that the real thing felt too fragile to meet head-on.

But when you turned, you saw him.

He stood there in the glow of the fire, freshly changed into a dark linen tunic. His formal armor was gone, replaced by something quieter, more intimate, though the presence he carried made the room feel no less like a battlefield. He was… handsome, yes—striking, even. The sculpted kind of man you only ever saw carved into stone. His brows furrowed as if in thought, or perhaps weariness, and his eyes watched you like a soldier scanning a map before a march. 

Still, you could not help the way your heart stuttered when he finally stepped closer. “My lord,” you said, quieter than you meant to.

At that, he tilted his head slightly. A single dark brow lifted, not unkindly, more like curiosity. “You may call me Marcus,” he said, his voice low and even. “We are husband and wife now. No need for titles in private.”

There was a careful courtesy in the way he said it. Not warm. Not cold. Like a gate held half open, daring you to enter but offering no welcome.

You nodded once, unsure it that was kindness or obligation. “Marcus,” you repeated, tasting the name. 

He crossed the room with military precision as you rose to your feet slowly, smoothing the folds of your robe with shaking hands. And for a long moment, silence stretched between you like a blade unsheathed but not yet used. He wasted no time in catching your eye and slipped into the sheets of the—your sharing bed.

“You are not what I expected,” you murmured before you could stop yourself, moving unconsciously in his direction.

That made him pause. “No ?”

You shook your head. “You are… quieter.”

A breath of something like amusement crossed his face, not quite a smile, but the ghost of it. “Most Generals are quieter after the wedding than before it,” he said dryly.

That startled a soft laugh from you; small, nervous. He turned his face then, as if your reaction had caught him off guard. He looked at the wall, then the floor, anywhere but at you.

You studied him.

There was something about the way he carried himself. The way his fingers flexed once at his sides and then stilled again, that felt like he could control fire. And it drew you. Even now, even as you knew this was not a love story, maybe not yet, or maybe never—but you were drawn to him.

After this evening at his side, you had expected nothing from a man like him. Still, as you sat across from him at the imperial banquet—smiling politely, answering questions from governors and senators who barely remembered your name—you could not help glancing at him in those small, unguarded moments. 

Marcus Acacius was every inch the legend you had heard of: carved from silence, shaped by discipline. His posture never faltered, even when seated, and his replies were devoid of warmth. But what struck you most was the restraint in his gaze, like there was something caged behind those irises. And yet, when his eyes landed on you, even briefly, something changed. 

A flicker, gone before it could fully become a thought. A hesitation, as if there was a war behind those eyes that had nothing to do with you. You did not flatter yourself into thinking he was pleased by the match. No one truly was. This was not a marriage woven of love or even desire. It was strategy, diplomacy, obedience. A bargain between Empires, in which you were the treaty dressed in white. 

But you were determined to be more than that. You had promised yourself—there, on the terrace of your homeland, when the sails of your old life disappeared behind you—that you would not enter this marriage meekly. You would do your duty, yes. But more than that: you would try to love. You would give this cold stone the warmth of yours hands, even if it never warmed in return. 

He had barely spoken to you since the ceremony. A bow. A glance. He had offered his arm but not his voice. You watched him, not as an infatuated girl—you were not that foolish—but as a woman determined to understand the man she had been given to. 

There was something in him, you were sure of it. A kind of tension, as if every movement was measured to avoid some fault. And it made you wonder what lay buried under all that discipline ? Even the greatest Generals were made of flesh, even marble could cracked under pressure. 

You wanted—needed—to know who he was when the armor came off. And tonight, in the hush that followed the ceremony… you would begin to try.

“I will not force you,” he said suddenly, voice tight. “If you would prefer to wait, I-”

“I do not want to wait,” you said, before you could give yourself time to retreat. “This is our wedding night. I would rather… not be alone.”

He looked at you then. “Very well,” he said simply.

You sat on the edge of the bed, near his feet, leaving just enough space between you to preserve modesty, and just enough closeness to feel the tension like a thread drawn taut between your bodies. The room was dim, lit only by candles flickering near the carved columns. Somewhere beyond the walls, musicians still played for the last drunk guests, but their music had thinned, like it was too hesitating.

For a moment he grimaces, a faint tightening around his eyes, as if settling into something that did not quite fit. You turned your face fully toward him now, unsure whether to speak, unsure whether silence would offend or comfort. When he adjusted his posture and leaned back a little, his gaze slid toward you again, and then, down. 

Your robe clung faintly to your skin in places that left much to the imagination, thin and delicate, the firelight made suggestions of the shape beneath it. You had not meant it to be seductive, but you had not stopped it either. His eyes lingered, no longer guarded. After all he was a General, not a monk. 

A muscle in his jaw tightened, his hand curled, crumpling the sheet at his side. You bit your lower lip, almost without realizing it, heart thudding. You had imagined wanting from him, but it was just a thought. Maybe something you could use to reach him. 

Just for a breath, he looked at you not as duty, but as a woman. 

And something flickered across is expression, as if torn between distance and desire—no, worse; as if he had fought the feeling and already lost.

You took a breath that trembled in your chest and let the courage carry you forward. Slowly—almost reverently—you crawled across the sheets, each movement delicate. The soft rustle of fabric beneath your knees was the only sound as you were now on all fours, looking at him directly in the eye. You kept your hungry eyes fixed on him, searching his face for any kind of reaction. He was statuesque in the low light, his expression unreadable once again, though his body seemed to betray him as you could feel his already hard cock beneath the sheets, which made you smirk.

A flush of warmth spread through your chest as you did not know how to begin. You straddled him gently, your thighs sliding over his, your breath hitching as your bodies aligned. His eyes flickered open, and for a moment, just a moment, there was something there—not desire, not affection, but… permission. And, you could work with that.

You stood over him with your arms embedded in the mattress, you leaned down and placed a soft kiss on the corner of his mouth—a quiet echo of the one he had given you at the altar, but his lips did not move, they did not even flinched. 

Undeterred, you continued. A kiss on his cheek, then another along the edge of his jaw, yet another just below his ear, a trail down the column of his throat. You felt him shift beneath you, a ripple of muscle and restraint. A sound escaped him, almost a sigh, but muted. His hands came hesitantly to your hips, trying to push you away carefully. But, you rocked your hips once, lightly—testing, and his grip tightened—more by instinct, like a simple reflex but—pressed your body a little closer to his. 

You smiled faintly and rose, looking only at him with a burning desire, slowly peeling back the sheet between you. His eyes snapped open with surprise, maybe a quiet resistance ? His hands slid over your thighs and he closed once again his eyes, taking a deep breath. You did not pause anyway. Your hands moved with a confidence you did not quite feel, lifting the hem of your robe and slipping it over your head. Revealing your warm and naked body to him, as the air kissed your bare nipples. You saw his gaze moving over you, and for a breathless heartbeat, you felt seen. 

But then, suddenly, it was gone. His eyes drifted to the side, unfocused and his jaw clenched. You tried not to falter. 

He leaned back against the headboard as you settled atop him again, you took advantage of this moment to lift yourself gently and removed the covers that had separated your bodies until then. He looked at you with intrigue, certainly not expecting such gesture and ardor from you. Then, lifting the edge of his tunic to free him, you licked your lips impatiently. His cock was rock hard—thick and ready—but he barely reacted to your touch. No smirk, no words, no heat in his eyes. 

Still, you guided his fat cock to your entrance, offering a last glance—a silent plea to meet you there, even if it is just for a moment. You sank down, gasping at the stretch, your body trembling as he filled you completely. Slowly you took him inch by inch, your breath breaking into gasps as your body stretched to accommodate him. Just too much at once, a new world splitting open inside you and your moan broke the silence like a confession.

He grunted softly beneath you, but you moved anyway, riding slowly. As he spread your walls, you let out a loud moan, scrunching up your face from the slight pain. Your hands braced on his broad shoulders and your breath mingled with the scent of his skin. You bit your lip, letting soft sounds escape, trying to give yourself fully. He was so deep inside you, you could feel his cock in your stomach, and the sensation was just delicious, you could not stop yourself anymore.

He let out a few careless whimpers, as your hands found support on his broad shoulders, allowing you to keep your balance and find a rhythm that suited your desires. You bit your lower lip and moaned once more, his hands shyly roaming your body as you surrendered yourself completely to him, leaving no room for hesitation. Suddenly he frowned and sighed through his nostrils, then look at you—properly—just once, a long and unreadable gaze. 

Your hands clenched at his shoulders, as he made no move to guide you through it. So you set another rhythm, slower—rolling your hips to feel every inch of him inside you. Your hands found his chest to steady yourself, and your thighs trembled with the effort. His hands left your body and found the sheets beside him. You let go and tried to make him want you again, but it was as if he had barricaded himself in, letting you use his body as you pleased. You leaned in, trying to draw him back, but he moved his head slightly, preventing you from kissing him or even making contact with his skin.

The warmth between your legs grew and you began to ride him with growing confidence, chasing something unspoken between you. You tried to catch his eyes, but he was not looking at you anymore. His head tilted back; eyes closed, lips parted slightly in some imagined reverie. Your fingers traced along his collarbone, but he did not stir. It was as if he was unable to face the sight of your body on his. 

Still straddling him, your movements reduced to a fragile rhythm. Not for pleasure anymore, but for your dignity. To convince yourself there was still something happening between your bodies. But he was limp beneath your touch, his body remains inside yours, but something in him was… gone. You looked down at him, pleading, and saw the furrow between his brows, the ways his lips seemed to mouth something you could not decipher. 

You slow to a stop and stay still atop him, your breathing uneven and shallow from the thrum of something colder uncoiling inside you. The rise and fall of his chest beneath you were distant, absent. His hands no longer held you, his eyes had closed again, retreating into some private place far from where your skin met his. 

And then, the question tumbled from your lips before you could bury it. “Am I…” you paused, voice tight, “not doing it right ?”

The words hung in the air between you like a mist that refused to lift. He opened his eyes and looked directly at you. Not at your body, your mouth or your hands, even less the place where you were joined. But at your eyes, like a man stepping into a memory he had not meant to find. 

There was no irritation in his expression, no hunger. Just softness, and what seems like pity. And that, somehow, was worse. His voice was almost careful when he responded, “No. You are alright.”

But he did not say what it was. Your fingers, unsure, rested on his chest where his heartbeat barely stirred beneath your palm. You leaned forward slightly, a whisper of movement, your voice fragile now. “I can try something else, if you want.” A thread of hope knotted tight in your chest. “If you tell me what pleases you, I-I can try…”

For a moment, silence. Then a quiet breath and a small shake of his head. “I am just tired,” he murmured. “That is all.”

Just tired. 

That simple. 

That final. 

You stayed there, frozen in that moment, as if stillness might hold something together—whatever this was supposed to be. But the thread between you had already slackened. A tender, desperate intimacy folded into something formal. As though your body had become just another offering to be endured. 

He shifted, gently—not urgently—adjusting the blanket, reaching for the edge of the sheet. You took the silent cue, sliding off him with grace you barely possessed in that moment, pulling the cover over yourself in one practiced motion. You turned away so he would not see your face, because you were not sure what expression you wore.

Marcus settled back into the mattress with the weary composure of a soldier finished with duty. His arm fell across his chest and his eyes shut again, for good this time. You lay beside him a long while, watching the gold-leafed ceiling flicker with candlelight. Somewhere beyond the walls, music still played. 

You slipped from the bed, eventually, quiet as the dying flame of the candle next to you, and walked barefoot to the far end of the room. You wrapped yourself in the nearest robe, not for modesty, but for armor. You settled back into bed beside him, leaving as much distance as possible before closing your eyes. And just as you felt yourself drift off into a deep sleep, a solitary tear escaped your eye.

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

Marcus’ masterlist | next part

[ayoungpascallover]

THE F*CK-IT LIST: Superbowl

rating: 18+ (if you're a minor, please don't interact with this story. Seriously.)

chapter: 9.6k

story tags: DBF!Joel , Smut , Romance , Angst , Comedy, Mutual Pining, dirty talk, and more Smut.

a/n: Hey folks, I'm sorry for the delay. Rreal life has been AWFUL and if you have a few bucks to toss me on ko-fi I'd really appreciate it.

As per usual your support, your comments, your hilarious asks, your funny memes, your impossibly contagious enthusiasm - all of it got my tippy tappy fingers writing away! Please know that while I don't respond to all comments (something about it sometimes stresses me out, I cannot explain it) I READ all of them and LOVE all of them and sometimes when I'm down on myself and want to give up, I read a comment or see a funny mention and I just get inspired to keep going.

PSA: I don't know shit about football.

For those requesting to be tagged Sadly tumblr will not let me tag more than 30 ppl so instead you'll have to follow my updates blog! @auteurdelabre-updates I also post most of my work on A03.

F*ck-It List masterlist here

You shouldn't be mad at Joel. 

The two of you made this agreement when the list was created. That either one of you could pull out at any time. That there was no pressure on either side. 

So why are you so angry the following days after the talk in his office?

Yes, he was rude about it and yes you didn't feel like you had a chance to add anything to the conversation, but surely you shouldn't still be this upset days later? 

He's not worth my attention. 

Your dad sails by, murmuring a hello before heading into his office. He's been really busy lately, you barely saw him this week. You give a distracted wave before you lick a stamp and pop it resolutely on one of the many envelopes scattered atop your desk. 

"Good morning, lunch buddy."

Kathleen greets you with a warm smile, distracting you from your maudlin thoughts. She's wearing a pink cardigan today and it brings out the rose in her cheeks. 

"Good morning." 

"I wanted to tell you that I just loved that place we went to eat at the other day. I actually took my date and he loved the dragon rolls." 

"Your date?" 

Kathleen doesn't seem the type to go dating a lot so this surprises you and to your delight she blushes. "Yes."

"How long have you been seeing this guy?"

Kathleen licks her lips nervously, glancing around the room to make sure she's not overheard. She tilts forward, so close you can see the dark ring around her irises. 

"About six months." 

"What?" You nearly leap up from your rolling chair. "This isn't some random hookup?" 

Kathleen wrinkles her nose, shaking her head jerkily. "No no. I'm not that... I'm not that kind of woman." 

Something about the accusatory tone makes you internally wince. Not that kind of woman? Your smile dims a bit. 

"He's normally the one that plans all our dates," Kathleen continues. "So thank you for the suggestion."

"My pleasure," you reply. "If I find any other cool places I'll let you know." 

She thanks you again before telling you she and your father have been going through some of the client reviews and that perhaps you could help her brainstorm some ways for employee recognition. But you're not really listening; your mind is on what she said. 

Not that kind of woman. 

What's wrong with random hookups? What's wrong with chasing pleasure? Kathleen has a good twenty years on you but you'd never thought of her as repressed. 

"I thought we could meet up early next month to narrow down our event ideas," Kathleen says. "I loved so many of your options and I'm looking into vendor costs and things. I want to run the finalized ones by your dad before May." 

You glance at the desktop computer, eyes falling on a date next week. Your stomach twists, bile rising in your throat.

"Are you okay?"

Kathleen has that open look that she sometimes wears when she's being extra empathetic. The kind reserved for crying staff or overworked interns. You wave it off before swallowing thickly. 

"How does the 2nd work for you?"   

Kathleen nods before telling you  she'll touch base later next week. You click off the computer, eyes traveling up to see Joel and Tess chatting across the room. Joel has a file tucked up under his arm, his body stiff as he listens to her. 

Tess on the other hand is all smiles, chatting animatedly. When her hand lands on his forearm mid-laugh you watch as he flinches. 

Joel's eyes scan the office, clearly uncomfortable. When his eyes sail your way you're already looking down at the remaining envelopes you need to address. 

Jacob sails by the two of them, giving you a wink as he nears. His figure is dashing, his suit fashionable and tailored. 

Tess is still chatting animatedly to Joel, pointing at something on her phone as Jacob comes to stand beside your desk. 

"You're picking the lunch spot today, yeah?"

"Mhm." You tap your finger on the desk, flashing your eyes to Jacob. "And maybe you can help me find someone new to mark more stuff off the list."

"What do you mean?"Jacob tilts his head slightly. "What do you need my help for? You have your sweet mystery man."

You nod, averting your gaze from Joel across the office. It's like you can feel him, heavy and oppressive. Jacob's smile dims as he scans your face. 

"I wanna branch out, try it with someone new," you finally say with forced levity. "I want to experience someone new."

Jacob gives you a hard look before leaning forward on your desk, his voice dropping. 

"Did something happen?"

You stare up at him before you have to drop your eyes to your cluttered desk.

There's so much that you want to tell Jacob, you want to admit how this has been going on with Joel, you want to ask his advice. But you know that you can't. 

"No, nothing. You told me to put myself out there so that's all I'm doing."

Jacob is tilting even closer to you, his voice soft. "Honey, are you sure?" 

You're still staring at the desk, terrified that if you make eye contact with Jacob it's all going to come spilling out. 

"We not giving you enough to do, Milne?"

Your head jerks up in time to see Jacob's eyes go round. He jerks to stand straight, twisting around to see a scowling Joel behind him. Joel's arms are crossed, biceps bulging through the flannel as he stares Jacob down. 

"Uh, no, no sir. I mean yes, sir. I have enough to do." 

"Then why are you up here distracting other employees?"

"He's not-" you begin, voice catching when Joel's dark eyes flit to yours, his expression darkening. 

Your face feels hot, your hands clammy. You shoot a look at Jacob but he's stricken, staring at Joel.  Jacob is always so cool and collected, seeing him so anxious makes you apprehensive. A click of heels makes its way to the three of you. 

"Joel, I forgot to ask, did the Wilson contract arrive yet?"

You watch as Tess comes up behind Joel, likely continuing the conversation they were just in. She sees your pinched face and Jacob's terrified one and her smile fades.  "I'm sorry, have I interrupted something?"

"Nope," Joel mutters, his gaze locked on Jacob's. "Just chattin' with my employee here."

"Oh." Tess smiles at Jacob reassuringly. 

"I was actually just on my way to finish the briefing for this afternoon," Jacob says with a squeak. "I'll see you later."

You give him a shallow nod, gaze drifting after him before sliding over to Joel who still stands there, only now his glare is directed at you. 

"Last time I checked we pay you to work, not flirt."

If you could melt into the floor right this second, you would. Tess is still standing there watching this exchange, making it all the more excruciating.

“We were just making lunch plans.”

“Do it on your own time.”

Tess blinks, taken aback. You shrink into your chair. 

