peeta-is-useless

[peeta-is-useless]

The Farmer's Daughter

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x f!reader one-shot

Summary: Forced to sell your body after your father's farm went under, you find yourself hand picked to service the Roman army on their latest battle away from Rome. What you didn't expect was to be selected to share General Acacius's room for the duration of the journey.

Warnings: language, smut (18+ MDNI), heavy talks of prostitution, mentions of SA but none occur, reader is a (new) prostitute, virginity loss (no blood mentioned just some discomfort), descriptions of battle wounds/blood, food and alcohol consumption, one bed trope, enemies to lovers-ish, unprotected piv sex, thigh riding, angst, possessiveness

WC: 10.2K

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

A/N: I know by this point his character is mostly referred to as Acacius in the film but I'm sorry, I can't wrap my head around someone moaning that name in bed. So let's just ignore that, okay?

How did this happen? Why did fate play you such a cruel and twisted hand?

When you were younger, you expected to be married off to be a housewife to a solider. From what you heard growing up, it wasn't a terrible life. The men were gone most of the time which allowed the women to run the household and raise children in peace. Unfortunately, your mother died during childbirth and your father, a humble farmer, passed away too early in life, leaving you and his few workers to keep the farm operating for as long as possible. To make money, you spent much of your time at the market, selling the food you made on the farm and the goods you weaved and molded from the scraps.

It wasn't enough. You lost the farm after a handful of years and you were on the brink of becoming destitute. Already you were malnourished and dehydrated, but as hard as you tried, you couldn't find work.

That was how you found yourself in a long line of women, standing silently with your heads bowed and your hands clasped as you were all throughly inspected by a senior officer of the Roman army. They were choosing their group of whores to hire to accompany the men on their next battle across the sea. You were left with no other option but to sell your only remaining asset. The thought turned your stomach, but the idea of starving to death was worse.

One by one, women were hand picked to step forward and exit the room. All in all it had to have been close to forty whores hired to service an entire army.

The odds were not in your favor if you were picked.

It came as a relief when you ended up not getting chosen. You breathed a deep sigh and lifted your chin, scanning the room of remaining women and senior ranking soldiers. You would make do somehow. At least you wouldn't be spreading your legs multiple times a night for different men after they've spent the day fighting and working up their appetite.

You turned to follow the women back out onto the streets of Rome, no doubt searching for another way to sell their bodies, when you heard a deep, familiar voice call your name. You froze in disbelief, wondering who could possibly know you, and then you slowly turned.

It was General Acacius. The fearless leader of the Roman army, but you knew him from your stand in the market. Whenever he was home from battle, he always found you and purchased more than he could possibly need, feeding you and your farmhands for weeks. He never said much and neither did you, but you had grown fond of seeing his greying curls and dark, smoldering eyes approach your stall, albeit with a new wound or scar to show for his travels.

You did not even realize he knew your name.

His eyes drifted up and down your worn tunic, noticing the stains and rips and your poor fitting sandals. Your gaze flickered nervously around the room at the other men impatiently looking to wrap up their work and begin their long journey, but remained silent, deferring to the general.

"You will come with us," was all he said, his voice booming in the small room. Your blood ran cold and panic seized your throat.

"But the choices have already been made-"

"I am paying. I believe I am allowed to decide how many whores we bring along."

You clamped your mouth shut, brows furrowing in anger. How foolish you were to assume he was a man of honor, a man who wanted to help you when he bought your meager wares in the market. As it turned out, he was no better than any other, only out to seek pleasure between your legs.

At that point, you knew better than to argue. Your fate was sealed. Begrudgingly, you forced yourself to follow after the other chosen women, walking past the high ranking officials who sized you up as you went.

The army was to travel by ship. Or multiple ships, to be exact. The women were counted off and told to stand in smaller groups, one handful of whores for each ship of hungry soldiers. When your group was assigned, you heard that familiar powerful voice come out of nowhere once again, stopping everybody in their paths.

"She is to travel on mine," General Acacius announced. A few men exchanged confused glances and Acacius grew irritated. "That one," he clarified, pointing directly at you. The other men quickly nodded and shuffled you into another group, and you thought that would be the end of it, but then he spoke again as the others began to board.

"She will stay in my chambers."

If the soldiers were surprised, they hid it well, but you didn't. You whipped around and glared at him defiantly, a litany of disrespectful curses on the tip of your tongue. Thankfully, you remembered your place and who you were speaking to and caught yourself before you got killed, but as you turned to board the ship, you noticed an amused smirk play across the general's lips.

A young solider shoved you into the general's quarters, ordering you to not go through his things or they would cut off your hands, then slammed the door shut, leaving you all alone. The rest of the women had gone below deck, most likely to a shared room that was filthy and freezing cold. You, on the other hand, had a beautiful soft bed and a roaring fire to warm yourself by a small wooden dining table. There was a bookshelf tucked into the corner and your fingers itched to pull the books out and examine them, but you didn't dare. Instead, you sat on the small cushioned bench next to the only porthole in the room, tucking your knees against your chest protectively while you waited for the inevitable.

Sleep took hold of you at some point while you waited for the general to retire. The last thing you remembered was the open sea and the glorious golden sun beginning to dip just below the horizon. When you awoke, it was dark, the only light in the room coming from the fire. You rubbed the sleep from your eyes and unfurled yourself from your bench to look around, then nearly yelped when you found the general quietly sitting at the table pouring himself wine.

Your heart raced violently in your chest, knowing full well what he expected of you. And despite offering yourself up earlier that day as a whore, you had decided you would not do it for this man. Because this man came to your booth in the market under the guise of kindness that turned out to be a lie, and it simply did not sit right with you.

"I will not lie with you willingly," you announced boldly with your arms crossed. The general quirked an eyebrow and took a long sip of his wine.

"When was the last time you have eaten?"

You scowled, body vibrating with energy and ready for a fight only to be met with indifference.

"I am not hungry."

"You will eat or you will die," he said, avoiding your eye and standing to collect a plate of food by the door. He dropped it onto the table and pointed angrily at it. "Eat."

"Why?"

"You need your strength, you are frail."

"You do not like your whores thin, then?" you shot back. Acacius clenched his jaw, eyes still cast down. "You wish to fatten me up so you have something to hold onto when you force my legs apart?"

"That is enough!" he roared, fiery eyes finally finding yours and pinning you with an intense stare that had you trembling. "I will not be forcing you to do anything except eat. Now sit down, do not test my patience."

It was a combination of fear and hunger that made you obey, sinking down into the chair opposite his where the plate of lukewarm food awaited you. Acacius sat down and picked up his goblet, watching you from over the rim as you slowly began to pick at the food. You both remained silent while you ate and he drank, the only sound to be heard was the crackling from the fire and the distant laughter and yells from his men in the galley below.

He was right. You hadn't eaten in days. It was no wonder you fell asleep so quickly earlier. You wanted to express your thanks, but you were too stubborn. Instead, you finished your food and put the plate in the basin of water by the door before looking around the room once again. It was easily the nicest room on the ship. You had to imagine most of the soldiers would be sleeping in hammocks stacked on top of one another down below, but the general had the biggest, softest looking bed you had ever seen in your life.

But there was only one.

He watched you from his place at the table, studying your face as you worked out the mechanics.

"I will not force myself upon you if we share the bed," he said, dragging your attention back to him. He was still in his armor, all shiny and clean from the public celebration that took place prior to the army's departure.

"Why am I here, if not to pleasure you?" you asked. You sounded calmer than before but you were still very much on edge.

"You believe I would find pleasure in forcing myself upon a woman?" he questioned before draining his cup. You thought about it for a moment and shrugged.

"Perhaps. Yes."

He stared down at his empty chalice, your heinous opinion of him rolling around in his head and making his chest ache.

"Well, I do not," he proclaimed, standing up quickly and causing his chair to almost topple backwards. He began to unhook his heavy armor, dropping it into a pile on the floor until he was down to his tunic.

"If we were to lie together, it would be because you wish it so," he said softly with his back to you. You swallowed thickly.

"What am I to do here, then?" you asked as he began to turn down his sheets. He slid his tired body into bed and sighed.

"Whatever you like. So long as you stay in this room, you will remain unharmed."

You blinked rapidly, desperately trying to put the pieces together.

"That is all?"

"Yes. That is all. My only wish is you are safe and fed."

You couldn't help it. You had to ask.

"But... why?"

But the general rolled onto his side, effectively ending your conversation and leaving you wondering what you had gotten yourself into.

That first night, you did not share his bed. You slept on the bench by your porthole, curled up small, arms wrapped around yourself protectively until the sun rose. When you awoke, the general was gone, but a plate of food was left on the table for you.

The first week on the ship went exactly the same. You stayed in his chambers, staring out at the sea or sleeping until he returned way past dark with some food for you and a tired look in his eye. And every night, you slept on the bench, still far too distrusting of him.

The second week, the general brought a game with him at dinner time. Two cups and two wooden dice. The idea was you had to guess what you would roll. If you won, you got whatever you bet on the round. It wasn't that entertaining at first since you had only the clothes on your back and nothing else, but what you did have were stories or songs or a slight of hand trick your father taught you when you were young.

You wouldn't realize until much later that it was his way of getting to know you better.

"You released all the cows from the pasture?" Acacius repeated in disbelief. You giggled and nodded.

"I was only six years old! I thought they were being held against their will!"

Acacius laughed, the sound making you grin like a fool and your cheeks warm.

"Alright," he said once he got ahold of himself. "Go on."

You picked up the die and tossed them into a cup, giving it a firm shake and smiling when he shot you a playful wink.

You clapped the cup firmly over the table and before you raised it up, you announced, "One three and one five."

"What is your wager?"

You nodded towards his bookshelf. "One of your books."

He looked up at you in shock. "You can read?"

You gave him a fake look of disgust and nodded. "Of course I can read."

"And you have been here this whole time without picking up a book?"

"Your men told me they would cut off my hands if I touched what is yours."

His face softened and he sat back in his chair.

"No one will touch you," he told you firmly. You stared at one another, the heavy moment weighing between you, the implication of his words impossible to deny. No one will touch you because you are his.

To break the tension, you smirked and said, "So I suppose that means I do not need to wager the books?"

Acacius grinned and shook his head. "Too late, little one."

You rolled your eyes and lifted the cup, pouting when you saw two six's.

"Your turn," you said, pushing the cup to the side.

Acacius collected the dice and dumped them into the cup, shaking it while looking at you curiously from across the table and admiring the way the light from the fire flickered over your beautiful face.

"You can still take a book."

You perked up but shook your head. "That is against the rules of the game, General."

"I make the rules. Take a book tomorrow," he insisted before slamming the cup down. His large hand gripped the top of the cup, keeping it pressed tightly against the table.

"Your wager?" you asked, cocking your head to the side.