"I-I apologize, Mister Miller."

Joel moves towards his door, not even bidding Tess a goodbye. She seems nonplussed by this, turning her smile your way.  Your face is throbbing, so hot that tears are springing to your eyes. You want to disappear from the face of the planet at this very moment.

"I was hoping you could help me with the coffee machine," Tess says with a chagrined smile. "It's so fancy and I have no clue how to make anything. I always get Starbucks." 

You go to acquiesce when a heavy hand lands on the back of your office chair, stopping you from moving back to exit. 

"S'not her job." 

Joel's voice is low and tinged with irritation. You can feel him hovering there behind you like some sentry. 

"Oh I didn't mean...." Tess goes pink in the face, attention drifting between you and Joel. "I just thought..."

You know Joel's only standing up to her request because he can't stand Tess. It's not a real form of respect, not really. You're a pawn in his pissing contest. Irritated at this you push your chair backwards roughly, rising quickly. He takes a step back, eyes on the back of your head while you smile at Tess. 

"I don't mind." 

You don't look behind you as you move from the desk, ignoring Joel entirely as you and Tess make you way to the large coffee room. 

Like the other spaces in the Mill Group, this room is beautifully designed with a floor to ceiling window overlooking the outdoors. 

Beautifully crafted tables and chairs sit with fresh flower centerpieces. The coffee bar is long with white speckled granite countertops. Customized Mill Group mugs sit next to baskets of fresh fruit, pastries and bags of snacks. 

You and test make your way to the shining metal coffee maker. It's wide and takes up a large portion of the counter. 

"Okay you just program it here," you say tapping the screen. "You said espresso right?"

Tess nods, brows furrowed. "Yeah. I did that and it didn't do anything." 

"You have to hit the cup size twice. I don't know why, it's really annoying," you explain as you hit the 6 oz number twice. 

Tess makes a sound of approval as the drink starts to pour into the mug. 

"Such an easy fix," Tess marvels behind you. "Thank you." 

"You'd think for how much this thing costs it'd bring your coffee to you." 

Tess gives a polite laugh, taking the mug from you with another thank you. You're about to walk off, shooting her a polite smile when she murmurs your name. 

"Does Joel always talk to you like that?"

"Like what?"

She taps her heel absently as she searches for the right word. "So... Harsh."

"Not often." You shrug. "Think he's just having a bad day."

"Does he ever make you feel unsafe?"

You drop the spoon to the counter with a clatter. "What?"

You're suddenly very aware that it's only you in Tess in this break room, very aware that this line of questioning seems to have come out of nowhere. Almost as if she tried to get you alone to talk about it on purpose. 

Joel is intense, even intimidating at times but you have a feeling that's not what Tess is referring to. You've definitely never felt unsafe with him.

"No." 

Your eyes flick to someone passing by the door, heading to the copier machine before you glance back at her. She's still wearing that mask of concern. Her knuckles blanching around the mug handle. 

"If he does anything to make you uncomfortable, will you promise to come to me?" 

You scan Tess' eyes and take in the clear blue concern reflected back at you. You don't know this woman but she senses something in you, a familiarity, clearly. It makes you uncomfortable as much as it does comforted. 

It seems motherly. 

The thought sours your stomach. The remembrance of your father's late night texts, his desire to have Tess involved in so much of the company despite Joel's obvious disapproval. Have you really just been overlooking the most obvious thing? Is it possible that Tess is your father's mystery woman? 

No. He wouldn't do that. 

But just the thought that your father might be engaging in a secret romance with Tess makes you cringe away from her.

"Joel is passionate about his job," you say firmly. "Yes, he can be intense sometimes. But he's never done anything to make me feel uncomfortable." 

Tess seems to falter at that, nodding and going to say something else when you give her a brief smile of a poorly concealed insincerity. 

"Anyway, I should probably get back to my desk, busy day ahead." 

"Right yeah," she not seeming to understand that she's overstepped in some way. "I'll see you at the Superbowl party." 

"See you then. Enjoy the coffee." 

///

"Okay, the betting pool is on, caterer should be here in an hour or so, drinks are chilled, margarita machines are working..."

Your father goes through his mental checklist walking around the parameter of your large living room. The theater sized screen displays the countdown to the super bowl in glorious HD. 

It looks silly in your old home. Too big for the wall even though your dad customized cabinetry put in on either side. He's tried to update this home the best he could and to be fair it has all the splashy decor and appliances of any model show home. 

He wanted to keep that familiarity for you and your brother, a landing place for you to return to. He thought just by keeping the home that he would do that, but he failed to understand that it was what was inside that mattered. 

Memories in front of your old fireplace, the ugly carpet that you puked on after drinking too much grape juice. The memories were built in the little details and he stripped those away in favor of modern conveniences. 

You don't fault him for it. Your mother's been gone for so many years and the previous decoration was much more her style; homey and warm. Your fathers’ is more sterile, more organized and geometric. 

You watch him scurrying from place to place, adjusting balloon arches and putting finalized touches on h. He’s nervous. You’ve never seen him nervous at one of these things before.

You are not a fan of the Superbowl at all, but you are a fan of the commercials. Plus Jacob will be coming which means you two can chat about your list and how to properly check off the remaining items.  

"Potato skins?" You ask with a grin as you move one of the balloon clusters over by the snack table. 

"You got it, Trix."

"Perfect," you say snagging a pretzel. "Those are my favorite." 

"Oh I know. Caterer is making extra." He gets a small smile on his face. "Your mama always loved them extra crispy."

Your dad mutters this to himself it seems, quiet and held close like a secret. He doesn't talk about your mom much, not in cruelty but because you think it hurts him too much. 

As if realizing what he's said your father claps his hands together, breaking the moment. 

"Okay the prize wall is set up in the back but I'm gonna make sure it's extra secured," your dad says to you, gathering several buckets full of darts and heading back there. 

Your dad's idea to make this party one to remember was to have a huge wall of balloons, all colors and sizes. Everyone who walks through the door will have a Superbowl player randomly assigned to them. 

Every time a player gets a point, the corresponding guest throw a dart. You think.... You kind of zoned out during your father explaining, bored out of your mind. 

The balloons are filled with pieces of paper with numbers that correlate to the expensive prizes sitting wrapped and numbered on the nearby table. It overflows with boxes, your father intent on everyone walking away with something exciting. 

"I'm gonna go relax a bit before everyone gets here," you call to him before sauntering to your bedroom where your phone is charging. 

You plop down at your desk, feeling melancholy. All the senior staff is going to come today (along with Jacob at your insistence to your dad) and you're not looking forward to navigating a sea of small talk. You get enough of that at work. Everyone is extra nice to the boss' kid. 

You begin tugging at the sleeve of your team jersey, your hair decorated with matching bows. You wanted to dress up for today, to make your dad happy. You wonder how much of your life has been spent in that pursuit.

You look at some of the sketches on the desk that you were working on last night, ideas on sustainability in the nearby buildings. You'd always loved the sustainable forest of Milan and dreamed of something similar here in Austin. 

Of course your dad would never want something like that. He's big on solid craftsmanship but he could give a fuck about the environment. 

The sketch is rough and the lines need some work but you were satisfied with it before bed. You think about the green architecture programs offered in Italy, the chance to work with people who are passionate about the same things. 

It's a two year advanced program thanks to your undergraduate studies and marks. It could be feasible with enough money but then you'd be abandoning your dad. 

A sort of weight presses into you, holding you down by your shoulders. You feel it leeching into your body and you physically shake. 

"Stop it."

You can hear your dad whistling in the backyard, clearly excited about the party today. 

You wonder if Joel is actually going to show up considering he and your dad seem to be avoiding one another. 

Joel. A topic you've been trying not to fixate on. 

Without Joel now you're going to have to find someone new to help with your list. The thought should excite you, but mostly it makes your stomach twist. And there underneath the sketches is the wrinkled page attempted to be smoothed. The writing and doodles by the numbers. 

The list. 

You look at the few items you managed to check off, sighing at how it all went tits up. 

What happened? Was he feeling guilty? Was he turned off? Did you do something offensive? Was he mad you fell asleep? You're so frustrated that you'll never know the answer. You'll always wonder what happened to make him pull back so viciously. 

You grab your phone, frustrated that it's still only at twenty percent. You plug it back in and compose a text to Jacob. 

I can't wait to see you.

Same here Oh I had an idea about the list

Yeah? ????

Calm down fast typer. You know that club Elysium on Red River?

That haunted looking place?

Yeah. Tuesday is singles night. A perfect place to pick up a gentleman to knock off a number or two.

You’re a genius

A sexy one.

"Why can't you just be straight?" You say with a sigh, popping the phone back onto your desk. Your fingers trail over the well-worn list, face heating. 

The doorbell rings. 

"Can you get that?" Your dad calls through the sliding glass door. He sounds irritated, which is what he always is right before hosting a party when he feels rushed.

"Okay!"

You jog to the door hoping to see Jacob on the other side. You've barely been able to speak to him this week; Joel's been circling your desk like a hawk every time he comes near.

He always has some kind of excuse, correlating, stapling, photocopying. Sometimes it feels like busy work. But you don't understand why he's acting like that. Maybe he is just a stickler about fraternization. Maybe you and Jacob do seem unprofessional. 

Well, there's nothing he can say today, you reason. This isn't work.

You smile in satisfaction, humming to yourself. When you open the door however, your smile dies immediately. 

"Afternoon."

Joel stands there in a dark t-shirt with the home teams logo emblazoned on the front. His jeans are dark washed and his hair looks styled, like he went to some effort. 

You hate that he looks so good. 

You don't reply to him, you just stand back and take the door with you, looking at the floor. Joel slips out of his boots and walks inside and you notice he's holding a case of beer. 

"My dad already has plenty."

"Yeah, that microbrew trash," Joel murmurs, "S'why I brought my own."

"Knock yourself out," you mutter back, walking away from him into the kitchen. 

He walks after you awkwardly, his footsteps heavy and the scent of sandalwood and sweat catching up to you. You stand at the far edge of the counter, watching Joel move to the large fridge. His back is so broad under his T-shirt, biceps bulging...

Stop.

Your logical self tries to prevail. It's like an imaginary cartoon of yourself that shows up on one shoulder wearing thick, oversized glasses and looking serious. 

Get yourself together. He's just a man. 

But then another you pops up on your left shoulder wearing a clown nose. 

Yeah a man who's cock you sucked! 

"Shut up," you whisper to yourself. 

"What was that?"

Joel is still there, loading his beer into the fridge with a puzzled expression. You figure it's a fair response given that you were just babbling to yourself. 

"Nothing."

You want to leave but you also don't want Joel chasing you out of your own space. You grab a water glass and pour yourself some from the tap.  

Joel pulls a beer bottle from his case, twisting the top off and flicking it into the trash.

“You want one?" Joel asks, holding a bottle out to you. You shake your head, opting for lemonade from the fridge instead. 

You flinch as he clears his throat - a classic maneuver which means he's about to say something uncomfortable. Great. 

"Hey, uh, you think we could talk?"

You turn to see him inches from you and your sardonic reply dies in your chest. He's so big, his mouth so pouty under that close cropped beard. 

"I.. erm...”

His eyes bore into yours. He's intimidating even when he's not trying to be. 

"Miller, you showed!"

Joel steps back from you as your father appears through the back sliding door with a smile on his face. He seems relieved to see his friend. 

"Figured it was weird if one of the CEO"s was absent," Joel says before smirking. "Plus I had to make sure you were keeping tradition alive and making it one to remember." 

“Lemonade?” Your dad says with an exaggerated shake of his head. “Not gonna try out the margarita machine, Trix?”

“Nah.”

"What's with the Trix thing?" Joel interrupts as he raises a brow in interest. "I've heard it a few times and I don't get it." 

"It's nothing," you frown. Having Joel here talking about mundane things makes you feel insane. 

“She wasn’t nothing,” your dad defends. “She had a pet bunny named Trixie.”

“Dad he doesn’t want to hear this,” you say with a cringe. You notice a twinkle in Joel’s eyes, a hitch to one side of his mouth that makes him smile crookedly.

“Sure do.”

“It’s not a big deal.”

"Uh, Trixie was a very big deal," your dad interjects, offended at your casual dismissal of a beloved pet. "You made us feed you carrots out of our hands. On Halloween you dressed up as her, you had bunny pyjamas... "

"For fucks sake," you mutter, head in your hands. "Next topic, please."

"I wanna hear more about Trix," Joel says and you can hear the laughter edging into his words. 

"For a whole summer this one went around wearing bunny ears on a headband her mama made her, just so she could look like Trixie." 

At the mention of your mother you bristle, frowning and pushing back from the table.

"I need..." You search your mind for some excuse. 

"More carrots?" 

You shoot daggers at your father and a chuckling Joel.

Could this be more embarrassing?

Joel peers outside the glass sliding door. "S' that a wall of balloons?"

"Sure is, c'mon and see what I cooked up this year." 

Your father is like a child on show and tell, beaming and excited to show his friend. It's been quite a long time since you saw the two of them relaxed like this. A. Part of you is touched that your father looks so happy. 

The caterers arrive shortly after and begin to get to work. You glance around at the decorations that were set up by the decorators last night, at all the effort your father went to. 

It's not only to impress staff, you know that. It's also to give you everything he couldn't when your mom was alive. He wants you and your brother to live well. 

It doesn't mean hand outs; it doesn't mean not teaching you the importance of hard work. It just means splashy parties and good food and birthday presents that make you dumbstruck. It means a father not stressed about making ends meet. 

Your parents used to argue about money a lot. Of your mother's overspending or your father's late nights at the office. Perhaps that's why money has never sat well with you. 

People start to arrive, the doorbell ringing constantly as your father ushers everyone in, urging them to grab margaritas and canapés. 

Kathleen greets you a squeeze, looking around at the extravagance of the event. 

"Seems like these parties get more and more over the top."

"Tell me about it." 

"Best go see what you're dad's up to," she says, looking around the room for him. 

You feel sympathy as you look at her, the way she feels she needs to be at your father's beck and call even off the clock. Is she just an older version of you? Never able to say how she feels? The thought sobers you. 

"Kathleen, lemme show you the margarita machine." 

Minutes later Kathleen has a margarita in her hand and is being brought into a conversation with Terry about who the cutest football player is. 

In habit you go to message Jacob to see where he is when you remember your phone is charging in your room. You make your way through the crowd and walk in the room. You turn away from the door, phone raised to your face as you check the battery life. 35%. You need a new phone. You sigh.

"You got a minute?"

Joel's voice wafts from behind you low and husky. Startled, you drop your phone to the ground, cringing before picking it up. 

"I'm just grabbing my phone." 

He nods, hands stuffed awkwardly into his denim pockets. He's waiting for an invitation, like some flannel-wearing vampire. You don't want Joel in your home. You want him far away. 

"Mind if I come in?"

To my childhood bedroom? Sure. Nothing embarrassing about that. I hope you like math-a-thon trophies and shitty movie posters. 

"Sure." 

Your room is a mausoleum containing the bones of your childhood self. The insecure smart girl, the outcast that never felt like she fit in.  Back before the puberty fairy hit and helped you grow into all the things you hated about yourself. The damage was done, your brain chemistry stuck on the belief that you weren't sexy or confident. 

You were the girl that yearned to be as pretty as her mom, as stylish as the girls at school, as confident as the women she saw in magazines and movies. But you just never quite got there. 

Can Joel sense who you used to be? Can he look at your collection of hobbies and photographs and cobbler together something meaningful? You never could. You stand in silence watching as Joel shoves his hands in his pockets, eyes darting all around the room. 

"S'Nice." 

You can't help staring at the awkward man standing there in your bedroom. He stands out like a sore thumb, too tall, too broad, and too manly amongst your floral sheets and colorful hair ties. 

You can both hear the party going on downstairs at full volume, the drinks clearly flowing. When you hear Kathleen shriek your father's name you can't help but smirk. 

"Full house," Joel says. "More than last year I think."

Seriously? He wanted to talk about this? He came up to your bedroom to chat about party size? 

"Uh yeah. Must've been dad's crab dip that sealed the deal. No one can say no to that." 

Joel huffs a laugh but it doesn't translate to his face. He's still just staring at you with a strange look. 

"You upset about not hosting, Mister Miller?"

Joel's lips thin at the honorific, face darkening. You have a feeling you know why. It makes your thighs press together slightly. 

"We're not at work," he manages to mutter. "You don't have to call me that." 

You scratch the side of your nose, unsure of what to say. You've always called him Mister Miller. You end up shrugging at him by way of response. The energy is weird in here now. You wish Jacob would stop being a social butterfly and show up already. 

His eyes fall on your bed and you see his breath hitch in his chest. You look at it through his eyes; the light floral print, the haphazard way you folded it. Then there, near the edge of the mattress; a pair of panties you missed folding this morning.

They’re the scandalous sort, red and lacy that you bought back when you thought Joel would be seeing them. But not like this. You lurch across the room like some uncoordinated Frankenstein’s monster and grab them, shoving them into your back pocket.

Neither of you speak, but Joel does do that throat clearing thing that you despise.

“So what did you need, Joel?”

Joel clears his throat, clearly ready to start communicating about what he intended to.

Yeah, you were. You nod politely, too kind to rub it in. 

"It's.... It's about what we talked about at work the other day," he says quietly, looking everywhere but you're face as he speaks.

Is he serious? 

Irritation flares within you, arms crossing over your chest. Your voice is a little shaky when you reply to him, faltering in the face of being blunt. 

"You mean the day you told me you didn't want to talk about it anymore?"

He cringes. "Yeah. That." 

You watch his jaw wiggle slightly as he tries to get his point across. Clearly he's been thinking about this a while judging by the apprehensive expression he wears. 

"You asked me if you did anythin' wrong in the hotel. And I just needed you to know that you didn't. You were great." 

You stare at him, blinking slowly as you digest this. "Really?”

"More than great," Joel says with a nod. "You didn't do anythin' wrong. I got in my head when we... You know," his neck flushes. "And I was shitty about it. M'sorry." 

You've never heard Joel apologize to anyone in your entire time knowing him. Even when you think he's been in the wrong. He's come to you with his proverbial hat in hand, sincere and apologetic. He's so human to you in this moment. It softens you immediately. 

"Thanks Joel," you finally say softly. "I appreciate the apology."

The moment feels surreal, having Joel in your childhood bedroom, having him apologize, having him standing there not attempting to move. 

"Is it just that?"

Joel squints at you, confused. "Huh?"

"Is that the only reason?" You step towards him, surveying his expression. "My dad doesn't have anything to do with it?"

His eyes give him away immediately, the subtle wince. "That's part of it. Yeah."

You're not stupid, you always thought it might be an issue for Joel but you never wanted to push it. You were content ignoring that part of the arrangement. Joel sucks at his teeth, exhaling through his nose as he continues to look at the floor.  

"I need to tell you...I need you to know," Joel starts, speaking in a rush. "I offered to help you with your list because I was pissed off at your dad. I dunno, I guess it felt like payback somehow."  He searches your face. "I'm really sorry about that. Fuck, feels like all I'm doing today is apologizin'. But I mean it."

He looks beside himself, this bear of a man taken down by an arrow of guilt to the chest.

"I've been sick about it," Joel confides. "You probably think I'm a piece of shit."

You can’t help but laugh loudly, drawing his brows to his hairline. You laugh so hard you snort, covering your mouth and feeling your face heat as he stares. 

"I'm sorry, you're just so earnest. Joel, I don't care about that," you say once your laughter subsides.

"You don't?"

"Why would I?"

How can you possibly be upset? His motivation was shitty, sure, but was yours any better? You fucked around with Joel knowing he fired a good man like Brian. You fucked around with him that he denied his brother a respectable job even though Tommy was clearly desperate. But you didn't care; you just thought Joel was hot. 

As far as you can tell you're both pieces of shit. Only Joel seems utterly devastated by his actions. 

"It’s not like we were dating or anything," you say as you lean against the bedroom wall. "And it's not like either of us went into this with pure intentions."

Joel blinks. "We didn't?"

"You offered to help me for your reasons and I accepted for mine. It doesn't matter why to me." Your tone softens. "You were really kind and I enjoyed our time together. No regrets."  

Joel looks relieved, but something else lurks behind the dark of his iris. Something you can't name. 

"So we're good," you say with a reassuring smile. "All good. We can part as... Well, I feel like friends is pushing it. Acquaintances who've seen each other naked?" 

Joel's grin suddenly appears, carving that small dimple into one blushing cheek. He chuckles softly at you, his broad shoulders lowering. 

"I think after everythin', friends is a fair assessment." 

Relief is warm and soothing as it runs through your veins, making you feel a thread of affection for Joel. Despite how things ended with you two, you'll always appreciate what he was able to show you. 

You can't tell him that right now, that level of sincerity is too intimidating. Maybe one day you'll write him a letter. 

"Good." 

He nods, shoulders lowering. He's done what he came here to do. Joel continues to survey your bedroom with the quiet interest of a stalking animal, eyes scanning the space until they land on your desk.  You figure it's time to leave. You spin around, hand reaching for the door when a low rumble sounds out behind you.  

“You do these sketches yourself?”

You turn back to see Joel’s long fingers pressed lightly against the papers on your desk.

“Yeah.”

He slants a smile your way. “Damn. You’re good.”

You feel yourself flushing in a quiet sort of embarrassed pride. “Thanks.”

You think about offering your services, of seeing if Joel would consider letting you shadow him without your father’s knowledge. But then you see the amusement drain from his face, his lips thinning in displeasure.

“This what I think it is?”

In his desire to see more of your work he’s unearthed the wrinkled checklist. Wake Partner with Oral Sex can be seen from where you stand, a big red X through it.  

You make a choking noise, lurching in his direction. You bump your hip into his as you cover the list with an old textbook on Gothic architecture. 

"Nothing."

Smooth. Real smooth. 

Joel's dark brows are still pulled, eyes flashing up to yours as he thins his lips. 

"You're still doin' that?" 

You shrug non-commitally, cheeks warm. Joel looks upset, rubbing the back of his neck and exhaling out his nose. You’re too embarrassed to reply to him so you decide to flee. You turn, hand raising to open the door.

"You can't do anymore of that list."

You blink several times at the door handle, not convinced that you actually heard him right. You turn around, your body slow. 

"Pardon me?"

"I said you can't do' anythin' else off that list of yours." 

You can only gape at him, shocked that this gauntlet has been thrown at your feet. "And why not?" 

"You're my best friend's kid," Joel says dismissively. "I'm not gonna sit by while you put yourself in danger."

"Danger?"

"Completing the rest of that list with strangers?" Joel says slowly as if you're an idiot not to know this already. "One night stands with handcuffs? You're askin' to get hurt by some creep out there." 

You begin to feel your temper flare at the way he's speaking to you. How dare he sit there acting like he's in charge of you? "I know how to take care of myself." 

"Clearly you don't," Joel shoots back. His broad shoulders square. "You could get seriously hurt. That's why you can't do anymore 'a this." 

He motions to the list on your desk. Your body feels tight, like your skin is too taut. You want to roll your shoulders, feeling an energy shift in you that is not at all pleasant. You move a step closer to him, feel sinking into the carpet. 

"And if I do?" 

The silence is deafening. You've never been one to speak to Joel like that. He tilts back, jutting his chin ever so slightly to look intimidating. That familiar sneering curl to his upper lip is back, shadowing his mouth. He never breaks eye contact with you, his gaze cold. 

"I'll tell your Dad all about your little list." 

Your head cocks, hands on your hips in defiance. 

"Really Draco Malfoy? My father will hear about this?"

Joel squints, clearly not understanding the reference. Fucking boomer. 

"When you do that, are you gonna tell him who helped me knock off some of those numbers?" You grimace. "Gonna tell him about our time at the hotel, Mister Miller?"

He visibly flinches. 

Your face is so warm it almost hurts. You've never spoken to anyone like this, but Joel's treatment of you is frustrating.

"Because if you don't, I will," you continue. "But I feel like that might not go over so great for you." 

If I'm going down, I'm taking you with me. 

Joel doesn't move a muscle but you can tell by the slight widening of his eyes that he clearly never thought you'd defy him. He bares his teeth, about to bite back. 

"Miller? You up there?"

Your father's voice breaks through the argument, causing you two to move apart as if you'd been embracing instead of standing toe-to-toe in an argument. 

"Yep. Just using the facilities," Joel calls back, his eyes still on you. "Downstairs was occupied."'

"The games starting and I know you got twenty on kickoffs."

"Be right there." 

The two of you haven't broken eye contact yet. Your body is buzzing, legs wobbly. You take another step forward, lowering your voice. 

"It's fine if you don't want to do the list. I respect that," you tell Joel honestly, not wishing to escalate things further. "And I’m sure this is all a misguided attempt to be kind. But you don't have any say about what I do on my own time." 

That familiar sneering curl to his upper lip is back, shadowing his mouth. He never breaks eye contact with you, his gaze cold. 

"It's a bad idea."

"Thank you for your feedback," you reply flatly. "But Tuesday night is singles night at Elysium and I'm gonna knock off number two."

The two of you are inches from one another, breathing heavily with your pupils blown out. His eyes are flicking between your mouth and eyes, causing your pulse to spike.

A roaring cheer goes on downstairs and the two of you break apart, both gulping for air. You're embarrassed at how turned on you are right now just from this little spat. 

You watch him leave; seething, all the while wishing his ass didn't look so fucking good in those jeans. 

///

Joel shovels pretzels into his down turned mouth, casting sideways looks your way. You're perched on the edge of the sofa, scrolling your phone bored. Clearly football isn't the event of choice for you. 

Despite this you wear a team's jersey over your jeans, your hair tied up in matching bows. You've tried to be festive despite not enjoying the subject matter. 

He watches the small little pull of your mouth to one side. You're amused. Joel finds himself eager to know what about. Are you on tinder? Are you trying to find someone to go to the club with? Were you serious about that? 

You cross your legs and Joel can’t help but trace the line of your ankle up to your thigh in those tight jeans. How can you be so sexy all covered up? Your dad is saying something to him and Joel replies with a ‘mhmm’ but his gaze is covertly on you.

He doesn’t know what happened up in your bedroom. One moment he was apologizing and the next he was furious and hard. You’d looked so intense, eyes bright, teeth clenched with this kind of confidence he’d never seen in you.

It turned him on.

He shifts in his seat now, willing his cock not to swell in his jeans as he recalls. He thinks he feels eyes on him and his gaze shifts your way again. But it’s not you staring at him, its Tess. She gives him a soft little smile as she heads into the kitchen. He frowns.

All of a sudden the doorbell rings and you jump up to get it. Joel watches you leave the room, hears you give a little squeak of delight when you see who it is. A familiar chuckle sounds out.

It’s Jacob Milne.

The Mill Group Casanova.

If Joel has to hear one more female intern in the break room giggling over how handsome he is Joel is going to vomit. He can’t stand the kid and doesn’t know when that started. He’d been the one to hire him on years ago, impressed with his work ethic and portfolio. But now just the sound of his laugh is like nails on a chalkboard for Joel.

The two of you walk back into the room, snaking between the bodies on chairs and couches, giggling. Your bodies are close, your movements comfortable with one another. Joel can feel himself growing more furious by the second. 

And then salvation in the form of a long pass.

"Halftime!" Your dad announces, pushing himself up to stand. "Feeds on!" 

The group gathers excitedly around the large spread. Snacks have already been served, but now its gourmet burgers, steak and lobster bites, shrimp pasta salad and more. The kind of stuff Joel always thought of as ‘too fancy’ when he and Tommy grew up with his single father.

Joel grabs a plate, absently listening to Kathleen chattering on beside him. But his eyes are stuck on you across the room, oblivious to the food.

You two look good together, similar in age, both very attractive. You look well suited and Joel can't understand why that pisses him off so much. 

Your dad sidles up beside Joel, excusing his reach as he grabs one of the steak bites.

“Having a good time, Miller?”

“You bet,” Joel says forcing a smile. “Good food. Good company.”

“Sure beats our first one, huh?”

“Shitty beers and a couch with springs that dug into our asses.”

The two men smile toothily at the memory. Back when they thought they’d never get out of debt. Back when they were two widowers feeling alone. Time sure has changed things.

Joel’s eyes are back on you as he and your dad pile food onto their plates.

"That’s interestin’," Joel murmurs to your father. 

Your dad follows Joel’s gaze, brows raised. "What?” 

Joel takes a bite of burger as he looks to your father. To his extreme relief your dad is watching you and Jacob like a hawk. They both watch as you laugh at something Jacob says, your head tossed back as Jacob grins at you. 

"Never realized they were so... close," your father hedges uncomfortably, taking a sip of his beer, fingers tightening around the neck of the bottle. 

Joel can see the tension there in his friend’s expression. Knows that if he plays his cards right there’s a chance for opportunity.

"He's a good kid. Smart too. Brian anyways really liked him. Makes me wonder if he should be brought into the Williams account." 

Your dad frowns. "You don't think he's a bit wet behind the ears?"

"Naw, he's a quick study and worth the investment."  Joel doesn't give recommendations lightly. "Plus if he's busy with that, his nights might not be as free..."  

Your dad looks at Joel and then back at you and Jacob. You shift your hips and from this angle Joel and your father can see the lace of your red panties poking out the back of your jeans pocket. Joel nearly choked on his beer.

“Oh my fuck,” your dad whispers in horror, tugging Joel out of the food line and ushering him to the far wall for privacy.  “You see that?”

“Uh… I do.”

“You think he asked her to do it?” your dad asks, looking from you to Jacob while he shakes his head.

“Maybe.”

“You think he’s some kinda pervert?”

“Oh, uh, I don’t think so,” Joel hedges. “Just young.”

“Not that young.”

“He treats her nice,” Joel insists, not wanting to get Jacob fired. “Always polite in the office. Always respectful.”

Your dad hums a reply but when Jacob runs a few fingers through your hair and your dad launches himself your way, Joel can't help but smile to himself. 

///

"Your hair looks so good," Jacob marvels, dragging his fingers through your tresses once more. 

"Thank you," you preen. "I did that reverse washing thing. And… you look like you've been busy," you say taking in the circles under his eyes. "Aki work his way back into your bed?" 

"No, and keep your voice down," Jacob says casting a look around the crowded space. "Roxie ate my expensive lotion and I had to rush her to the vet."

Your smile dies. "Is she okay?"

"She's totally fine, she just smells like bergamot and cost me five hundred in vet fees." 

You can't help but laugh loudly at this and he joins in.

"But while we're on the subject of casual dating, are we going to Elysium on Tuesday?"

You step a little closer, voice dropping. "Yes, I just need your help deciding what to w-"

"Milne, glad you could make it."

You both glance over to see your father approaching, beer in hand, a queer little smile on his face. You snap your mouth shut as your father appears, giving Jacob a swift handshake. 

“Thank you for the invitation, sir.”

Jacob is always a bit tense around your dad and Joel and despite the frivolity of the event, you can still see the stricken expression he wears.

"We got lots of drinks and grub, so help yourself,” your dad says with a wan smile. “Both of you.”

"Thank you, sir."

You watch as Jacob takes off for the drink table not even waiting for you. You feel your dad's eyes on you and you raise a brow.

"What's up, dad?"

"He's a nice boy."

"Uh yeah, I guess." 

"Ambitious, would you say?"

"Sure." 

Your dad nods thoughtfully, eyes sailing over to Jacob who has been dragged into conversation with some of the marketing team. His phone beeps and you watch him take it from his pocket, holding it closely to his chest. 

After halftime is over and you and Jacob have commandeered the comfiest couch for yourselves, you settle back and try to focus on the game but you’re distracted, nodding when Jacob mentions something about the players. He's intense about sports, especially football. He started the fantasy football League in the Mill Group. 

You try to be interested, enjoying the warmth of his soft shoulder against yours, inhaling the expensive shampoo he uses. Jacob is a great comfort to you, especially now when you're still reeling after Joel's treatment of you. 

You hear the chatting of those around the television, the crunch of salty snacks, the clink of ice. It looks like it's a hit so far which you know must delight your dad. 

You steal a look his way, seeing how he quietly chats to a smiling Tess, her eyes on his face, enraptured. You feel your lip curl in disgust. Jacob is muttering to you now, trying to get you into the game despite your obvious apathy. 

"So, it’s a cover-2 shell, right? Safety’s creeping up, linebacker’s shading inside and everyone’s thinking it’s a run. But Jenkins reads it instantly, like, pre-snap, he hits his back foot and fires between the hook defender and the dropping safety...."

It's like another language you have no desire to learn. A Rosetta Stone for sport bros. You keep nodding with a polite smile on your face. Jacob darts his eyes between the screen and your face. 

"...this perfect seven-yard pivot, just enough separation. The ball arrives just when he turns and it’s textbook quarter- YES GO!!!." 

Jacob jumps from his seat next to you arms raised and cheeks pink as he cheers along with the rest of the group. Your dad is pleased, clapping loudly and whooping. 

Loud applause goes everywhere, hiding the yelp you let out when Jacobs’s beer lands in your lap. Of course it does. Making you look like you've wet yourself.

You think you feel eyes on you but a quick scan of the bustling room let’s you know that it's just your paranoia.  You wince, standing as the cheers continue and head into the kitchen to wash up, telling everyone you pass that its beer and not urine. 

To your surprise Tess is in the kitchen texting, her hip balanced against the counter. She looks up surprised to see you as you enter and she hastily shoves her phone into her purse. 

"Hey there. Are we allowed to smoke in here?"

"Backyard," you say pointing out the window. "By the shed. Dad smokes his cigars out there. He doesn't know I know." 

Tess flashes you a smile and laugh, thanking you. She squeezes your upper arm as she passes, leaving her citrusy perfume in her wake. It mixes with the hoppy smell of the beer which  really adds another level of gross to the experience. 

You go to the sink, running it and exhaling softly. This day is really turning into one massive headache. You feel a hand at your shoulder and turn to see Kathleen there with a packet of wet wipes extended to you.  

"Don't think those will cut it," you laugh weakly. "I think he spilled the whole bottle." 

Kathleen tuts in that mother hen way of hers, looking at the stain. "You got it early so make sure you blot. Don't rub." 

You run a hand towel under the sink, blotting at the stain as she watches.

"I don't think he even realized he did it," Kathleen chuckles. "He’s still out there cheering with an empty beer bottle. Men and football, I'll never understand it."

"Me neither," you agree. "My mom used to take me out for ice cream or a movie when Dad hosted games.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, she hated it even more than I did." 

You surprise yourself with your open candor about your mother. You don't really enjoy talking about her much, but there's something about Kathleen that just encourages you to open up. 

"My kinda lady," Kathleen says, blotting your jeans with the other hand towel. "I'm just here for the free margaritas." 

You laugh with her, the two of you trying to tidy the beer from your clothes the best you can. 

"Think I'm just gonna have to change into something," you eventually frown. "But that's okay. The jersey material is so itchy." 

Kathleen nods, watching you strip off the jersey to reveal a tight white t-shirt. She’s looking at you with a heavy look, one that you know from therapists and compassionate friends from over the years.

"So, can I ask something real inappropriate?"

"Sure."

"How're you doing this month?"

Your smile is frozen, brow raised as you try to parse what she's talking about. When it hits you, your stomach drops. 

"You mean because of my mom." 

"Yeah." Kathleen's eyes widen when you take a moment to compose yourself. "Oh shoot. Was that.... Should I not have-"

"It's fine," you lie. "Just .. I didn't know a lot of people knew."

As a longtime employee and your father's right hand it's no surprise that Kathleen would remember your mother's birthday. A time of year that you try to push from your mind as often as possible. 

The day your father always takes off work to visit her gravesite. 

The day you pretend doesn't exist. 

"It’s been ten years this week," you offer quietly. 

"Wow."

"Yeah. My dad hasn't said anything but I think it's hard for him..." You shuffle, feeling her eyes on you. "He, uh, I think he blames himself. For not getting her to the doctors in time." 

Kathleen says nothing, but her eyes tell you that she's here, she's listening. 

"Your mom was a special lady," Kathleen observes. "Your dad tells some amazing stories about her." 

"Really?" 

Your dad never talks about your mom in great detail and you always thought it was because it hurt him. But here he is sharing it with one of the employees? That hurts. 

"He said that you and your mama went to the fair all the time?" 

"Yeah." You smile at the memory. "Ate enough popcorn to kill us, topped off with cotton candy." 

Kathleen smiles wide. "My kinda lady." 

You grin over at Kathleen, heart warming. "Yeah. She was. I actually think the two of you would have gotten along really well." 