He swallowed, wondering if he should say what he wanted to say. The fear that you would pull away from him again fought against the insatiable attraction he had harbored for you for years. But the wine must have won the fight because he said, "One kiss."

Your eyebrows shot up in surprise and for a moment, he thought he made a horrible mistake. But then you squared your jaw and narrowed your eyes and said, "Go ahead."

He grinned, pulse thrumming excitedly in his throat when he said, "One one and one four."

But when he lifted the cup, his face fell. A three and a six.

"Ah, well," he said, shoulders drooping. He yawned and stood to collect the dice. "Better luck tomorrow."

Before you could stop yourself, you stood as well and leaned up to peck a chaste kiss against his scruffy cheek. He looked at you in surprise and you gave him a crooked grin.

"For the book."

He smiled and nodded, doing his best to hide his disappointment as you got yourself ready for bed. You had a small pillow and thin blanket to curl up with by the porthole, and it irked him that you wouldn't take more. He feared you would catch a sickness and your malnourished body wouldn't be able to fight off an infection, but you were so stubborn that he couldn't convince you otherwise.

However, the third and final week at sea had you shivering on your bench. Acacius could hardly sleep knowing how cold you were. He could hear your teeth chattering from across the room.

"I beg of you, please sleep in my bed," he said one night as you began to make your little nest by the porthole. You shook your head.

"I am fine, I swear it."

"You are not fine. Please, I will not touch you, you have my word."

You chewed on your lower lip and looked over his shoulder at his warm, plush bed. He could see your resolve begin to falter, so he offered to sleep on the bench in your place.

"No, do not be ridiculous. You have an army to lead tomorrow, you cannot be tense as a knot because you slept on a too small bench."

"I will if it means you are safe and warm," he said softly, his vulnerability taking you off guard.

"General-" you sighed, but he cut you off.

"Please. I promise I will remain on my side of the bed. Just stop being so stubborn for once in your life."

You scoffed and propped your hands on your hips. "For once in my life? And what would you know of it?"

He squinted at you and crossed his arms. "I know more than you think. I know you would not quit until you broke in that filly when you were twelve years old. I know you nearly pushed a boy down a well when he tried to kiss you in front of the whole school. I know you argued with your teacher over the correct spelling of amaranth and I know you poured every last bit of yourself into a dying farm just to keep the memory of your father alive."

Your jaw hung open in surprise, taken aback by the way he stored all of the little snippets of your life you had given him over the past two weeks only to end it with his own observation of you at the market.

You could feel yourself growing weak for him, the temptation to give in too much to bear. He had been slowly wearing you down since you arrived and perhaps he was right, perhaps you were far too stubborn because the last thing you wanted to do was go back on the proclamation you made that very first night.

So, you chose to be defiant.

"Fine," you snapped, swiveling on your heel and stomping towards his bed. "If you wish to share your bed with a whore so badly, then so be it."

Acacius rounded the bed and slipped in beside you, making sure to leave plenty of space.

"You and I both know you are no whore."

"Oh, you know so very much about me, I forget."

You tugged the heavy blankets up to your chin and tried not to audibly sigh at how comfortable it was in his bed.

"If you are a whore, tell me then: how many men have you laid with?"

You clenched your jaw, angry that he was able to figure you out so easily. Instead of answering, you rolled onto your side, your back to him, and muttered, "good night."

Acacius grinned and closed his eyes, proud of himself for besting you.

"Good night."

The following morning, you awoke earlier than usual. When your eyelids fluttered open, the first thing you noticed was the ache in your bones was gone. The large, soft bed had been enough to cure you in just one night.

Not something you planned on admitting to the general, of course.

The second thing you noticed when you sat up in bed was that the ship was not moving. It was completely still, and you could hear loud, quick footsteps outside your door and above your head. Men were shouting to one another and the clink of swords and armor were echoing throughout the halls. Then, through the walls somewhere above you, you heard the general's deep, booming voice yelling orders to his men. You threw off the blankets and hurried to the porthole, your eyes widening when you saw land and small boats being lowered into the water.

You had arrived at whatever distant land the emperors demanded Acacius claim for Rome, and the soldiers were getting ready to depart for their first fight.

You chewed nervously on your nail, curled up against the wall and peering out the window for hours until the very last boat sailed away. In the distance, you could see the general's broad back covered in armor, his dark curls fluttering in the sea breeze and his massive sword tucked dutifully at his waist.

He had left for war and didn't even say goodbye.

Why would you care if he said goodbye? Maybe if they all die, you could escape to shore and be free, find a new city and make a home for yourself.

Even you had to admit that fantasy was foolish. No matter where you went, your fate would always be the same. You had no money, no prospects, no skills and no family. Your destiny was already written and it was a miracle your first attempt at prostitution landed you in the cushy quarters of Rome's surprisingly respectful general.

Your nerves kept your feet moving all day. You tidied up the general's desk, sorting his papers and maps. You scrubbed at the dishware until they sparkled and you made the bed, fluffing up the pillows and tucking in the loose edges until you had nothing left to do. The room was as neat as possible, not a single item out of place, and yet you still floundered around looking for something to occupy your busy mind.

When the sun began to dip and his room grew darker, you went around lighting candles to allow for more light. You were in the middle of lighting the last candle when you heard a timid knock at the door.

Nobody had ever come to his chambers the entire three weeks besides the general himself. You swallowed anxiously, wondering who it could be and if you should answer when you heard a woman's small voice from the other side of the door.