It's true. Kathleen and your mother both have that sweet warmth that just draw people into their orbit. If you close your eyes now you can still see the crinkling of her eyes as she smiled, that one tooth that slightly overlapped the other, the way her head fell back when

"Her favorite was riding the rollercoaster’s." You smile to yourself. "I was always too scared to go on them. I kinda regret it now."

"How come?" 

"I was always too afraid, too cautious," you murmur, eyes on the floor. "Ever since she died I've just been ... Scared of everything." 

You used to be brave. You know you did. But you can't grasp that feeling anymore, it slips through your fingers each and every time you try to cling to it. 

You feel it sometimes though, in those quiet moments with Joel. In the unknown, heart pounding, body tingling but thrumming with this dormant bravery.  

"I get that," Kathleen says and there's a tinge to her voice that suggests something deeper, something that hurts to remember. 

You look up at her, seeing the sheen to her dark eyes and flinching when a roar goes up in the next room. 

"Guess we scored," she says blinking away the sadness. "I'm gonna go see how we're doing."

She gives your shoulder a squeeze, a soft smile shot your way before she's gone, slipping into the next room. You watch her go, missing the warmth of her presence. This conversation has left you feeling vulnerable, aching in a way that brings bile to your throat. 

"You okay?" 

You jolt when the low voice reaches you, yelping and turning around. Joel is standing there at the edge of the kitchen and despite your previous animosity, you don't scowl. You're a housecat, declawed and weak. Your stomach churning, chest tight. You hate this feeling. 

"Yeah, I'm fine." 

"Doesn't look it."

He doesn't say it cruelly or with that arrogance he had in the bedroom earlier today. He says it concerned with his dark eyes big and entreating. 

There are no words so you just shrug. Another roar sounds from the next room. You wait for Joel to leave and join them. He's always been a dedicated fan of the team. But he lingers, long muscled legs slowly making their way to you. One hand rests in his jeans pocket, the other holding a sweating beer in his long fingers. 

"Didn't know it was your Mama's birthday this week." 

"Yeah, well," you shrug. "Probably why dad wanted to host the game this year." 

Joel looks contemplative, like something is settling in his mind. A realization perhaps. He nods, exhaling so hard you feel it on your cheeks. He's close to you, closer than you realized. Your eyes are stuck on his mouth, a perverse desire to shake this moment of its solemnity.

Joel senses it; he must, because he moves a little closer. 

"Hey, I-" 

You wait for those plush lips to form an apology for his outburst in your bedroom but one doesn't arrive. Maybe it would have if Jacob hadn't entered into the kitchen at that very moment, his laughter following him from the other room. 

At the sight you and Joel spring apart guiltily, your back hitting the sink so hard you cringe.  Jacob's smile drops as he sees Joel's frame come into view. Joel's eyes are on his beer. 

You try to give a nonchalant smile. "Hey Jacob." 

"Sorry," Jacob says, anxiety in his voice, "I didn't mean to interrupt-'

"Not interruptin' anything," Joel insists with a casual shrug. "Just talkin' shop." 

He tilts his bottle to you by way of farewell, nodding to Jacob as he passes. You watch him go, savoring the pinch of his waist, the breadth of his shoulders, the muscles of his exposed forearms. 

"So,” Jacob says in a low murmur. “When were you gonna tell me your mystery man is Joel Miller?" 

[ayoungpascallover]

Omg I just found out the movie is not coming to Mexico until the 31st of July.

Everyone better shut the fuck up about this movie until I get to watch it a month and a half later...

[ayoungpascallover]

I’m sorry what happened with the purple nails if you don’t mind sharing? I’m not familiar

Something similar but gone wrong Ig

[ayoungpascallover]

A woman posted how Pedro goes the same gym as her in London and I don’t think she had any intentions especially because she said she left him alone but now people know what gym it is and the worst people will get their hands on that information. I feel so bad for him.

Sadly, every month, there's something like this, a new stalker who seems to be connected to THOSE stalkers everyone in this fandom knows. And people like that gym girl who seek attention only give them more tools to work with.

Tragically, Pedro nor his team will do something about this situation until something like purple nails happens to a much bigger scale.

In the meanwhile the only thing I can think of doing to protect my experience in this fandom is not interact with any of this people, they don't even like Pedro for real. They just have a really sick sick obsession.

[ayoungpascallover]

Since we’re talking about stalkers, people are also getting weird AF and sharing information about the London neighborhood he’s living in for filming. And I know most people mean no harm but people please guys be careful. Information in the wrong hands will give weirdos more resources to violate him.

Yes! It's not normal wanting to know where a person is all of the time. Specifically if you don't know this person.

[ayoungpascallover]

That bracelet he posted was from the stalker and not like an actual brand?? Why would he post that. Poor guy probably had no idea

The owner of the brand IS the stalker. It's actually kinda sad that Pedro still expects something good out of some people in this fandom.

[ayoungpascallover]

Awww Pedro supported a small jewellery business who made him a cute little bracelet. He is so lovely...

How cute, right? RIGHT?

[ayoungpascallover]

The F*ck-It List | Part Six | Number Seven

rating: 18+ (if you're a minor, please don't interact with this story. Seriously.)

chapter: 11.4k

story tags: DBF!Joel , Smut , Romance , Angst , Comedy, Mutual Pining, dirty talk, and more Smut.

a/n: Sorry it's a little late, got some shitty inbox comments from anons but I wanted to get this out to you.

As per usual your support, your comments, your hilarious asks, your funny memes, your impossibly contagious enthusiasm - all of it got my tippy tappy fingers writing away! Please know that while I don't respond to all comments (something about it sometimes stresses me out, I cannot explain it) I READ all of them and LOVE all of them and sometimes when I'm down on myself and want to give up, I read a comment or see a funny mention and I just get inspired to keep going.

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F*ck-It List masterlist here

Number Seven

Joel doesn’t dream of her often, but when he does it’s always the freckles over her nose. He doesn’t know why that minute detail clings to the interconnecting strands of his brain, but it does. That dusting of light brown over her roman nose.

And then it’s that bed. The sheets. The stomach plummet.

His dream turns fitful, visions of dark forest and empty plains scatter across his cerebellum, his chest tight as he fights to speak. Flashes of color appear there, similar to when he's pressed his knuckles into closed eyes, rubbing tenderly after a long day. 

And then a soothing warmth, sunlight peeking through the cracks of darkness. Pleasure at the edges, bleeding into his body like molasses. 

His body wakens before his brain does. Joel he slides into consciousness with a sluggish groan, his body heavy below the waist. 

"F-fuck."

The world is blurry but his hips are lifting, hands palm flat on the mattress. He's on his back and it takes him a moment to realize where he is. 

The hotel. Last night. Making you come. Shit, he fell asleep beside you. What was—

He feels like he's going to come and he doesn't know why. Not at first. But then he realizes the distinct sensation of wet warmth around his cock it becomes apparent. 

His bleary eyes take in the shape underneath the covers, the warm body positioned between his legs. That same sweet wet pleasure is enveloping his cock and his spine tingles. He groans, throwing back the bed sheet to see you nestled between his legs on your belly. 

As the sheet is thrown back your eyes blink wide. You're still naked save for your panties, breasts squashed against the mattress. Your hands are gripping his upper thighs for purchase and your mouth is full of his throbbing cock. 

You smile around it when your eyes meet. 

"What're you doin'?" He asks in a scratchy voice, his hips jumping when you slowly pull off of him. His cock falls from between your lips, a string of spit connecting the tip to your glossy bottom lip. 

Joel stares at his erect cock glistening with your saliva. It twitches as he moves his eyes up to you in a daze.  You’re smiling.

“Number seven," you murmur, mouth starting to trail along the seam of his inner thigh. 

"Huh?"  

It comes to him like a slap across the cheek. Number Seven; wake up partner with oral.

The mirth drains from your expression when he doesn't smile back at you. He watches as your face slowly drops, eyes turning owlish.

"Oh shit... Oh shit, I didn't … I'm so sorry I didn't even ask if that was okay. Oh my God I didn’t even ask consent. Oh fuck, I just assumed because-“ you push up from him aggressively, baring your breasts.

You give a terrified yelp, hands covering your chest as you cringe

“Oh and fuck my tits are out! This is so bad!”

Joel can see that you're working yourself up into a frenzy. You try to back up and away from him but he sits up, lurching forward. His large hand locks around your shoulder, keeping you in place. He stares at you with heavily lidded eyes before shaking his head. 

"Don't stop."

Your mouth hangs open for a split second, concern and indecision slowly draining from your features. “You’re sure?

“Never been surer of anythin’in my entire fuckin’ life.”

There’s remaining hesitation in your face, but Joel is firm. He lifts his heavy hand from your shoulder and lies back down again.

“If you want this, I want it.”

His head hits the pillow and he stares down the length of his body at you. His cock still stands at attention, throbbing and waiting. You stare at Joel until he gives you a slow wink.

Go on, now.

You shoot him a shy grin before moving back to the position you were in before. You liked it better when the sheet was over you, when Joel was groaning and rolling his hips before he could see you. It made you feel more confident. Now you falter, feeling his scrutiny.

There's the slightest bit of nervousness as your face moves back, the tip of your tongue coming to slip up his twitching length. But when he groans at the sight you seem to regain your confidence. 

Joel moans when he feels the hot scorch of your mouth circling the head of his cock. His legs spread wider, encouraging you to snuggle there between them, your tongue curving as your head tilts back. 

He could watch you for hours, could lay here in this soft bed with your mouth on him, your skin glowing in the early morning. Your eyes fall shut, head slowly bobbing as you groan. Joel can feel the vibrations traveling down his shaft. 

He can't help himself, a large hand comes to your cheek, fingers tracing along your jaw. He feels the delicate bone under his touch, tapping ever so gently. 

"Eyes on me."

His voice is cracked with sleep, heavy and approving. Your eyes flash to his without question, open and eager. Your fingers curl into the meat of his thighs before your right comes to grip him at the base.

"Tell me what you like," you whisper, echoing his words from last night. 

"Just keep doin' what you were doin' before I woke up," Joel groans, his neck tilting back into the pillow. He keeps his hooded eyes on you, feeling goose bumps rise all along his body as you continue to stare up at him. 

"Like this?" You ask, giving the head of him a slow, sloppy lick. When his lower lip trembles you do it again and again. You stroke slowly as you continue to suck, focusing all your energy on his pleasure. 

“Attagirl,” he groans, pleased when you offer a small whimper at that.

He's only got a T-shirt on, the rest of him bare. He should feel more exposed but with your warm body and your hair falling over his thighs he's never felt so relaxed. 

"Fuck," Joel groans, watching as you lap at the head of his cock. "Fuck, you look good doin' that." 

You flush, lowering your eyes, not seductively as most women, but shyly. 

"Keep goin'," he urges in a raspy morning voice. "C'mon pretty girl, you've got this." 

He sees the way you silently preen at that. Pretty Girl. Your mouth envelops his cock again and a rumble escapes him. The wet sounds of your mouth working on him are sinful in the quiet room. 

This is so wrong, he tells himself as your nails dig into the meat of his thighs. Your best friend's daughter is suckin’ your cock right now. 

But he can't find it in himself to stop you. Especially not when he glances down to see your head beginning to bob up and down, your eyes rolling back. 

It's turning you on. Sucking his cock is turning you on. 

Greedily he reaches forward, hands sliding up either side of your neck. You shiver under his deft touch. His wide fingers comb upwards through your hair, collecting the strands in a loose ponytail. 

"Can I?"

You nod his way and he tightens his hold. It must pull pleasurably on your roots because you offer a husky moan that reverberates around the head of his shaft. He feels himself hurtling off the edge but it's too soon. 

He wants to savor this early morning sensuality with the light illuminating the drapes, casting the entire room in a soft yellow glow. It touches your shoulders, your left cheek, the tips of your lashes. It makes the spit on his cock turn glossy. 

"Slower," he rasps, holding your ponytail and tugging lightly, pulling you off of him. Your breathing is shallow and you nod obediently. 

"Yes, Mister Miller."

It slips out, an innocuous comment borne from repetition. You're so focused on the task at hand it's like being at your desk working on Joel's contract. But the honorific causes Joel to make a choking noise in the back of his throat. Your brow rises in interest, clearly observing how the term affected Joel. 

He’s laid out there before you, legs parted, stomach twitching, eyes heavy with need and sleep. His mouth is so fucking pouty right now, parted in disbelief as he watches you. Overwhelmed your eyes drop to his belly as you take him deeper, melting into him.

"Keep your eyes on me."

A whisper of a smile is there at the edge of your full mouth. "Yes, Mister Miller." 

Fuck fuck fuck. Why is that getting his cock so hard? You start to slowly swallow his thick length once more and to his delight your eyes actually remain on his face as you do.  This is the woman he was told of; bold and confident, not the scared mouse that runs around the office.

When you deep throat him Joel actually feels dizzy. How long has it been since this? This quiet, comfortable pleasure-giving? His wife never liked oral either giving or receiving and he never faulted her for it. Some of the women years after her gave Joel delicious head but it was always sloppy and quick. 

You seem to be taking your time, the architecture of your jaw moving delicately as you continue sucking him off. He gives you a sleepy smile when your eyes fall shut, your head bobbing slowly. 

"You like this, huh?"

You nod, mouth stretched obscenely. You love this. You love seeing Joel's eyelids flutter when your tongue flicks the underside of his shaft. You love knowing that right now you hold all the power.

"Seem so innocent even though you suck cock like you were made for it," Joel mutters to himself, his fist still holding your hair. "Pretty fucking mouth needs my come." 

Joel sees how you squirm, your eyes fluttering. He can’t help but let out a slow, syrupy sigh.

"You wanna taste it?" 

You nod again and Joel feels as you nestle him there between your tongue and the hollow concave of your upper palate. Joel feels the tingle in his spine, his hips circling, his brows knitting.

You suck once more and Joel feels it all come to a crescendo.

"Darlin' gir-" Joel starts, his breathing tight before he catches himself. 

Darling girl. 

If he wasn't already on the brink Joel might have gone soft right then. As it was your eyes flicked to his, blinking slowly, tongue swirling. You want it. His head is thrown back as he comes, hips undulating as he floods your mouth. He holds himself still, his hand on your ponytail urging you to keep sucking until he finally lowers his ass to the sheets once more, spent. 

His eyes are clenched tightly, body electric as you swallow before slowly pulling off of him.  Joel's neck and cheeks are red, his eyes wide as he stares at you. You lay there between his legs, eyes bright, lips glossy and you're still smiling. 

"That was fun." 

You give a soft little laugh, like you still can't believe this happened. You don't look regretful or disappointed. And Joel should be elated by that, he should feel heady and sated. He should feel anything but this overwhelming guilt that's eating him away the more the two of you lay there. 

The silence stretches too long for you though, because you give another quick smile and push yourself up, covering your breasts with your forearm. 

"I'm gonna get dressed."

Joel can only nod slowly, even as his brain screams that he wants to make you come on his tongue. That he wants to swap places and have you arching into the plush bedding. 

But you're grabbing the robe beside the bed, cinching it at your waist and grabbing your clothes on your way to the bathroom. 

Joel hears the shower going and propels himself out of bed, tugging up his boxer briefs as he mutters to himself. 

"Fuck... Fuck..." 

Things have changed. This is not the emotional complexity he was expecting.

You reappear shortly with your hair damp and your body dressed in tights and a sweatshirt. But all the clothing in the world can’t erase what he’s seen of you. He watches you pack your belongings in your bag, your face placid.

And just as he thinks of something to say, something to end all of this you turn a beaming smile on him and offer a sweet “See you at work.” Then you’re out the door with a spring in your step, your bag tapping against your thighs as you go.

///

I can’t believe I did that.

You’d been half asleep when the idea came to you, snuggled in Joel’s arms with his erection prodding into your lower back. A quick glance over had confirmed he was still out cold and you had a thrum between your legs began that could not be quieted. When he gave a soft snort and flipped onto his back, still deeply asleep it had been the last push you needed.

You were trembling when you shrugged off your robe, slipping between the covers until you were face to face with the tent in his boxer briefs. You knew that there was no going back from this, and that excited instead of terrifying you.

Seeing Joel from that angle was so much less intimidating. On his back with a saddling brow making low, rumbling groans. Holding your hair, looking at you with disbelief as he murmured pretty girl. He was so fucking delicious it's hard to breathe. 

Seem so innocent even though you suck cock like you were made for it. Attagirl. Pretty fucking mouth needs my come. Attagirl.  Keep your eyes on me. Attagirl.

Joel's mouth should be registered as a weapon because his words are burning you alive from the inside even hours later. You still can't believe you were there, sucking his cock, feeling so powerful as his groans turned gravelly. 

You replay the entirety of what happened in your mind, from the awkward phone conversation whisper-asking him if he had protection, to the way his voice rumbled when you had his cock in your mouth. You're almost home when the smile you've been wearing almost the entire drive suddenly fades. 

Why did Joel have protection? 

Why would he have condoms if he was going away for a business meeting? He sure as hell didn't expect you out there for a visit. Something goes through your center, a slithering ugly thing that comes along with the realization that Joel obviously planned on getting laid out there. 

The very bed you woke up in is the bed Joel likely fucked some woman in only days... Or maybe hours before. The thought makes your stomach turn and the rest of your drive home is in a uneasy silence. 

You push inside the house only to be greeted to the familiar scent of dark roast coffee. You're hoping your father grabbed an early cup and is gone for the day. You don't exactly feel like listening to more of his strange TikTok lingo. 

But as you round the hallway you see his argyle socked feet splayed out in front of him on the recliner, a half empty cup of coffee at his elbow. He doesn't seem to notice you're home yet. 

An old baseball rerun on the TV plays quietly in front of him. But his attention is on the phone in his hand, a look of concentration on his face. You watch as his fingers fly across the screen, typing out what looks like a long text message. 

You lower your bag to the floor and it hits a little louder than expected against the wood.  Your dad starts at the sound and quickly flips the phone face-down on the arm of the chair, giving you a smile as he glances your way. 

"Hey, Trix." 

"Hey Dad. What's up?"

"Nothing much." You're dad gives a tight smile your way, scratching the side of his nose. "Just watching the game."

His phone gives a chirruping notification but he makes no attempt to answer it. He pushes back his hair, eyes just a little too wide. "The weather good this morning?”

Seriously? The weather? 

"Not bad. A bit muggy for this time of year but..." You shrug as if to say what else is new? 

You're dad continues to sit in the recliner looking agitated. "Yeah, good. Good." 

You wait for him to say something about the overnight bag at your feet, but he seems distracted, desperate to find a new topic.

"I meant to tell you yesterday, we're gonna have some of the staff over for the Superbowl party this weekend so if you have any food requests lemme know."

"Loaded potato skins for me." You toss over your shoulder as you prepare to head for your bedroom. You're about to step away when something stops you, nose wrinkling in surprise. 

"Wait, isn't it Jo- Mister Miller's turn? We hosted last year, right?" 

Your dad gives a soft grimace before settling back in his chair. "Yeah, well, I wanted to do it this year."

"Really?" 

Your dad and Joel always take turns hosting. You've never attended one of the infamous Superbowl parties but you don't love it when it's hosted here at your place.

"We'll, with Tess coming on board n' all that I thought it would be nice to show her some Mill Group hospitality. And since Joel is still in a bad way about it, I figured I should take over this year."  

You give a hum of vague interest, remembering what Joel said about Tess. How his instincts tell him she's untrustworthy. You can't say that you felt the same, but then again judging people isn't always your strong suit.

Could you have ever imagined Joel helping you with your list? 

The phone chirrups again and you see your dad wince. Strange. You take a long look at your father, concern growing in the flutter of your pulse as you stare at the downturned phone. You can't ignore the way he looks almost sheepish, the way his eyes don't quite meet yours so he forces them to the television. 

Is something wrong with the company? Is this why Tess was brought on in the first place? 

Your dad starts to motion to the television, making some comment on the golf game but you're far too preoccupied with the thought that something is wrong. 

"Dad, how's the company doing?"

"Huh?" Your dad turns away from the screen, silencing it with the remote. "Whadda you mean?"

"Like financially. Is the company doing okay?"

You're dad is unreadable, but his brows knit. "You worried about the company?"

"Not worried, more just curious." 

"Ah, well that makes sense." Your dad relaxes slightly in his chair, shoulders less tense. "It's good you're taking an interest."

"Oh?"

He nods, looking pleased. "It is a family business after all. You should know the goings on." He shifts. "I always thought it was too bad Joel didn't have a son for you to marry so we could keep it in the family." 

Your dad chuckles at his little joke as you internally cringe.  

"Anyway, I’m glad you're taking an interest, Trix. And in answer to your question we've had a better quarter this year than ever. Even with the whole Brian thing." 

"What Brian thing?"

Your dad makes a dismissive waving motion with his hand. "Nothing. All you need to know is that the company is doing great." 

His phone chirps again and both of you go to look at it, your dad's cheeks stained red. 

"Dad who keeps texting?"

"Uh, oh, your brother," your dad says quickly, eyes averted. "He wanted to talk about uh, personal stuff."

Strike one.

Your brother never texts and if he does, he sure as fuck isn't getting emotional. He's a technical engineer in the military that's up to his ears in work at all times. You're lucky to get a text from him every couple of weeks. 

"Really. Huh. Weird, I haven't heard from him lately." 

"Yeah, he's got a new girlfriend he wanted me to... Know about." 

Strike two.

Your dad is practically puce at this point. But as if he can tell more questions are coming his way your dad forces a broad smile your way.  "And how was your night? Where did you go again?" 

Surprise home run for the old man.

You slowly back away, a chagrined look on your face, tugging your bag along with you. 

"It was nice. Talk to you later, dad." 

///

When you walk to the office on Monday you feel strangely buoyed. You wear new heels and an outfit a bit more revealing than usual. You even brought out some crimson lipstick, pleased with your reflection. 

You feel like a bolder, more confident version of yourself at the coffee shop, stuffing several bills into the tip jar before sailing out with a wave to the friendly barista. 

You feel more congenial, quicker to smile at those you pass in the lobby on the way to the elevator. You swish your hips a little more, toss your hair over your shoulder. 

"Someone's lookin' good," Katherine from fiance says with a whistle your way. "What's your secret, lady?"

Having Joel Miller groan your name while you blow him. 

"Good night's sleep I guess!" 

Your good mood is somewhat dimmed when you get to your desk and find that Joel is working from home today. Something he only booked off his calendar late Sunday night when of course you couldn't see. 

Your father is off-site with Tess on an upcoming project, leaving the offices behind you quiet. 

Subsequently there's not much for you to do today. You play a lot of solitaire between sparse paperwork filling. You research more of the M.Arch programs in Austin before you find yourself searching overseas for similar programs and costs.

Jacob is still off sick and you're dying to go for coffee to tell him all about the weekend (except who it was with of course). You shoot him a covert text, knowing that being on the phone in the office is a Mill group no-no. 

Work sucks without you. 

I know. I'm the best. 

You got Aki taking care of you??

Hell no. Level ten clinger. 

You laugh to yourself, shaking your head. 

When are you back? 

Doctor said Wednesday. Think you can survive until then? 

We'll see. Probably not. Lots to talk about. 

wait meaning what??? What's to talk about? 

Holy shit did you actually take my advice and go to the hotel? 

Maybe. 

Bitch you better not leave me hanging. 

See you Wednesday!!

You lower the phone before glancing back at the computer. 

"Are you busy?" 

Kathleen's cheerful smile is above your computer, illuminated by the screen. You smile up at her cherubic face, shaking your head. "Nope." 

"I wonder if I could take you to lunch? We could talk about the company BBQ and write it off as a business lunch?" 

You grin, already standing and grabbing your jacket. 

"I know just the place."

///

Joel sighs as he pours himself his third coffee of the morning. He watches the added sugar dissolve in the dark brown brew, feeling bleak. 

His head hangs between his shoulders, dark curls falling into his forehead. He's exhausted and not from work. 

He curls his fingers around the steaming mugs handle, padding back to his couch. His laptop sits there, shut. There's not much for him to do today and that doesn't matter to him. All he needed was to be away from the office. 

Away from you. 

At his age he should not be afraid of a woman half his age. He should not be tossing and turning with anxiety at the thought of seeing you after everything that happened. 

He needs to stop all this. He can't keep this up. Not only is it wrong for all sorts of reasons to do with your father, its wrong full stop. 

He'll have to talk with you about it tomorrow. 

He settles into the couch, taking a sip of coffee as he boots up the laptop. The familiar logo swishes in, his email the first thing to pop up. 

Three messages in inbox. 

His stomach flips when he reads your name at the top with the subject line: URGENT. He swallows, quickly clicking on your email.  

He doesn't know what he was expecting, but he feels strangely letdown when all he reads is:

Deetz meeting rescheduled for Friday at one pm. Owners are wanting to flip walls for the oven. Please reply with confirmation.

Why does the officiousness of your message piss him off? His brows lower, large fingers typing quickly. 

You know my schedule. 

He waits, actually waits there in front of his laptop, thumbnail wedged between his two front bottom teeth. And then a bolded message. You've replied quickly. His heart hiccups. 

Apologies, Mister Miller, your recent last minute change to schedule made it necessary for me to confirm.

Joel scowls, knowing you're referring to his last minute switch to working from home today. 

Mister Miller. He writes back an affirmative quickly before slamming the laptop shut. He's hard.

What the fuck is that about? He's pissed off at your reply. The flippant, overly professional way you've responded. It's not you, it's a mask. So why does that turn him on? 

"M'fuckin' sick," he mutters to himself in the empty apartment.

He should never have agreed to this stupid sexual bucket list. You're his employee, you're younger than him, and you’re his best friend's kid for fucks sake. 

It's a bad idea to continue. 

Even if it does feel good. Even if it's been so long since he was so openly desired and so turned on by someone else. But it's dangerous. 

Rousing next to you in bed the other morning was a wake up call. Body curled around you, inhaling your sweet scented hair feeling something that's much closer to comfort than lust. Something he hasn't felt with another woman since Michelle. It feels like a certain type of betrayal. The kind borne of years alone with too much time to think. 

Guilt tugs at his lower belly, fighting with arousal at the memory of how pliant and soft you were there in the bed. Your lazy grin as you sucked him off. 

He shouldn't have let you do that. Shouldn't have let you continue with him in your mouth. Shouldn't have let himself give over to the desire that felt debilitating. 

"It's fucked up," he murmurs to the empty room.  

He tells himself this as his large hand slips under the waistband of his sweatpants, his thick cock swelling further. 

It's wrong. I should stop this. 

His head falls back against the couch, chin tilting up, eyes rolling back as his fingers coat themselves in his copious pre-come. 

They glide up with ease, making a fist and tugging. A groan escapes him at the delicious sensation. 

Shouldn't have done it. Shouldn't have. Shouldn't have done it. 

His movements grow jerky when he remembers your face as he made you come. The noises you made. 

Shouldn't have done it.

Your hips rolling as you ride his thigh.

Shouldn't have done it.

Your lusty cry meeting his ears. 

Fuck I wanna do it again. 

//

"We need to do something special," you insist between bites of the sushi you share with Kathleen. "Better than some boring old BBQ. Something that really makes the employees feel special.”

"Special," Kathleen echoes with a nod, licking wasabi from the corner of her mouth. 

The two of you are at a new sushi place Jacob mentioned to you weeks ago. You felt like a change of pace. Kathleen looked overwhelmed with the choices and you were glad to guide her in the selection.

"Yeah, I mean, we had a great quarter, right? That's what my dad told me." 

Kathleen nods after a moment's hesitation. "I believe so, yes." 

"So let's splurge on something memorable. Maybe... A casino night with amazing prizes?"

Kathleen nods enthusiastically, making notes in her large spiral book as she bites into another dragon roll. 

You notice she writes in cutesy bubble script. It seems to suit her and her large owlish eyes and round cheeks.

You've always seen Kathleen at the office, spent time with her, laughed at her corny jokes. But you've never really taken the time to look at her as a woman independent of her job here. She's pretty in her own way, you surmise, a kind of old fashioned beauty you'd find in oil paintings of medieval women. 

She dresses plainly, her dark curls threaded with grey often in a ponytail. Sometimes she wears glasses, but more often than not its contact lenses. She's always kind to everyone at the office. The kind of woman who loves so freely you can't help but enjoy her company.

If she was a bit younger you actually think she'd suit someone like Joel. Someone who needs to be loved tenderly.

Huh. Where did that idea come from?

You don’t want to be thinking about Joel right now, you want to be enjoying the overflowing plate of sashimi between you and Kathleen. You want to enjoy her company and help to make this summer’s event one to remember. 

"Maybe personalized swag bags?"

Kathleen is so excited she half chokes on a roll, sending bits of rice everywhere. 

"Genius!"

///

Joel can still hear the sound of beeps at night. Only if he's overindulged on cheap beer or has had shitty sleep. And with that sound is the inevitable wheeze of old machinery, the click of buttons dispensing painkillers, the steady beat beat beat of her heart on the screen. 

The cancer was so fast that chemotherapy was never an option. Michelle always said that this was a blessing because she got to keep her hair. She'd always had such gorgeous raven hair she'd braid to just below her chin that often smelled like peaches. 

But during that last week, she looked frail in their bed at home, her hair frizzed, her cheeks gaunt. 

She wanted to be at home that last week, in the cramped two-bedroom Michelle had tried to spruce up years ago on a shoestring budget. Back when they were younger and in love and didn't care about money as long as they had each other. 

Back before things got complicated. 

In the week leading up to her death, Michelle was often in and out of consciousness, propped up in her mountain of pillows. The Afghan her mother knitted placed over her legs. 

"We never got a dog," she said weakly as the rain cried itself down the windowpane. She looked near tears as Joel crossed the room, placing his toolbox at the door before kneeling beside the bed.  

"We never wanted one, honey," Joel reminded her with a palm brushing the hair from her face. 

"I didn't," she corrected, turning those large brown eyes his way. "But you did." 

When she wasn't mired in the "what ifs" of their relationship, she was quietly amused at Joel's poor cooking skills and how she'd wake up from a nap to find him sitting next to the bed with the football game on quietly. 

"Just think, your next wife might actually like watching football," Michelle said with a wry grin.

Joel didn't smile back though.  "Don't say that." 

"Joel c'mon," Michelle said, pressing a hand over his forearm. His heavy hand sandwiched hers there, thumb rubbing small circles. Michelle had seen the glossy sheen to his eyes, heard the catch in his voice. 

"Honey, I don't want to think-"

"Well I do," Michelle said stubbornly, mouth pursed. "And since I'm the one dyin’ here, I'd say I win the argument." 

Joel couldn't help but smile at that dark humor Michelle was known for. He believes it was because she was a nurse and had seen so much dark shit that the only way to survive was to laugh. He’d never been one for dark humor though, and her inevitable death was doing nothing to change that.

"I've made a list," Michelle said, motioning to the closed notebook in front of her. "A checklist on what you need in a future wife." 

"I don't want another wife," Joel said with a squaring of his broad shoulders. He couldn't imagine a topic less pleasant. 

"Of course you don't right now," Michelle said with a roll of her eyes. "But you might one day. You're not that old, Joel. You won't want to spend the next forty or fifty years alone." 

Joel never thought in terms of being old and alone. Every day was a struggle these weeks, barely able to keep his head above water between working and being home with Michelle. He felt her light fingertips tap him lightly.

"Just look at the list, would you?"  

Joel exhaled slowly, coming to slide the notebook his way over the lap table. Michelle watched him with a curious glint in her eyes. Only Michelle would make a list like this, thinking of him in the future.

Joel cleared his throat, peering at the list with eyes that would soon need glasses. The elevens between his brows deepened. 

"Number one; She has to be smart." 

"I mean that's a given," Michelle said as if it were the most obvious thing ever. "If she's ambitious too then that's perfect. You don't do well with women who sit around doing nothing." 

Joel nodded, amusement touching his lips as he continued.

"Number two: she has to be kind. Not just ‘gives to charity at Christmas’ kind. The real kind of kind." Joel frowned. "The hell does that mean?"

"Real kindness is done without hope of recognition," Michelle explained. "Like they wanna make the world better in their own way."

"Number three: she has to be good in bed." At this Joel lowered the book, shooting his wife a sardonic look, one brow raised. "Really, Michelle?"

"You wanna be stuck with someone who doesn't get your dick hard?"

"Jesus. Okay, number four: she has to make Joel laugh." 

The book was lowered once more. 

"That's an important one," Michelle said, fingers weakly rising from beside her in bed to graze his cheek. 

"Sometimes you get so focused, so serious. Taking care of me and your brother and everyone else that you forget to have fun. You need someone that brings out the laughter." 

Joel nodded, looking at his wife. He closed the book, not wanting to read more for the moment.  Michelle fell quiet, eyes casting around the room as if to memorize it. The two of them sat in quiet contemplation. 

Michelle finally gazed up at her husband, the telltale worry in her dark eyes. Guilt soon edged it out. 

"Joel, I know I haven't been the best wife. Especially the last few-"

"Honey, no," Joel said, cutting her off, hands going to grip hers. "We're not doin' that."

"I know I have no right to ask you for anything."

"I'll give you anythin'," Joel promised firmly. "Anythin' you need." 

"Just promise me that you won't give up on fallin’ in love again. Your heart is so big, you have so much to share. Don't hide it away." Her eyes bounced between his. "Promise me, Joel. Swear it on my life. Swear it like nothin’ you've ever sworn before."

She lay there with fat tears on her cheeks and a tremble of her full lower lip. How could he say anything else? 

"I swear."

///

"Good morning, beautiful.”

A voice murmurs above you the following morning. You glance up to see Jacob there, in the flush of health with a grin on his handsome face. The rest of the office is a quiet drone in the background, but with Jacob here it feels more colorful.

"Finally!" You say, standing to wrap him in a quick hug. "This place was way too quiet without you."

You grip his shoulders, smile turning into a frown as you drop your hands from him, taking a step back. "Actually, I'm mad at you." 

You fall back into your seat, fingers going back to typing. He says your name quietly and you continue playfully ignoring Jacob as he gapes at you.

"Hello? What the hell are you mad at me for?" 

You covertly glance from side to side, lowering your voice to ensure that only Jacob can hear you. "I can't believe you put all those condoms in my pocket!"

His worry is replaced with glee and he hides a laugh behind a cough.

"You needed protection," Jacob defends with a muffled giggle, "unless you wanna end up with kids."

"You know I don't." 

Having children has never interested you. While other children played Mommy and house, you preferred to shape LEGO in the design of unique buildings or houses. You simply couldn't relate to the idea of motherhood being something of interest. 

And as you grew that feeling stayed with you, never really understanding the motivation for others to have a child. You loved them of course, but having them? No, it never sat well. 

It's why you and your college boyfriend didn't work out. He wanted kids and you knew you never did. You've never felt maternal, never picked out baby names or imagined what an infant of yours would look like. 

It's been the catalyst for a lot of your single years. Most of the men you've been with insist that they want kids "one day", that you'll "change your mind when you get older".  

Well, you're older and the feeling is still here. 

"Then you should be thanking me," Jacob grins, shrinking away when you go to slap him. "I was just trying to help a friend be safe!" 

His hands wrap around your slapping wrist and the two of you collapse into laughter. It's hard to stay mad at Jacob when he's just like a mischievous real-life Puck. He mutters something about grabbing a coffee, leaving you to look at today’s schedule.

No Joel booked for today. Working off-site.

Again.

He hasn’t done this much off-site work in all the time you’ve known him.

Joel has been avoiding you all week. You’ve been ensuring that you keep it professional, only contacting him with work-related questions and more. It doesn’t mean you haven’t been jumping at the sound of your phone going off during the past few days. It’s usually Jacob or an alert from socials.

Just then there's a quiet murmur from the far hallway, the sound of an elevator ding and the energy in the room changes. 

Joel is here. 

You can tell it by the chill that goes through the office. The way smiles are dimmed and voices hushed. The way Kathleen walks quickly by your desk with a bunch of files in her arms and a frazzled look on her face. 

"Might wanna keep your head down today,” Jake murmurs as he passes your desk on the way back from the good coffee machine. You raise your eyes from your screen, brow furrowed. 

"How come?"

"Miller is here and he's in a bad fucking mood."

"What? He's not on the schedule." You click to make sure, frowning when you see he was supposed to be working off-site. He didn’t update the schedule. Your eyes sail back to Jacob. "Why is he in a bad mood?"

"No idea. Your dad and him were talking in the hallway and then suddenly he was all pissed off. Bit off everyone's head downstairs."

Great. 

You wave Jacob off before going back to your work emails, still distracted that Joel would show up.  Did he want to see you? Is he feeling different now that you've done really intimate stuff together? Is he actually trying to find a reason to be around you? 