You decided it was safe and opened the door a crack to find one of the whores you had boarded the ship with waiting on the other side with buckets of water and a basin.

"For the general," she said softly. You nodded and dragged the buckets into the room, trying not to stare at the bruises and dirt littering her dry skin. Your stomach twisted with guilt after she left and you locked the door. The other women were living like cattle and you were living the life of luxury. Not only was the general not forcing you to fuck him, but you were giving him sass at every turn.

It was a harsh reminder of your fortune, of what your life could be like. The thought of living the life of the women below deck frightened you, so you had decided that evening when the general returned, you would give yourself to him to show your appreciation, as well as out of fear he would soon get rid of you if you didn't give him what he wanted.

You remained at your post, staring out at the dark sea until you could see the bobbing of lanterns making their way across the black expanse, letting you know the men were returning for the night. You rushed to warm up his water over the fire, dumping it into the large basin. You poured some scented oils into the bath just as the door unlocked and opened, revealing a very filthy and exhausted looking general holding two plates of food.

"Good evening," you said, standing obediently. Acacius paused at the door, confused by your formality before closing it with his heel and setting down the food at the table. "I have a warm bath ready for you, General," you added, pointing towards the basin. He nodded tiredly and began to work on the hooks of his armor. You rushed forward to help him, once again taking him by surprise until he was stripped down to his red tunic.

"Would you like to eat or bathe first?" you asked. The general sighed and looked longingly at the bath.

"I will clean myself while you eat," he said. He pointed towards the table and motioned for you to turn around.

"May I assist you instead, General?" you asked with your back turned. You could hear the shuffle of fabric falling to the wooden floor and then a sharp hiss when he sunk down into the warm water.

"Assist me with what? Cleansing myself? I believe I can manage," he chuckled. You turned around to stare at the back of his head, his body now submerged in the water and hidden from view, but you could still see his shoulders and arms. They looked bruised and bloodied.

He didn't notice your eyes on him, of course. He was busy scrubbing the dirt and blood from his skin while he looked around the tidy room.

"It is very nice in here, you did not have to straighten up."

It was the least you could do and you knew it but said nothing.

Instead, you shakily lifted your worn tunic over your head and let it crumple to the floor. Nerves fluttered in your stomach as you slowly approached him, the general completely unaware as he continued to scrub his skin.

"I can think of another way to assist you," you said nervously as you stepped into his eyeline. His chin tilted up and he did a double take when he saw your naked form standing before him. His cloth dropped into the water and his jaw fell open in surprise, eyes wide and greedily raking over your body.

"Wh- what is this?" he stammered, gaze glued to your chest. Your fingers fidgeted at your sides under his scrutiny.

"I thought I would show you my appreciation for your hospitality," you explained. "I would like to repay you in some way for choosing me to share your quarters."

A small smile tugged at his lips as he eagerly reached forward, then stopped when he registered your words. He looked up at you questioningly, excitement falling from his face when he asked, "What do you mean, repay me?"

You shrugged and took a hesitant step forward, close enough now so he could reach out and touch your cunt if he chose.

"I realized today my fate could have been much harsher," you explained. "I have not been showing you my appreciation and respect, and in return, I wish to give you my body to use as you see fit."

Acacius frowned and turned his head away, searching for the cloth so he could continue cleaning himself.

"I do not want your body as payment, I believe I told you that weeks ago."

"You said we would not lie together unless I wished it so," you protested. "I now wish it."

"You wish to lay with me out of obligation, not desire. That is not something I want."

Embarrassment and confusion flooded your mind as you slowly stretched your arms across your exposed body, trying to hide yourself out of shame.

"I apologize-"

"Get yourself decent and eat," he commanded without looking up. His voice sounded hard and cold and for some reason, it made you want to cry. You did as you were told, dragging your dirty tunic over your head and sat quietly at his table to pick at your food. You were confused and ashamed, sitting in the tense room with him while you tried to work out what he wanted from you. The idea of wanting a man out of desire never occurred to you. You had grown up under the impression women of your station did not get to experience the luxury of desire, and instead came to terms early on in life that you always had one asset to use at your disposal.

Not one time did you ever imagine being with a man out of affection or love.

"I apologize," you tried again after he had dried off and joined you. He had changed into a clean, white tunic and was clenching a similar one in his fist.

"You may use this," he said, ignoring your apology yet again. He thrusted the tunic towards you and you fumbled when you took it from his grasp. "The one you are wearing looks as if it might fall apart the moment you step outside and feel the sea breeze."

"Thank you," you murmured, fingertips brushing over the soft and expensive material in your lap.

"I will also call for more water tomorrow so you may wash yourself," he said before biting into a chunk of bread.

Your cheeks went hot with shame, still feeling guilt over the mercy and generosity he had shown you.

"I do not know what it is to desire someone," you said after a few quiet moments. Acacius continued to chew and kept his focus fixed on his plate. "I never imagined it would be a part of my life. May I remind you we come from different worlds."

He grunted in response but you noticed his shoulders begin to relax.

"I understand. But you must stop treating yourself as a whore. You are so much more than that, I have seen it with my own eyes. And to watch you debase yourself, to think so lowly of yourself, breaks my heart."

Your breath caught in your throat and you felt tears begin to well up, quickly threatening to spill down your cheeks. How could you have been so wrong? How could you not see the man for who he really was? He was a man who was gentle, kindhearted, protective and most importantly, cared very deeply for you. To what extent, you were unsure, but if he wanted you to desire him and he saved you from being used by countless other men, he certainly must have harbored stronger feelings than you ever thought possible.

"Alright."

His dark eyes flicked up to yours when you spoke.

"I will not debase myself," you said flatly. The corner of his mouth twitched before he looked back down at his food.

"Very well. I am pleased that has been sorted," he replied before shoving his plate off to the side and standing to collect the cups and dice. "Shall we play a few rounds before bed?"

You grinned and nodded, gathering up your plates and dumping them in the water by the door to clean later before joining him back at the table. And somehow, the awkwardness from the evening faded away after a few rolls of the dice.

It had been two weeks docked off shore on some foreign land. You hadn't left his room in over a month and you were beginning to feel insane. You told him as much early one morning when he was dressing for battle. It was still dark outside. Acacius had mentioned he wanted to arrive on shore before dawn so that he might get into position under the cover of night.

"When I return tonight, I will take you up on the deck for some fresh air," he promised as he cinched up his armor. "Do not leave this room when I am not here."

"Why not? Are your men not with you during the daytime?" you asked from his bed.

"It is not my men I worry about," he explained, sheathing his sword after lacing up his sandals.

"Then what do you worry for?"

"I worry about everything," he confessed. His hand was on the doorknob poised to leave, but he stopped to turn to you one last time. "I do not trust the soldiers from this city not to try to climb aboard the ships whilst we are gone. It is important the ships appear empty."

You nodded in understanding before burrowing back in his sheets and he couldn't help but smile at the sight of you looking comfortable and radiant in his bed.

"Behave, my dove, and we may dine on the deck tonight," he said, making you smile wide. He slipped quietly out of his room and locked the door behind him, fearful if he lingered any longer, he may not leave the ship the whole day.

You spent the afternoon reading and bathing and cleaning the general's dirty clothes in the extra water he had brought up after he left. You weren't sure how it happened, but the two of you had fallen into a life of domesticity amidst war without even sharing so much as a kiss.

What surprised you the most was you enjoyed it. You enjoyed tending to his things and cleaning what you could during the day, and then caring for him at night when he returned all bloodied and tired.

It had not once crossed your mind that he may not return until it happened.

That night, you saw the lanterns bobbing over the water, your signal to begin heating up his water for a bath. Your hair smelled like the expensive oils you poured into his water from your own bath earlier. You smiled to yourself when you thought of smelling like him, and him of you.

Heavy footsteps landed on the wooden floorboards above your head and outside your door. At first, nothing seemed amiss. Acacius usually didn't come to his room right away. He typically visited the wounded soldiers in the infirmary, making sure they were well tended to and fed before doing his rounds, assigning a night crew, and then finally gathering food for you both before retiring for the evening.

But more time passed than usual. You could tell because your stomach began to rumble and his water grew lukewarm. You paced around the room, ears straining to hear the voices from the other soldiers, trying to discern anything from their muffled conversations.

It wasn't until two hours went by that you heard a sharp rap at the door and a man's voice echoing on the other side, announcing he brought you food.

Your blood went cold and you wondered if you should open the door, but then you remembered Acacius told you he wasn't worried about his own men, the underlying message being that his soldiers would never touch what was his. So after a moment's hesitation, you swung open the door.

"Here," a young man said, shoving one plate of food towards you. His face was stained with dried blood and dirt and you frowned before taking the food and thanking him softly.

"Where is the general?" you asked timidly.

"He fell in battle," he grumbled before turning away. Your heart plummeted as you reached out and grabbed his shoulder, taking him by surprise.

"What do you mean?" you exclaimed. Fear and adrenaline mixed with something foreign coursed through your veins as you felt your lower lip tremble. The solider shook you off with disgust before stepping back.

"He was struck down. Last I saw of him he was lying still on the battlefield."

When he saw the look of despair on your face, he took pity on you.

"Others were assisting him, his body will return to Rome," he assured you before giving you a firm nod and disappearing down the long hall, leaving you to collapse into a fit of sobs behind the locked door.

The feeling you had in your chest was similar to the way you felt when your father passed, but something was different. It felt like a piece of you went dark, like you may never smile or laugh ever again. Grief consumed every fiber of your being and you found yourself crawling into his bed, face streaked with tears so thick you could hardly see your hands reach for his pillow. You pulled it tightly against your chest and you curled up around it, muffling your wails until your head began to pound and your body felt weak.

You drifted in and out of sleep, tossing and turning until the room grew cold and the fire dissolved into embers. You stood and wrapped a blanket around yourself, sniffling and shuffling over to the fire to stoke the flames wearing the general's spare tunic he had gifted you. After a few minutes, the fire roared back to life and you sat back with a heavy sigh.

Just as you were wondering what you would do come morning and how you would ever be able to move on without him, you heard footsteps approaching. You whipped around in fear and tightened your grip on the blanket. With the general no longer around to protect you, you had assumed the other men would eventually come looking for you, but you had to admit you didn't expect it so fast.

You curled yourself into a ball on your old bench, staring at the doorknob, expecting to see it jiggle and eventually forced open from the other side, but to your surprise the lock clicked quietly and the door slowly creaked open.

When you saw the general appear, limping and bloodied but still alive, you practically screamed. You jumped to your feet and rushed over, moments away from throwing yourself into his arms before you caught yourself.

"Acacius," you whispered in disbelief, the informality slipping easily past your lips for the very first time. He gave you a tired smile and locked the door behind him.

"I apologize for missing dinner," he said. You laughed as two fresh tears trickled down your cheeks. Your hands hovered nervously over his armor as if you weren't sure where you could touch him.