Why does that make your skin tingle? 

You hear the distant ping of the elevator and you tense up. He moves quickly, voice low and dulcet as he passes one of the finance officers. 

"And those numbers aren't ready because…?"

"I'm so sorry," Terry says, big eyes wet behind her oversized purple specs. "I thought you said by end of day."

Another voice rings out now, louder and much more boisterous. You glance up to see your father smiling at Terry, looking comforting as Joel frowns, arms crossed. 

"Not a problem Terry. Joel here is just being extra on the ball. End of day is more than fine." 

Terry gives a wobbly relieved smile, nodding before rushing back off to speak with the rest of her team. You catch your dad's eye and he gives you a wink and a smile, mouthing "good morning" before wandering over to Kathleen's desk. 

Your eyes dart back to the computer screen when you notice Joel heading your way. Your eyes go to his crotch, almost like a magnet. He’s wearing his usual jeans but you’re sure you notice a bulge there now.

I know what his penis looks like.

You have the most perverse urge to laugh right now, cackle right in the middle of this crowded workplace pointing at Joel’s jeans and running around announcing your victory. But you hold yourself together, typing slowly. 

Your pulse pounds brutally, a staccato of your heartbeat against your ribs as a shadow is cast over you. The scent of sandalwood and leather falls over you, making your body thrum. You breathe slowly as your eyes begin moving up his buttoned shirt, moving to that jaw, his full mouth, that sharp nose and then, finally, those arresting dark brown eyes. 

Suddenly nothing is funny. Everything about him is intimidating, including the python you know he's packing. 

"M-morning," you offer through a stutter. 

"Mornin'," he says flatly. "Messages?"

He doesn't seem to be acting any different than before your foray into the hotel room. How can he be so casual? Maybe Joel can teach you a few things about how to act totally casual after having another person's genitals in one's mouth. 

You feel flustered, fingers clumsy as you pick up the package of mail from the last two days. You go to hand it to him, sure not to touch his skin for fear you'd make some humiliating noise. He looks so handsome, so tall and broad and... Why is he just standing there staring at you? 

"Mind lettin' go?"

You force your eyes from him down to where your fingers still clutch the envelopes in a death grip. "Oh, sorry." 

Get a fucking grip you loser. 

You quickly sit down at your desk, cheeks burning in embarrassment. You avert your eyes to the floor, fingers poised over the keyboard. You wait for Joel to stride past you as he always does when he's in a mood at work. You wait for the slamming door, distracted tapping on his phone. But today he pauses, shifting from one shoe to the other. You see them in your eye line, ankles flexing slightly. 

Then he moves past, jeans rasping as he goes. You're entire body is tensed, not ready to release until his door is closed. He clears his throat lightly from behind you. 

"Hey, uh, before I get caught up in stuff are you free to talk for a minute?"

You raise your head slowly before glancing over your shoulder to see Joel standing at the doorway of his office with his brows raised. He's got a strange energy about him, as if he's forcing himself to appear relaxed. You make your mouth attempt a smile. 

"Yes, of course." 

He watches you stand, eyes trailing after you as approach. He stands there in the narrow doorway, making it so that you graze him in your effort to squeeze past into the office. You feel like he's holding his breath. 

He follows you in, door closing quietly behind the two of you. The air is thick with tension, the silence oppressive. 

You take the seat you're accustomed to: the one with sumptuous leather covering. You sit there, knees pressed together as you wait. 

Joel walks at a slow pace to his desk. You watch with tensed shoulders as he slowly moves back behind his desk, lowering himself into his chair with a muffled sigh. 

What is this about? Is he unhappy with the Deetz file? You had no choice but to double check with him. You were just doing your job. 

You watch his forearms prop against the desktop, his dark eyes tracing your face. It feels like intimidation as much as curiosity. 

You cross your legs, smoothing your blouse and trying to look professional. You're trying to focus on work. But all you can think of right now is the other morning with Joel groaning your name in bed. 

C'mon pretty girl, you've got this.

As if he can tell your heated thoughts his eyes drift away from yours, moving to the paperwork on his desk. 

"I think it's time we called this off," Joel says quietly.

He says it so casually you don't register what he's talking about. He's so detached, his face unreadable. 

This? 

Wait, does he mean the list?

When you finally do understand your stomach plummets to the ground, leaving you dizzy. 

"You mean the list."

Joel nods as you scramble to understand. Your fingers are twisting the cuffs of your left sleeve anxiously, tongue wetting your dry lips.  

"Did I do something wrong?"

Joel's big hand waves off that suggestion, his head slowly moving from side to side.

"S'not anythin' you did. I just think we've done enough and it's a good stoppin' point." 

You digest his words with a slow inhale, trying not to look upset. You'd really been looking forward to knocking more items off the list. Specifically number one, but properly this time. But that's not going to happen now is it? Not with Joel at least. 

"Right. Okay." Your face feels hot. "It's just I.... I thought we were working well together."

His brows rise, like he's confused you'd talk back. Joel is quiet, jaw clenching, one hand resting on the desk, the other now gripping the arm of his chair.

"Best to end it before we go too far," Joel adds with a tight exhale. 

What counts as too far? You've already had your mouth around his cock, his fingers in your cunt. How much further is there? 

"You don't think what we've done already is too far?" 

Joel straightens in his chair, tossing his pen with a soft clack onto the desk. It's a casual move, one that shows you he's calm and collected whereas you are almost trembling in your shoes. 

Your hands go to curl around the arms of your own chair, holding your body still. You start internally trembling.  

You feel foolish sitting there in front of him, knees pressing against the cool wood of his desk, eyes wide, disappointment barely concealed. 

Joel sits there stonily, not saying anything. But his dark brown eyes pierce you, holding you there in your seat like a pinned butterfly. 

"I should go," you offer with a whisper, rising and walking to the door. You want to leave quickly but your feet drag. 

No more list with Joel. No more groans and whimpers. No more dimpled smirks and knowing gazes. It's over. 

Insecurity is running through you, the scratch of Joel's pen against paper behind you pierces the grave silence. 

What screwed up? 

Your heel plants in the carpet, propelling you into a slow spin to face Joel once more. He's hunched over his desk now, signing some of the contracts. You take a step towards him, wincing. 

"You're sure I didn't do something wrong at the hotel?" Your voice is creaky, your throat bobbing as you swallow. 

"I'm sure."

"It's just...I really hope I didn't make you unc-"

You're cut off by the sharp smack of his palm against the top of his desk. It cracks the quiet room like a whip and you jerk backwards a step. 

"I'm done talkin' about this," Joel snaps. 

All that confidence you'd been stoking the fires of today seems to disappear, snuffed out. 

"Okay, okay," you say backing up further. "Forget it. Forget all of it."

He sits there with a cloudy expression, like your presence is upsetting him further. And if he were anyone else maybe you'd fight him on it. Maybe you'd insist that what you'd been doing has been working. 

But he's Joel Miller, your dad's best friend, your boss. He intimates you within the walls of The Mill Group. He's not someone you want to get on the wrong side of.

He's also not a very good man; firing Brian, his unkindness to Tommy.  This is why you chose him, why you allowed this entire thing to continue, the knowledge that you wouldn't get too emotional.

And so you nod politely, forcing a smile to your face. 

"I won't bring it up ever again."

[ayoungpascallover]

FINALLY

Great chapter!

AMOR VINCIT ONMIA (IX)

IX. Raw

MASTERLIST

Summary: Your feelings, his feelings, his truth, yours, it was all there in the open. 

Warnings: Use of she/her pronouns, reader has hair, Ancient Rome AU accuracies and inaccuracies, arranged marriages, age difference (Marcus is late forties reader is 20), cursing, angst, ANGST, descriptions of a mainly patriarchal society, reader wants to have kids, reader drinks wine for courage, reader get’s drunk, SMUT, THIS IS NOT A DRILL PEOPLE THIS IS HAPPENING  MIGHT MISS SOME WARNINGS

+18, MINORS DNI 

Notes: Sorry for the delay, like I said I wrote it and then I wasn’t so sure, didn’t want to undo all of reader’s pain, but you know what? I was tired of the angst we were supposed to have a good time and well, IT’S HAPPENING PEOPLEEEEE

He was kissing you

His lips were on yours.

He swallowed your tears, your cries, he was shutting you up the only way he knew how.

And yet…

You were still so angry, you tried to separate from him, you did, but he didn’t release you, he clinged into you, deepening the kiss, making your head spin.

When he needed to catch his breath, then he finally released you. 

“I’ll love you”, he said, but it was almost angry, like a grunt, you could tell he was frustrated, as you were, “love me”, he demanded against your lips

“I did”, you said, “now I hate you”, you whispered angrily

“Oh yeah?”, he asked back, with a sufficient smile on his lips. 

“Yes”, you said, “you left me alone, you humiliate me”, you said angrily, “you broke my heart, you are in love with my mother”

“I’m sorry”, he said, his face showed you he was indeed, honest, but he was very serious, “for leaving you, I’m sorry for breaking your heart, and I don’t love your mother anymore”, he said slowly, patiently

“I don’t care”, you bit back, like a little child would. 

“Forgive me”, he said again

“No”, you fought. He looked down at you, at your eyes, and took a long sigh

“Please, listen to me”, he begged, “please”, you frowned, you were frowning at him, but nonetheless, you nodded. 

“Fine”, you said back. 

“Is not that I didn’t… want to… be with you”, you could tell he was struggling, this was as hard for him as it was for you, “I…. I have been trying to fight it, you know how embarrassing it is for ME?”, he said angrily against your lips, “I was supposed to protect you, not lust over you, not desire you like a sick person, you are a young beautiful woman…”, he said

“And you are a handsome general of the empire, and my husband”, you fought back angrily.

“...And I was charged with taking care of you and keep you safe”, he murmured

“Then you should have escorted me to the temple of Vesta”, you said back, “instead of marrying me”, you defied

“I know”, he said, “I know but… I did, and you are young enough you could be my daughter”, he reminded you

“So?”, you asked, “Cecilia has the same difference with her own husband”

“I know”, he murmured, “and yet… I… felt so guilty…”

“Because you loved my mother”

“No”, he insisted, “I might have loved her, but I don’t anymore”, he did say that same thing that day when he was feverish. But still you shook your head, “I swear it”, he promised. You said nothing. “You deserve so much more”, he lamented

“You are right”, you said back, “I deserve to be loved by my husband, whoever he is, however old he is, and however handsome”, you said confidently. “I deserved to be….”, you didn't have the strength to say it

Alright, the propriety and restraints all forgotten, you had started this, and it was not going to be over until everything was out there, out in the open. 

“You want it to be me, then?”, he asked, you shook your head.

Your ego or perhaps, your pride were not going to let you be the one to beg him to do it, to beg him to be the husband he signed up to be. The discomfort in your face was clearly noticeable for him, as he took a long breath

He kissed you again, not letting go, he had you trapped against his body, one of his arms tightly surrounding your waist, hand plastered spread in your lower back, and his other in the back of your neck. Your fists were onto his chest, you weren’t even sure if you were trying to push him away or grabbing onto him.

“Forgive me”, he begged against your lips, “I was so blind… For neglecting you”, he said, “for not treating you like you deserve to be treated”, he said then, “for leaving you alone”

“I wanted you”, you said, angrily, “and you wanted my mother!”, you threw on his face, making him flinch

“You are wrong”, he said angrily. You separated from him, not wanting him to use more of his kisses to distract you, they were proven to be very distracting, very useful in destroying your determination.

“You are just muttering words”, you said. “There are no actions to sustain them”, you said, devoid of all emotions.

He looked at you, truly looked at you.

Maybe he finally saw your eyes devoid of light and emotion

Maybe he finally saw the deterioration in you, for lack of care and love.

“You wanted me?”, he asked, like you just told him a joke

“Since you came to my mother’s house that day”, you said firmly, “you promised you were going to care for me”, you said, “I wanted to marry you”

“You did?”, he asked

“I did”, you said, “and then you married me, you abandoned me, neglected me, humiliated me”, you felt his hot breath over his face. 

“I never intended for it to happen that way”, he lamented, “I promise, I thought it was enough to keep you safe”, you chuckled darkly. “Your mother couldn't trust anyone else with you, you don’t understand the power you have running inside your veins, we couldn’t let you fall in the hands of the wrong man”, you nodded faintly, not wanting to hear anymore, only wanting to feel

It was so contradictory, as you were enjoying the closeness of the man that had done that to you. That had left you alone….. but you had been… so…so… lonely

“What do you want?”, you asked him, “what do you want to do now?”

“Let’s start over”

“No”, you said, only thinking about having to start your marriage all over again made your head hurt.

“Then give me another chance, let’s work from here”, he said, “I know what I have done wrong and I regret it, deeply, now I know how you feel, please”

“Are you going to be my husband now?”, you asked him

“If you’ll have me”, he said

What other choice did you have? You had to admit you did not feel the same about him that you did when you just married him, the admiration you held was now tainted, and you held resentment in your heart…

And yet…

The very thought of divorcing him scared you.

The very thought of being alone again made your heart ache.

But really, should you give him another chance?

“Alright”, you whispered so faintly, it could have been easily taken by the soft wind

“We’ll start over”, he said, “without your mother’s shadow, without my fears and doubts, how about that?”, you searched into his eyes for any ounce of doubt, you didn’t find any. You only found honesty, or that is what you wanted to believe. “Say yes”, he begged, and then you realised you haven't say anything

“Yes”, you murmured, not yet convinced, your resentful heart still throbbing painfully in your chest. 

He leaned in and kissed you again. This time it was desperate, and needy, and even passionate, he pressed you against him and you just melted in his hands. This is something you had never felt before. 

He released you softly, caressing your face, and then, his hands finally left your form.  

You cursed yourself by feeling for missing his touch in mere seconds. And how your heart dropped when you saw him turn, towards the stairs, and out of the room. 

“Where are you going?”, you asked, the anger returning quickly, like a tidal wave. He seemed surprised by your tone, turning to you with his eyebrows raised

“To get the tunic I sleep in”, he said with a soft smile

“You’ll sleep by my side”, you didn’t know if you were demanding it or asking it, you wanted to demand it, it sounded like a question though

“Yes I will”, as soon as he left for that simple mission, you became extremely nervous

Gods, were you finally going to be bedded by your husband? you were going to have sex? The mere thought made you incredibly nervous. You changed quickly into your sleeping robes and sat by the side of the bed to wait for him. You eyed hungrily the small table by the window, in it, stood an amphora of wine and a cup, very enticing. 

You couldn’t stop yourself, you stood quickly and filled the cup to the brim and then gulped it down in quick movements, so quickly your throat hurt. 

Quickly you felt your palate tingling and stuck with that mellow taste and you knew you were done for. Wine made you sleepy and sloppy in equal measures, but did it give you courage? yes it did. 

You shakily took another quick drink, this time, slower, you did not want to get poisoned or something. 

You heard his strong steps climbing up the stairs slowly and you started playing with your fingers. Leaving the amphora and the cup on the table. The only thing separating you from the top of the stairs was a curtain that was drawn back, and he appeared quickly through them, he searched you with those pretty eyes of his until he found you standing.

“Wine?”, you asked nervously, as you gazed upon him, he was dressed in his sleeping tunic, you had never seen him in it before, he was always dressed appropriately in front of you, unlike you in the countryside. 

He hesitated, you could see it, but he eventually nodded and walked towards you. 

He took from your cup and drank himself, slowly, paladating the red thick liquid.

“It's a good harvest”, he said awkwardly, you wouldn’t know, you didn't drink wine, usually

“Sure”, you answered, “is it from around here?”, he only chuckled and you felt your ears burn because of your dumb question

“You don’t have to be nervous”, he said softly, gazing at you, he took two steps towards you, and you felt all the wine travelling to your head

“Oh gods”, you murmured, just as he was going to cradle your face to kiss you again, as he was clearly trying to start something else… you felt the wine you just gulped as the thirstiest woman on earth rose to your head, making you incredibly dizzy. 

He could immediately see sudden change in your movements, as the great general he was. 

He leaned in, smelling the wine in your breath, so he instead took his lips to your forehead

“Wait”, you called, but it was slurred. 

“Let's get you in bed, we are both tired”, he said with a soft smile.

In your dazed brain, it seemed like all the progress you had made with him was erased like it was written in the sand. You pouted childishly. your nose is ticklish, a clear sign of coming tears.

You were going to sleep with him, for the first time. You each went to one side of the bed and then got inside it, under the covers. It was a bit weird, you certainly settled in a very strange and uncomfortable silence, but once you were side by side on the bed, you looked at him, and he smiled at you

“I’m going to turn off the light”, he said softly. You nodded, grabbing the sheets tightly, covering your body until the only thing that could be seen was your face. 

He blew the light out of the oil lamp in the table next to the bed, and suddenly, the only light was coming out of the window, of the stars and moon. Once your eyes adapted to the room, you could see him clear as day. 

You felt him, right by your side, his warm, big body right next to yours, you could feel him clearly and yet he wasn’t touching you. 

“So when I left for short moments that is when you decided to chug an amphora of wine?”, he seemed almost entertained by you. You only grunted, shame pooling in your lower belly alongside the hot wine.

This was the first night you were going to spend alongside your husband and you were drunk. 

His big, warm hand on your cheek made you tremble

“You don’t have to be nervous”, he murmured, understanding the reasoning behind your ‘chugging’. “ever, not around me”, you wanted to laugh, but the embarrassment wouldn’t let you. You were nervous because you were afraid he was going to reject you, again, like the first night you spent as a husband and wife. 

“I’m nervous because you might reject me again”, you whispered, boldened by the fermented grapes. “And you are”, his hand didn’t disappeared from,your cheek, instead, he caressed your skin with his thumb

“I am not”, he said gently, “I just don’t want to have my wife intoxicated in our first time… together”, he said simply. 

“Tell me the truth”, you murmured after a pregnant pause. “Why don’t you want me… in that way?”

“I do want you”, he said softly

“I don’t believe you”, you murmured

“I just felt… guilty”, he explained softly, “for desiring you, and I wanted to have my head clear of every doubt before I really tried something with you”, he whispered. It seemed like the darkness had made you both a bit bolder, as he couldn’t clearly see your face, it made it somewhat easier. “but I see it clearly now”, you closed your eyes, wishing he would just stop talking. 