"Apology accepted," you replied before gingerly unhooking the armor around his shoulders. He groaned with relief when you lifted the heavy metal off him and set it against the wall by the door to polish another time. When you turned back around, you gasped at the blood that had seeped through his tunic, staining the yellow fabric a dark red.

"You are hurt," you whimpered, then hurried around his room for clean cloths, healing oils, and salves he kept in his desk. "Take that off and sit down. Allow me to tend to your wound."

He wordlessly lifted the ruined tunic over his head, wincing slightly when the wound at his side pulled, and he sat down at the table just as you instructed. You collected some of the unused water from his bath and set it over the flames to warm up before scooping up some more and setting it on the table next to him.

"They stemmed the bleeding on the boat," he explained. "It just needs to be cleaned and perhaps -"

"I will handle this. You just rest and eat," you told him, pushing your plate of uneaten food in his direction. His eyes fell onto the food and he frowned.

"It is untouched," he said, "why did you not eat?"

"How could I when I thought you were dead?" you snapped as you brought a soaked rag to his side and began to gently pat at the nasty looking gash.

Acacius took a bite of food, the flavors melting onto his tongue and making him groan. He didn't realize how hungry he was and before he knew it, he had eaten all of the food except for the grapes. You were leaning across his lap, bandaging up his wound with intense focus. He sighed contentedly, basking in the warmth from the fire and the soft touch of your hand on his skin. He could already feel his strength beginning to return.

"That should hold," you said, sitting upright to inspect your work. He glanced down and raised his eyebrows at the neat little bandage you had adhered to his wound.

"You did a very good job. Where did you learn such things?"

You shrugged and began to clean up the salves and oils. "On a farm, many accidents happen. You learn quickly how to tend to a wound."

He smiled and sipped from the wine you had poured for him while watching you move around the room, disposing of his soiled clothes and rags and then bringing the bucket of warm water over to the table with a fresh cloth.

When you pulled the other chair closer and sat, fitting your legs between his knees so you could reach him, he began to protest.

"You do not need to -"

"I want to," you said, cutting him off with a warm, wet cloth on his aching shoulders. His eyelids fluttered with a groan, leaning back into his chair and giving in. It felt so wonderful to be washed by your hand, to have you so close and safe while tenderly caring for him. It was all he had been dreaming about for years, ever since the first day he saw you at the market.

"So many scars," you whispered, swiping the cloth down his broad, strong chest. His breathing stuttered when you reached his stomach and he tensed.

"I have been in many battles," he murmured with his eyes still closed. You hummed to yourself and continued to work, diligently and carefully scrubbing away the layers of blood and grime until you cleaned everything you could see.

"Can you lean forward, General?" you asked, "I would like to cleanse your back."

He nodded and with a grunt, sat upright so he could lean forward. You stood from your chair and positioned yourself behind him, taking great care with every swipe of your cloth, afraid of unearthing a new wound under all the filth.

"Back to general now, are we?" he asked.

Your hand paused on his shoulder blade. He sensed your confusion and he chuckled.

"When I first arrived, you called me Acacius," he explained.

"Oh," you breathed before continuing your work. "That was disrespectful, I -"

"No, I quite liked it," he said before you could finish apologizing. "You may call me Marcus when we are alone, if you prefer."

Your eyes widened and although he couldn't see you, he could tell you were surprised.

"That would be highly irregular," you finally said softly, putting down the wet cloth and picking up a bottle of perfumed oil. You sprinkled a few drops into your palm and you rubbed your hands together. "That name should only be used by those closest to you."

He opened his mouth to respond but when your slick hands found his shoulders and your fingers began to dig into the knots in his muscles, he moaned and felt himself go lax.

"Oh gods, that feels incredible," he rasped. The deep timber of his voice sent a wave of arousal right to your core. You continued to work on his back and shoulders, privately marveling at his broad frame and firm muscles under his scarred, bronzed skin. He was truly something to behold. So strong, handsome, and fearless. Yet also kind and gentle. The proximity of his body and the ricocheting emotions you had experienced that evening had you reacting to him in a way you never had before. It was confusing and strange yet also exciting, and the noises you were drawing from his mouth with every roll of your thumbs was causing a dull ache to form between your thighs.

You blinked and cleared your throat, trying to shake the heavy curtain of lust that clung to you.

"What happened out there? One of your men informed me you were dead."

Marcus sighed and sat up straight, the angle causing you to drop your hands from his tight shoulders. One of his massive hands reached back to take yours so he could lead you to stand in front of him, between his knees.

"They had called a truce. They requested to discuss terms of surrender, so I called off my men and went to speak with their king," he began, his hand still engulfing your own as he gazed up at you with his soft, dark eyes. "It was a trap. They ambushed me when I got out of range. It must have been twenty of them," he continued solemnly, his thumb brushing against your wrist as he spoke. "I slayed them all, one by one, but once I took down their final solider, an archer took aim from the wall. I was able to dodge the arrow but I was not quick enough," he chuckled and looked down at his wound. "I am not the young man I once was."

"I cried for hours," you admitted quietly. His eyes darted up to yours again, holding his breath as you spoke. "I had never considered you would not return to me at the end of the day. However, when I got word you had died-"

You paused when a sob got lodged in your throat. You knit your brows together, hoping to stave off your tears while Marcus patiently waited. Eventually, you gave him a watery smile and lifted your free hand to cup his cheek.