The cynic who had been born in the last six months returned to the surface, again, all words, no substance, or at least, there wasn’t any because you decided to get drunk in ten minutes. Your wine idled mind was just tired of it all. 

“I wish we could turn back in time”, he murmured, “I wish we could go back to that night we got married”, he said, “with what I know now”

“But we can’t”, you said, frowning, he sighed, his eyes shone even in the dark. He leaned in and kissed you softly, you answered back. wanting him to take the leap, to be the one who desired you, to initiate it, but he separated from you.

“Good night husband”, you turned on the bed, looking at the wall. He didn’t move too much, he accommodated his arms and scooched a bit, and then you guessed he fell asleep. You tried to follow, but couldn’t

Had your childishness ruined the little advances you had made? Was he never going to bed you again? share a bed again? 

Did you ruin everything?

You were sure you were going to wake up alone, and he was going to put you at arm’s length again, so you blew it. 

You were glad you finally fell asleep because otherwise, you were going to cry all night. 

. 

As you fell asleep tormented, you woke up incredibly rested, the first thing you felt when you came to it was how warm you were, how comfortable, you cuddled deeper into the bed only to realize… it wasn’t a bed.

You opened your eyes and you were welcomed with a beautiful caramel colour, and as your eyes adapted you realized it was your husband’s beautiful tanned skin. You were cuddling against him, your hand on his chest, your head on his shoulder. 

the sun was shining on the horizon, he should be up and about by now, but no.

He was there, with you.

His breathing was deep, as he was deep in slumber, but as you looked for his eyes you found his beautiful dark orbs looking back at you.

“Morning, pulchra”, he whispered teasingly

“Good morning”, you muttered, feeling your cheeks heated. “I’m sorry”, he said, trying to get off of him, but he grabbed your wrist, the one resting on his chest, and made you impossibly closer to him

“This is the best sleep I have had in years”, he said gently, his hand caressing your wrist, the other one turning around you, caressing your cheek softly. 

“I hardly believe that”, you said apologetically, “I was probably drooling all over you”, you giggled, “clutching into you”, he chuckled

“You can drool all over me, every time you want”, he teased, without you even realizing it, he had you trapped in his arms, leaning in dangerously close

“Marcus”, you whispered, like a little plea.

“Clutch onto me”, he whispered hotly against your lips, “don’t ever let go”, he finally kissed you, and you let out a little whimper against his lips. 

His kiss was demanding, passionate, the headache you had been harvesting disappearing as you fought for breath in his lips

He released you, as breathlessly and you were

“Are you still sure?”, he asked.

“Yes”, you as much as demanded. 

So he longed again against you, in his strength, in his passion, he leaned in until you were the one who was under him. 

His weight on top of you felt so good, so grounding, so natural. 

he had you trapped under him -not that you’d want to escape him-, but he released your hands so they were free to encase his face, to travel around his head and get tangled in his curls. 

You spread your legs instinctively, and he accommodated himself between them like he was meant to be there, again, natural

Everything felt so natural. 

“Marcus”, you whispered again against his lips

“If you want to stop we will”, he said firmly, yet his voice sounded strangled, like doing so would make him do an Herculean task

“I don’t”, you said. He separated from you, only to release you from your tunic, and he did the same with his own. You helped him, touching his skin.

It was so soft, so hard in the right places, and even softer in others. The sunlight shone through the window and it casted a magical glow over his beautiful skin. Age lines were starting to surge through his skin, which only accentuated his handsome, manly features, if anything, he was aging like fine wine, getting more handsome as the months went by. 

He gently led you on your back again, as he kneeled on the bed. your first instinct was to hide your nakedness, but the hungry gaze he was giving you made you feel so desired you didn’t, you let him look, watching him back with equal measure of excitement in your eyes. 

The only thing still clinging to his frame was his subligaria, but his fingers took care of it promptly. 

 You had seen many, in mosaics, in drawings, in paintings, in male slaves in the market, but all of them paled against him, even Priapus and his depictions in Pompeii would seem… flacid and small, to what was now standing in front of you, 

He didn’t give you more time to gaze upon him, he pounced on you, kissing you, taking his place on top of you. 

His hands were everywhere, on your sides, on your breasts, on your tights. It was all consuming and overwhelming in the best possible ways.

It felt like you were drunk on something stronger than wine. 

You felt him, in your core, it was so hard but so soft at the same time, it was scary, yet you felt an incredible need, a desire for him. He separated from you, only to look at your face while he entered you.

You whined in pain, as he spread you open slowly, but he didn’t stop, and you were thankful for that. 

You grabbed onto him, the pressure almost unbearable, he hid his face on the crook of your neck, kissing your sensitive skin there, making your head spin. 

And then, he was finally in, all the way. 

You whimpered in his arms, as he made a trail of kisses from your neck, to your jaw, to finally your lips.

He was grunting, like a wounded animal, his muscles around you tense, like he was running a marathon

“For the Gods”, he whined. “Are you alright, my pulchra?”, he asked gently

“Yes”, you whined. “it hurts”

“I know my love”, he whispered, kissing your face, your temple, “only this once”, he promised. 

“You have to do something”, you didn't know why, you were so overwhelmed, he slid out of you, leaving just the tip, and then he just slammed back in, taking all the air out of your lungs. You whined against his mouth but this time, the flames of pleasure started licking your belly, even if it ached from the intrusion. 

He held you as he fucked you, slowly, sensually, he kissed your whined until they turned into moans, he caressed your fists until they became clutching hands wanting to pull him as cloer as humanly possible 

He eventually got more bold, and sloppy with his movements, gaining trust, confidence, until he fucked you troughroughly, grabbing onto you as you were grabbing onto you. 

Finally his movements stalled, he moaned in your ear, his hips snapped against yours one more time. He kissed you again, as he cummed inside you. You grabbed onto his face, the ecstasy too delicious, too overwhelming to let it go. You whined and turned on his hold and he kept you together. Your bodies melted on each other like they belonged together, they did.

You felt so strongly you could die.

Then, he released himself from you, making you moan and thrash in discomfort. He left you but then came back, he spread your legs gently, he wiped you clean of the viscosity and discomfort, and just when you thought he was going to finally leave you, he returned with flowers, jasmines, and food for the both of you.

You ate as you didn’t in centuries, and then you both, accommodated back in the bed, you stuck to his side, your head on his chest, your hand caressing his scarred yet soft skin. 

“A-are you going to leave me in Rome next chance you get?”, you asked him shakily, as he wrapped his arm around you. 

“I’ll take you with me, wherever I go, if it's safe””, he said strongly, caressing the naked skin of your back. 

“Are you going to… are we going to make a family?”, you asked him, he nodded.

“I never thought I’d have children”, he confessed, “I was comfortable with the fact of being the last of my bloodline… for the Gods…. I have no bloodline to speak of, really”, he said sincerely, and that truly surprised you

“Really?”, you asked him

“My parents were farmers, we all lived here”, he said simply, “I was the middle child, I was sent to Rome to become a soldier”

“I didn’t know”, you said gently, with a soft smile

“Are you not disappointed?”, he asked, you shook your head softly. 

“Why would I?”, you asked back

“That our children might not inherit the great house of Acacius?”, he teased, the bare mention of your future children made your skin tingle with anticipation. 

“I don’t care about that”, you assured him, “They’ll inherit what we’ll build, together”, you muttered with a soft smile. He chuckled and squeezed you more tightly against him. 

“If you want it to be me, I’ll give you as many children as you want”, he promised, “I’ll love them, and care for them… we’ll make the most beautiful family you’d ever seen”, you smiled as tears fell down your cheeks.

“Are you going to love me?”, you asked then

“I’ll build my love for you pillar by pillar, stone on stone, I’ll build you the strongest and biggest temple of love you had ever felt”, he promised. 

“You promise?”,you asked him

“I do”, he said surely

“It’s going to take a while, for me to trust you”, you said carefully

“I’ll wait for it as long as I need to, my pulchra”, he whispered, kissing you again. 

Alright, don't come at me, maybe it was too soon for her to fold but you know what? she was so lonely and I was tired of making you all so sad, they needed to get it done already! jeje

@orcasoul @peelieblue @raynetargaryan2 @thereallchristine @sesdeuxyeux @melsunshine @thelastemzy @vjuvbbjugv @cloudroomblog @capycapy-bara @lokiwife2021 @whirlwindrider29 @peepawispunk @syd-maximoff @ayoungpascallover @lindsayjoy444 @immyowndefender @negrita2345 @onlythehobi

[ayoungpascallover]

On another note, guess who's getting and Emmyyyy

Wow I shouldn't have watched THAT 💜

[ayoungpascallover]

Wow I shouldn't have watched THAT 💜

[ayoungpascallover]

awn buddies ❤️

[ayoungpascallover]

OMG there's so much content, Din is back and the F4 trailer and the SW panel and he looks so... Oh... Oh?

[ayoungpascallover]

PROTECT THE DOLLS! Pedro showing his love and care for trans women again. 🥰

[ayoungpascallover]

Ugh finally. I'm so happy they finally kissed, such an amazing chapter as always.

AMOR VINCIT OMNIA VIII.

VIII. The theatre

MASTERLIST

Summary: You go to the country with your husband, silly how as far as you seemed to be, you could still be forced to face realities 

Warnings: Use of she/her pronouns, reader has hair, Ancient Rome AU accuracies and inaccuracies, arranged marriages, age difference (Marcus is late forties reader is 20), cursing, angst, ANGST, descriptions of a mainly patriarchal society, reader wants to have kids, lude talks about sex and childbirth, pinning, birth of a horse, one mention of idealized suicide, she cries, he cries, everybody is crying, MIGHT MISS SOME WARNINGS

+18, MINORS DNI

Notes: SORRY FOR THE DELAY! I swear it's been a busy couple of weeks! but here I am! excited for you to read this!

“What are they feeding you Luna, uh?”, you teased, as you found her very round in her midsection, she neighed in answer, she even looked angry, and that made you giggle.

At the next stall, a huge black stallion nighed angrily, threatening to kick the wooden door

“I’m sorry if he startled you”, Marcus said by your side, making you startle instead

“He is yours?”, you asked, surprised, as you tried to calm Luna

“Yes”, as he approached him, the huge beast seemed to calm down, only when he spoke lowly to him.

“What’s his name?”, you asked him

“incitatus”, he answered

“Like Emperor Caligula’s horse?”, you asked him, he smiled as he petted his snout

“Yes, just like him”, you smiled widely. “Are you ready?”, he asked, he took a few steps until he was almost pressed against you, but you took a step away from him with a shy smile

“Yes”, you said quickly, as you kept looking at your horse

“I think Luna is in foal”, he said with a soft smile

“What?”, you asked him

“She is pregnant”, he clarified, petting her, your felt your cheeks heated

“I think she might be eating too much”, you offered with a smile, “but if she is, would the trip be bad for her?”, you asked him

“No, it’s not far”, he said softly.

He was healthy again, and yet, his softness towards you hadn't dwindled, and it was getting on your nerves. He was staring at you, touching you ever so gently, he would smile dreamily at you, and you didn’t know what to do.

And now? you were going with him to the countryside, both of you, alone. 

In the middle of nowhere 

Marcus’ servant brought forth both horses behind you as you left the stables, you were going to go inside the carriage and Luna was going to walk slowly behind it. 

Marcus was going to be inside the carriage too, with you, closed in. 

You didn’t understand why your heart was beating so fast.

You climbed in the beautifully carved carriage, and Marcus was soon to follow behind you. You were nervous, and not even sure why. You haven’t even spoken to your mother before you left, Marcus just sent someone ahead of you, a servant, to let her know you were leaving.

The last thing you said to her was for her to leave you alone that day you collapsed on Valeriana. 

But then again, it was because she had married you to the man that loved her and she knew about it, you didn’t quite want to get in touch with her…. But again, you never confronted Marcus, you were letting that secret rot inside you like a disease instead of letting it all out.

The man himself sat just by your side, your side stuck to his. 

You looked at his profile and he turned immediately to look back at you and smiled warmly. You felt like an idiot as you gazed upon him. The lines that started drawing his manly face, in the corners of his eyes. But just barely… Her dark locks, so curly and soft looking. 

You bit your lip and looked away from him.

It discouraged him, he was not going to lie, but he took a long breath and grabbed your hand that was resting in your lap.

You almost jumped at the touch but then you let him.

“You are going to love it”, he promised, “in the country, I know you will”, your eyes followed him up to his face again

“I have never left Rome before”, you said gently, and he seemed truly surprised, and then, for a single moment, he looked sad.

It was difficult for you to come to terms with the fact that you and your mother had been prisoners of the Empire, of the fleeting emperors. She disguised it well. She made you believe those whispered conversations and changing servants were to her own decision, not because she had to. It was like something had been taken from you, now that you had come to realize.

Like you weren’t so innocent anymore

“Now you can”, he offered, squeezing your hand, making your gaze meeting his again. “I can take you wherever you want to go”, you turned again to look out the small window and to the streets of Rome.

You didn't believe him. 

But now you did believe him when he said you were going to love it. 

The journey had been brief, just a couple of hours, but the road, so close to ome, was well built and taken care of, and the scenery was beautiful, green pastures, tall trees, hills and cattle pasturing down in valleys surrounding the road

And then soon, you arrive in Marcus’ lands. 

The scenery was beautiful, Marcus pointed to his side of the carriage and you leaned over him to see the villa atop a small hill, on the other side you could see the lake. It was surrounded by beautiful trees and from here you could tell there were different kinds of fruit trees  and maybe some olive trees. A dirt road led them to the house, cypresses shielding one side of it. 

And the Villa? As soon the carriage turned around it stopped in a small courtyard and you could finally see it fully. It wasn’t as big as your home in Rome, but you could tell it was cozy. 

It had two floors, and Marcus was quick to lead you inside. The big open space is the first thing you see when you enter, all across the atrium and the garden in the middle. The impluvium was in the garden itself. Right beyond it, there was the kitchens and servant quarters 

The rest of the rooms were all around the open space. And the stairs led to what you guessed was the main room. 

Unlike your rooms in Marcus’ domus, this ones were indeed decorated and painted, the house was way more lively, beautiful wild flowers were where they could grow, and a beautiful wall flower was taking a hold in two of the four pillars that decorated the atrium and the squared garden in the middle of the house. 

“I know is not much… but”, he stared behind you

“Its beautiful”, you said simply, from the triclinium on the left, there was a big window from which you could see a beautiful valley, there was a fence around it, almost in the horizon, you just looked as one of Marcus’ guards released your horses in there, and they wasted no time in walking freely, they even trotted around for a bit until they settled in different places and started to graze. 

“You can sleep upstairs”, he said behind you, you turned to look at him, surprised, “there is one room down here”, he said, pointing towards the other side of the atrium. You didn’t know why you were disappointed, but you were.

You could see how conflicted he was as he said it, but he was the one who opened his mouth to say it, you were not going to be sharing a room with him, not now, nor ever. 

Marcus, apparently, had 5 servants in this Villa, he had decided not to bring neither Thulia nor Diana, as they were needed to keep the house tidy back in Rome, and you missed them, as the nice looking ladies didn’t even bother to look at you, as they seemed afraid of you or something, they just nodded at you and moved quickly and quietly. 

took a tour of every room in the villa, and then you went upstairs.

The main room was big and cozy, took up the whole of the second floor, two big windows on each side, the sun was already on its way down towards the horizon, and the view was breathtaking, you could see the lake from here. 

You unloaded the trunk you had brought with your tunics and shoes. And put your things in a wooden closet in the corner. 

Marcus was right, again, you liked it, just by being here, you enjoyed it so much, a new place, a cozy place, no matter how hard you tried you couldn’t hear anything but crickets singing in the distance, maybe the howling of a wolf.

No drunken fights, nor the sounds of hooves or chariot races, nor people shouting to sell their goods, nor even people speaking loudly or chatting, nor singers or dancers or ladies of the night, nor nothing.

The tranquil country made a huge contrast against the insanity of living in the entrails of Rome herself. 

The sun fell over you as you were having a light dinner with Marcus, in which he chatted casually about what he intended to do while being here…. about his short future back in Rome. It’s been about five months since he was made consul, he had half a year with the title so he was truly analyzing if it was worth it to try and go back to Hispania, so far he had named one of his generals as a deputy in his honor and he was leading the legions against the rebels just fine without him.

You really hoped that whatever was coming your way, it would be better for you.

That night, the first night, you slept upstairs, alone.

It was a bit cold, you had to place an extra wool cover on top of you, but other than that, you couldn’t help but smile as you thought about all the possibilities and things you could do here.

You slept like a baby, and even slept in a bit, as you realised when you woke up that the sun was already shining strongly over the lake, it was the middle of the morning. You didn’t even felt a bit guilty like when you just got married, by the sounds you could hear you knew the entire villa was up and about doing things around the place, but you.

You stood up from the bed feeling completely rested.

Could you pick some fruits today from the trees? Could you plant something? feed some animals? Maybe go to the lake? swim? you didn't know how to, but you’d like to learn

As you pondered what were you going to do for the day, you looked out the window, at the field where Luna was, you could spot her in a second, her silvery colour gleaming under the sun. But as you looked more carefully, you noticed she was laying on the grass. She seemed to be struggling with something, then she stood so quickly you thought you had imagined it.

She galloped in desperation, moving her legs strangely, then she layed back on the grass

Was she sick?

You frowned, not caring that you were wearing a thin tunic you wore to sleep, you ran down the stairs and then to the field. Not caring that you passed a surprised Marcus on your way.

It felt freeing, those moments you spend running down the hill through the grass. But you didn’t feel like it as you were running towards your sick horse. You heard her neighing in struggle, and you felt your heart thump so fast you could barely tell what was really happening. 

“Luna?”, you called, laying on the grass right next to her. She was struggling, but it looked like she was… like she was…

She was breathing heavily, moving her legs, you tried to caress her face, her neck, and when she felt you she seemed to calm herself, and finally, with a last struggle, you watched in awe how she gave birth to a little foal, and you couldn’t believe what you were witnessing.

“Wife”, You felt Marcus hands on your shoulders and he leaned down towards you. You were sitting in the grass and you did not care that you were barely dressed, your tunic had rode up your legs as you were petting your horse, her big head resting in your lap.

Luna, even though she just gave birth, stood up heavily, and was quick to turn to her beautiful baby and help him

“Carefull”, he said, trying to help you up,  but you didn’t care as you watched Luna clean her foal. The baby was black as night, a spitting image of… You looked to the next field where Marcus’ stallion was neighing angrily, standing on his two back legs and galloping all over the fence.