"I felt a grief I never thought I would feel again," you said, voice shaking. His eyes searched your face, watching the way your anguish rolled through you at the memory. He swallowed tightly and, with his other hand, gently gripped your waist.

"Tell me," he whispered, "did you feel these things only because you feared for your safety if I was not here?"

You shook your head as one singular tear trickled down your cheek.

"No," you breathed, "it was because I felt like a part of me died, too. Because I could not imagine my life without you."

When you saw the joyful look in his eye, you quickly closed the remaining distance between you, leaning down the rest of the way and slanting your mouth desperately over his. He moaned and dropped your hand so he could cup the back of your neck, pulling you even closer so you were forced to straddle his lap.

"Do you know what you do to me?" he groaned amid kisses that were growing increasingly messy as the heat between you grew. "How badly I want you? How long I have waited?"

Your mind was blank. You couldn't think of a single thing to say, but Marcus didn't give you a chance to respond, anyway. His tongue slipped past your lips, greedily swirling in tandem with yours and forcing your jaw to open wider. The hand on your waist dropped to flatten against your lower back and he pressed you forward so not even a sliver of moonlight could sneak between your bodies.

Underneath your gifted tunic, you were bare. When you joined the other whores all those weeks ago, they told you there was no use for undergarments, that the men would just destroy them if you bothered to wear any, so just like all the others, you never did. It had never been a problem until that very moment, when Marcus had you writhing in his lap, hips stretched wide and cunt free to rub against his thigh. When you first made contact with his leg, the firm muscle brushing against your sensitive clit, you jumped in his lap and moaned into his mouth.

"Tell me, sweet thing," he murmured when he finally broke the kiss. You were panting heavily, eyelids drooping with need as you gazed down at him. "I know you have not sold yourself to a man, but have you ever laid with one before?"

You shook your head and wrapped your arms around the back of his neck, holding him close. His lips brushed up against your throat and he began to suck on the sensitive skin there as both of his hands fell to your hips. Gently, he rocked you back and forth, sliding your slick, bare cunt over his thigh. He heard you sigh and smiled against your skin when your head dipped backwards in pleasure.

"Does that feel good?"

"Yes," you whispered, voice raspy and thick. "Oh, yes, it feels... heavenly," you told him with a sigh.

"Good," he grunted, "keep going. Do not stop until you come. I will need you soft and wet before you take my cock."

"Yes, General," you replied obediently, making his cock jump behind his thin loincloth.

Marcus tugged at the back of your loose tunic, stretching the material across your breasts so your hardened nipples poked through. With a low growl, he lunged forward and wrapped his mouth around one, cloth and all. His teeth added a surprisingly tantalizing amount of pressure that had you gasping for air as your hips quickened their pace over his thigh. You must have been leaving streaks of arousal all over him but something told you he didn't mind.

"You desire me, yes?" he questioned when he switched his attention to your other breast. You nodded feverishly, face tilted towards the ceiling as you chased your pleasure.

"Yes," you gasped, "yes, Ge- Marcus."

He groaned so loudly you thought he might wake up the whole ship.

"Fuck, say that again."

You smiled and circled your hips faster, grinding down onto his thick leg. You were so close, you could taste it.

"Marcus," you whined, "oh, Marcus. I cannot wait to feel you inside of me. I just know you will make me feel so good, will you not?"

Suddenly, his hand was back on your neck and his mouth was pressed tightly against the underside of your jaw, not unlike a wild animal pinning his prey against his sharp fangs. You could feel his hot puffs of air fanning across your skin and his teeth scraping your throat. His intensity might have frightened you if you weren't on the brink of an earth shattering orgasm.

"I will make you feel so good, you will never want to take another lover again," he said darkly. The hairs on your arms stood up but you continued to rut yourself as fast as you could against his thigh, your own chest heaving as you fought for air. "And if I have it my way, you never will," he added.

His words were what tipped you over the edge. You cried out his name and clutched at his shoulders for support as your orgasm rolled through you, covering him with your slick.

Your body was still trembling in his arms when he lifted you up and carried you to the bed. You blinked rapidly in response, poised to argue with him about potentially reopening his wound, but before you could get a single word out he had tossed you onto the sheets and climbed on top of you, caging you in.

"Before I ravish you, my sweet, what do you know of coupling?"

You scoffed. "I am no fool, I know how it works."

Marcus chuckled at your snark and sat back on his heels to peel your tunic over your head, exposing yourself entirely to him. A groan rumbled through his wide, bare chest as he stared down at you hungrily, all spread out and ready for him.

"I cannot lie. Ever since you first stood before me naked, your beautiful body has consumed my every waking thought."

"It shows incredible restraint, then, for you to share a bed with me each night," you teased, eyes dancing playfully as he stripped himself of his loincloth.

"You have no idea," he growled, falling back onto his forearms. The tip of his nose nudged against yours affectionately. "I have waited years for this, my sweet."

The idea of any man pining after you, let alone the mighty General of Rome, was a strange and foreign concept.

"I am just the daughter of a poor farmer," you muttered, fingers brushing his peppered curls behind his ear.

"Your station means very little to me," he replied, looking down between your bodies so he could notch the thick head of his cock at your opening. "The heart wants what the heart wants."

Your pulse quickened when you felt the slight bit of pressure he applied. Knowing how it worked was one thing, experiencing it for the first time was another.

"I-I was told it may hurt," you said meekly. Marcus's eyes found yours and he tenderly cupped your jaw.

"Yes, that is true, but I promise it will not last long," he assured you. You swallowed and nodded before spreading your legs wider and hooking your ankles around the backs of his thighs.