“He is beautiful”, you whispered with a soft smile on your face, as you witnessed the baby’s first breaths, released from his mother’s placenta. 

“I think I know who the father is," Marcus whispered apologetically. “Wife, we should head back inside”, his hands didn’t leave her shoulders, as he kept you close to him

“Not yet”, you whispered absentmindedly. You stood there with Marcus by your side for what felt like hours.

You even managed to watch the little foal’s first wobbly steps, aided by his mother.

His or her, whatever it was, the foal was beautiful. 

Finally you let Marcus lead you back to the house, and yet you couldn’t stop smiling. 

You finally got dressed in the simplest tunic you had, you fixed your hair in a lower braid, you didn't even care to put on jewelry and you placed your most comfortable sandals. You coaxed the servants to let you go with them to pick up apples and oranges from the trees around the property, you enjoyed the beautiful day and the delightful smells of the trees and flowers. You enjoyed the quiet except for a subtle noise that came from an animal of the whistle of the soft breeze against the branches of the nearby trees. You felt like you had perished, and went to the Elysium fields, maybe they were as beautiful as this.

On the side of the villa that was towards the lake, a cobblestone pathway even led there… was what it looked like an abandoned garden, you could see a fountain beneath the overgrown grass and vines… and if you looked closely enough you could see the outlines of a planned garden… that was left unattended

Maybe you could do something about it… 

So knees to the dirt you went and started ripping vines and tall grass. A servant even brought you supplies to aid you in doing some gardening.

You were so determined you didn't even notice it was getting dark, as you worked and cleaned and got rid of the weeds

“Nobody tended to this garden since my mother”, you jumped in your place by the fountain when you heard Marcus, who was looking a you with a smile on his face.

“Your mother?”, you asked, surprised

“Yes, we used to live here, when I was young”, he said softly.

You stood up from the ground, now embarrassed, you were so dirty and… common looking. But the smile on Marcus’ face didn’t dwindled for a second

“This is your childhood home?”, you asked, truly surprised, he nodded, and there it was, those adoring eyes again looking at you like you were a beautiful sculpture decorating an imperial garden

“Yes it was”, he said with a soft tone, he offered you his hand and you took it, “let’s go back inside, its getting chilly”

��Sure”

“Do you want me to have a bath fix for you?”, he asked softly, and you nodded, a bit ashamed, you indeed where all dirty

“I would like that”, you said softly.

Of course he didn't join you in the bath he had made for you, but as it was already spring the essences of the water were mostly fresh flowers and it was delightful, truly, truly enjoyable. 

This was just the first day of a wonderful week you spend in the country, you had settled in some sort of routine, you’d see Luna and her foal in the mornings, then you’d pick fruits and vegetables for lunch, you’d help prepare it, and then in the afternoon when the sun didn’t hit as much, you tended to the garden.

You had made great advances in it.

You haven’t even gone to the lake yet… You didn’t want to go alone and Marcus wouldn’t even accompany you, he didn’t say no, but he didn’t offer and you didn’t want to bother him

He spent his time caring for the administrative part of the property, he would take rides on Incitatus in the afternoons, and you really appreciated the fact that he didn't invite you, you didn’t want to push Luna yet, she was recuperating. 

You just caught her foal this morning trying to neigh, it was the sweetest thing ever. You really had to name him. You’d like Marcus’ insight on it, but you didn’t want to bother him, besides, you didn't even know if it was a boy or a girl.

You were coming out of the bath, the sun was barely shining on the horizon, when Marcus came to you with a wide smile on your face, met you on your way up to your room. 

“I have a surprise for you”, he said softly

“A surprise?”, you asked him

“Sort of”, he said softly, walking back towards the main door, that was just on the other side of the atrium you were standing up. He opened the door dramatically.

And there she was

“Cecilia?”, you asked loudly, she screeched as soon as she crossed the threshold with her arms wide open to receive you within them. You ran to her embrace and she kissed both your cheeks. “I thought you were in Sicily!”

“It's been too long! I missed you! I came back for you!”, she said loudly, making your ears ring, but you didn’t care as you held your dearest friend in your arms.

When you both released each other, you turned to your respective husbands, who were greeting each other. He was a senator, Marcus was in the high circles of Rome, of course they were both friends. More career friends than military friends or family friends. 

But if that is what brought you together with your friend, you were better for it.

“Thank you, general, for inviting us into your home”, he said firmly, you greeted him with kisses on both cheeks as well.

Two servants, followed the couple closely, they were probably their body slaves, and yet, the woman was carrying a beautiful baby.

“Is that…?”, you asked her. 

“I have so much to tell you!”, she said quickly. 

“Let’s leave our beautiful wives to their schemes Acacius”, he said, “led me to where the good wine is”, Marcus chuckled politely and left towards what you guessed was his study

“Let’s take a seat”, she said, “the road from Pompous’ villa was exhausting”, you led her back to the triclinium, where the servants were quick to put out a small spread on the table for you to enjoy. . 

You made yourselves comfortable on the recliners as she began to speak about what happened since you last saw her, her life in Catania, and how she now, was a mother… you were at it for a couple of hours, just talking about her life, you asked her as many questions as you could think of, not really wanting for her to ask you back. You didn’t felt like sharing of what your life was like, it wasn’t as glamorous as hers, nor have you faced so many changes as her.You had been married for six months, she for over a year, she was now a mother, and your husband hasn't even bed you yet

You haven’t even had sex yet

Ever

So you started thinking about better things, sweeter things.

Like that sweet baby boy.

Cecilia had her servant bring him into the room at your insistence, and he was the sweetest thing. You hadn't remembered the last time you had interacted with a babe, always being surrounded by adults. 

“He is beautiful”, you whispered, as you played with the child in your lap, he was chubby, and had two squishable cheeks. Healthy and big baby boy. With dark locks on his head and big dark eyes shaped like almonds, for a second, a brief second, you´d think it was Marcus’ child and not Cecilia’s, “were your labors easy?”, you asked shyly.

She had been your friend since you had a memory, but for some reason, as she had become a wife and mother, rather than feeling of her same age, you felt like an ignorant child in front of a grown patrician woman

“No, he actually ripped me open, it was the most excruciating pain I ever felt in my entire life”, she said, as her eyes reflected, she was being taken back to that fateful day. “But it was worth it”, she said then, looking at her son hopefully, but she recuperated quickly, and looked up at you with a soft smile. “You´ll have your own child soon enough, right? They´ll be friends, maybe get married? wouldn't that be nice?”, it came so, so fast you couldn´t stop the face you put on, of incredible despair, you wanted to throw up

“Yes, of course”, you muttered quietly, after composing yourself.

“What's the matter?”, she asked innocently, then her face was tainted with mischievousness, “Don’t tell me the mightiest general in the Roman Empire is… not… well indulged?”, your face of complete horror made her laugh, “is he impotent? He is of old age”, she whispered, leaning onto you, her inquisitive eyes almost made you spit out the truth… that you wouldn't know.

This was certainly an opportunity, of letting go of the anger and frustration, of the complete embarrassment you had been suffering and of how inadequate and deceived you felt… a small vengeance, for your wounded pride, and your broken heart… and yet… blemishing Marcus’ name didn’t felt right at all despite everything and how he condemned you to this life of solitude.

You wanted to tell her; you wanted to tell her the truth…

That your whole marriage was a lie

That your husband wouldn't even touch you, didn't even want you

That he would have your mother instead

That you wanted to go and throw yourself in the sea and sink to never resurface

But you couldn't do that, so you shook your head softly

“He is a very virile man”, you said finally, faking a smile, pretending that your face twisted by the lie was actually embarrassment, shyness even of what you were admitting. Your friend screeched as she applauded happily, “and of the same age as your own husband”, you added raising one of your eyebrows, “if I recall”, you finished, she giggled

“Of course, I know, I know… look how you are getting yourself all bothered”, she said with a giggle, “If he is a virile man, then… Why are you so nervous?”, she asked then, slapping your arm playfully

“Well, so, what if…”, you paused, you of course knew that if your husband did not ´lay’ with you, there was no possible way that you might get with child, but you were already deep in the lie… “what if it doesn't work?”, you asked then

“Why wouldn´t it?”, she asked, “does he not… finish inside you?”

“Yes”, you answered shakily, quickly, “but… what if I can't give him a child anyways?”

“You know, it's never your fault, as it’s not the earth but the seed planted on it”, she said with a sufficient smile on her lips. 

You wanted to cry

You were never going to have a family of your own, your own baby, to call you momma, to reach for you with their chubby hands and arms, looking at you with the eyes of his handsome father. As the beautiful baby you had in your arms

Another thing they took from you. 

Maybe when Acacius… you felt horrible just thinking about it.

Divorce was a thing… maybe one day…

But the fault of the divorce would fall on you, as the woman who was never able to give him children. And then… no man would ever want you, no matter who your mother is. 

“I think is time…”, you jumped on your place when Acacius voice ranged through the hall, “...that you part ways with our noble guest”, he said softly, but you had learned to read him, he was angry, maybe even upset, “it’s getting late, the roads are treacherous”. His eyes never departed from you, he even seemed surprised to see you holding a babe in your arms.

The babe reached for his mother’s arms and you passed him on to her. 

Cecilia’s husband came shortly after, his eyes lit up with love and devotion as he gazed upon your friend and his son, your gut twisted with envy as you looked at him embracing his wife, even though they were parted for a couple of hours.

This is all you ever wanted

A husband that adores you, that can give you a home, children, a family. 

“We are staying in our villa, on the other side of the lake”, she said quickly, “we will meet again soon”

“I’ll like nothing more”, you said hopefully, as you alongside Marcus led them to the entrance.

Cecilia looked back at you, and then at Marcus, she gazed upon him with an interested gaze and then turned to you and winked. You couldn’t believe the audacity, Marcus could clearly see it. 

You sighed loudly, as you saw them part waving hands, getting into their carriage, you stood at the entrance of the villa until you saw them disappear down the road.

The sunset was to be beautiful

You didn’t know the stiffness of his shoulders was because he had in fact heard the whole thing

Heard the whole conversation

He heard the hesitation in your voice when your friend asked you, he had heard the disheartened lies you spewed, he saw your face that could only be seen in a funeral.

Lucilla’s words fell over him like a bucket of ice cold water. 

If you are not going to do this right, don’t do this at all

We are breaking her heart

He watched you go back inside, your head lowered and face twisted in conflict. 

As he looked at you being like that, he bitterly remembered those days before he left for Hispania, how you were, looking completely miserable, he recognized the sadness in your eyes so quickly it hurt him. 

“What was that?”, he asked, you looked up at him, surprised, as his question came so quickly his tone wasn’t as warm or calm as he would like. 

“What?”, you asked, confused for his suddenness

“What’s wrong?”, he asked 

“Nothing”, everything, really. Now on top of everything you felt horrible. You had been having such a great week, in the countryside, in Marcus' childhood home, he has been nothing but kind and accommodating…. and now you were feeling distraught because of your jealousy towards your dearest friend. 

To your surprise, he followed you up the stairs to the second floor, and you couldn’t help but feel nervous. What did he want?

“Please”, he pleaded in a hushed whisper, as you entered the space of the second floor, “talk to me”

“It's nothing”, you whispered, trying to ignore him, but nervousness was flaring up in your skin. 

“It doesn’t seem like nothing”, he murmured, he reached for you, grabbing you softly by your upper arms, you had no choice but to look up at him to meet his eyes, “tell me”, you shook your head softly

“It's nothing really, its… childish”

“It doesn’t seem childish to me”, he encouraged 

“I just have to come to terms with some things”, you said then, “that some dreams might never come true for me, and… it's fine”, he truly seemed to think about what you just said, his dark eyes searching frantically for answers outside the window, but then again he turned to you

“As your husband…”, he started, gently, as he was speaking to a child, “it is my job to make sure your dreams do come true”, with heated cheeks you lowered your face, to avoid looking at him.

How do you tell your husband who doesn’t want you, that you want children from him?

That one of those dreams was to have a family of your own?

That ugly feeling of humiliation and embarrassment came crawling back to you, taking a hold on you and not letting you go. But Acacius was not letting go of you either, you guessed he was tired of your childishness, tired of you not talking to him, not communicating, and he didn’t seem to let go

“Please, give voice to those desires so I can aid you in accomplishing them”, he begged some more as he saw your hesitation

“I…”, you wanted to tell him, so you took a long breath and you looked up at him, he seemed surprised of your new found strength, “My friend’s marriage, you were there”, you started, he nodded, “well, back then I wished to marry as well, and well, I had this conception of love and marriage, and…”, now you couldn’t find the right words to voice your concerns, “well, I always thought I’d marry for love, and devotion, and that from that love I could… have my own family, children I mean”, you whispered the last part, losing your bravery, gazing at your feet instead of your husband’s eyes.

His hold seemed to tighten in your skin, but his lack of words hurt you more than anything. 

“I told you it was childish”, you whispered, trying to take a step back, trying to release yourself from his hold, only as you began to struggle he released you, whispering your name as if it was a plea for mercy. “how could I possibly have my own family if my husband won’t even bed me”.

You didn’t know if it was the wine you had with Cecilia, or the jealousy, or bitterness, or Marcus’ silence, or the rage that it caused or everything combined…. but you couldn’t believe you actually muttered those words.

But they were like a bucket of icy cold water had been thrown over Marcus. 

“What?”

“I want to rest”, you interrupted him, wanting him to leave your room, but he stood there, unmovable. 

“We need to talk”, he said

“I don’t think it's necessary”, you muttered angrily. You had started something and you didn’t know how to stop it, nor the anger that was bubbling over the edge 

“You were so happy, to come here, to the country, and when we first arrived you seemed happy”, he said, he looked so disheartened you felt a bit guilty… almost. 

“I was”, you said simply

“Then what happened?”, he asked then

“Why do you care about my happiness?”, you didn't like the tone that came out of your mouth

“I’m your husband”, you couldn’t help the bitter chuckle that left your mouth

“Are you?”, you asked back

“What is that supposed to mean?”, he asked angrily

“You never consummated the marriage”, you said, “you barely look at me, you don’t want anything to do with me, you don’t even like me”, he looked like he was about to cry

“That’s not true”, he said, shaking his head slowly 

“I don’t know why you married me in the first place, when you wished to marry my mother instead”, his face was like a mask from a Greek tragedy, his mouth twisted in a horrified way, not being able to believe what he was hearing. 

“What? No, I…”

“I heard you”, you whispered, he frowned, brows knitted in concern, “when you were high with fever, you whispered my mother’s name”, you explained, he froze, his kind eyes wide with surprise, “you whispered how much you loved her, like a long lost lover”

“I swear, I don’t even remember…”

“You are so very cruel, Acacius”, you said, and he seemed as surprised as you by your words, “marrying me because you couldn’t marry my own mother”, your voice broke at the last sentence, “and she knew, and allowed it”, you said with a twisted smile on your face, “did she not want to marry you?”, you interrupted him, “Is that why you marry me instead?”

“No”, he said softly, trying to reach you, “I swear, that’s not the reason, I never proposed marriage to your mother…”, he said desperately 

“But you did love her”, you said

“Yes”, he admitted, and it hurt more than you believed it was going to. “But I swear to you, I would never act upon it, never did, especially since we were betrothed”, you looked at him, trying to justify himself, tripping over his own words, the general long lost, only a man stood in front of you. 

“Then why did you marry me?”, you asked him, not really knowing what you were expecting to hear, if he admitted it to be some sick obsession or something, you didn’t know what you were going to do. 

But as he talked, he made it seem like… you raised your eyes to look at his concerned face

“You never asked for my hand, did you?”, you asked him, he frowned

“No… I…”, he said it as gently as he could, but you felt like you had taken an arrow through your chest. “Your mother asked me”, more tears fell down your cheeks and you couldn’t stifle a sob that ripped your chest open. Marcus took a step forward,  he wanted to reach you so badly, but you took a step back. 

She had lied to you, she knew how much the fact that he was the one that wanted to marry you meant to you, so she lied, so you would go willingly into a loveless marriage. Why would she do that?

“I’m sorry”, you cried. Finally his arms wrapped around you

“You have nothing to be sorry for”, he said, his voice strangled. 

“You didn't even want this”, you cried, “why would you accept? why would she do this to me?”, and that phrase left your lips, you made it seem like being married to him was the worst thing to ever happen to you. 

“No…”, he whispered, but not very convinced either, “your mother would have never made me do something I didn't want to do”, he said surely, “I thought I could take care of you, protect you”

“I wanted a husband”, you accused, releasing yourself from your hold, “not a glorified guard”, he flinched, “If you couldn't give me that, the least you could have done is save us both some heartache, and just say no!”

“Your mother felt like you were in danger, and I was the only one she trusted enough with you”, he explained, “and I thought I could do it for her”

“That doesn't make it any better”, you said, heartbrokenly. You took a long breath, trying to calm yourself

“It’s like I’m playing a game I’m set to lose, that I never stood a chance to begin with”, you cried

“No”, he said more firmly, “that’s not true”, he said. 

“This isn’t fair”, you couldn’t hold the tears anymore, “to be married to someone who won’t even try to love me”, you whispered, “Am I really that awful? that unlovable?”

“No”, he said quickly, “you are beautiful, and kind, and smart, and…”

“And yet…”, you mocked him, as more tears fell down your cheeks, “it's been six months”, you threw in his face, “and my husband hasn't even touched me”, he couldn’t believe the words that were coming out of your mouth much more than you. “You know how humiliating it has been?”, you asked.

A single tear fell down his cheek.

He didn’t say anything, he didn’t defend himself, “I don’t deserve this”, you whined, you felt like a little child, but as of right now you didn’t care anymore, you didn't care what he thought, you didn’t care at all, “I really don’t, I want to love, I want to be loved”, you cried desperately.

He took two steps to meet you again, he grabbed your face in his big hands, and clashed your lips with his, swallowing all your tears, all your sobs. 

PCN: Remember that this took place 10 years BEFORE Gladiator II, and Marcus is in his 40’s in this :D OK SO THERE IT WAS! THE SO LOOKED FORWARDS CONFRONTATION! MUAHAHA

the way I CLEANED my doc, I have no more scenes written after this chapter, it contains my favorite kind of scenes, the ones I write because I see them so clearly and I written them down with nothing, no context around them... UUUHHH anyways... but don't you worry, I know exactly with what this is going to end and that will give me direction

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