"Tell me if it is too much," he murmured. He pressed your foreheads together, lips hovering above yours, ready to soothe you from the pain.

"Go on, then," you said bravely.

Slowly, he breeched your opening and sunk one inch inside of you. You gasped and dug your heels harder into his thighs, but Marcus held steady.

"Speak," he demanded after a few seconds of listening to your heavy breathing.

"It stings," you admitted, "but it is not... unpleasant."

He nodded and pecked a chaste kiss against your lips before giving you another inch. You whined and squirmed a bit but once you settled, he took it as his cue to continue. It went just like that until he finally found himself fully seated inside of your tight heat.

"The worst is over, my sweet," he told you.

You wiggled underneath him, moving this way and that until you got used to the feeling of him inside you. Your hands wrapped around the backs of his biceps and you stretched your neck so you could bite and nip playfully at his prickly jaw.

"I enjoy being full of you," you admitted shyly, eliciting a grunt from the back of his throat.

"Good," he grumbled before drawing back his hips and slowly easing himself back inside your warmth. "Because I intend on having you full of me as much as possible. I fear I will never have enough now that you have given me a taste."

Your jaw dropped open when he began to move faster, gently and steadily working you open, carving a space for himself inside of you forever. The only thing you wanted was to have him as close as you could, so you wrapped your arms around him and buried your face against his neck, molding your bodies together as one.

"My sweet girl," he panted, mouth hunting for yours. "You feel better than I ever dreamed. So fucking tight and wet. I cannot believe my fortune, that you would give yourself to me. I wonder if I did indeed die in battle and have ascended to the heavens."

The stretch was divine, his heavy length dragging in and out of you and nudging against a spot that made your stomach clench and your head grow fuzzy.

"Do not say such things," you scolded him breathlessly. His hips stilled for a moment, waiting for you to continue. "Do not jest about your death. My heart cannot handle it."

His eyes softened and his mouth crashed against yours with a groan, overcome that you would feel so strongly for him. He began to roll his hips again but kept his mouth latched onto yours, swallowing down your whimpers and moans.

"I will never leave you," he whispered against your lips. His thrusts grew quicker but he tried his best to be careful and not drive himself too deep for fear of causing you pain. "I will always return now that I have you waiting for me. I shall be invincible in battle."

You laughed lightly, dragging your mouth down his throat and tasting his freshly perfumed skin.

"Was that all it took for you to become immortal?" you teased.

"Yes," he hissed, "a cunt as snug and perfect as yours is all a man needs to give him purpose."

His hand slithered between your back and sheets, pressing his palm firmly against your spine so you arched underneath him. His knees spread wider so he could get better leverage, and he began to roughly snap his hips. You gasped and grabbed onto his hair, giving it a sharp tug and making him groan. It was lewd yet somehow romantic, hearing the sound of your skin slapping together in the otherwise quiet room.

"Does it hurt?" he managed to ask through clenched teeth.

"No," you whimpered inbetween the soft moans he drew every time his cock slammed back into you. "Oh gods, Marcus, please-"

"What do you need, my love?"

He sounded breathless, his voice slightly strained, and your chest burst with pride. You loved the idea of being the one who made such a strong man so very weak.

"I- I am not sure," you admitted truthfully. "It feels so wonderful, but it is different than before."

As it turned out, you didn't need to figure out what you needed because Marcus knew. Somehow, he managed to know your body better than you. He knew how to make it sing and thrum just for him.

His hand snuck between your bodies and the pad of his thumb found your clit. He rubbed firm, slow circles over the sensitive bud, and his name instantly flew from your mouth, loud and wild. You likely could be heard from shore, but Marcus never shushed you. In fact, he smiled and worked his thumb faster, drawing out more delicious moans with every stroke.

"You are so beautiful," he murmured while sucking a mark into your neck. He could feel your lower belly begin to tense and heard your breath waver, so he circled his hips faster, cock greedily plunging in and out of your soaked cunt, chasing his release with reckless abandon now that he could feel you were close.

"I have obsessed over you for years. Dreamed of having you all to myself, just like this," he continued. He could sense his words had a great effect on you. Your walls fluttered and pulsed around him when he admitted his deepest secrets, so he kept talking.

"Long nights spent on the cold ground in the middle of war, I would dream of you. I would wonder what you would be doing back in Rome. I would pray you did not find a husband while I was away."

Marcus gasped when your cunt gripped around him so tightly that it took his breath away. "The thought of you belonging to another was enough to drive me insane," he groaned before capturing your lips with his.

"I am yours," you rasped when he pulled away, and when your eyes locked, he could see the adoration he felt for you reflected right back. "For as long as you will have me, I am yours."

Marcus's eyes slid closed in bliss after hearing the words he so longed to hear. "Come for me, my love. Come for me and when we return home, I shall make you my wife. I will take care of you. I promise you will never go hungry again."

Your hands grappled with the back of his head, fingers threading through his unruly locks as you pulled him down for a searing kiss. He muffled the sounds of your orgasm, cries of his name dying in your throat while your body bucked wildly beneath him.

It only took a few moments before he joined you. With his hand roughly squeezing your hip, he yanked you towards him. His body stilled, pumping you full of his seed while your tongues danced together in tandem until his shoulders sagged and you began to shake.

Marcus flicked the sheets so he could toss them over your trembling bodies. He planted kisses along the side of your head and jaw, then brushed the hair away from your face until your breathing leveled and your eyes reopened.

"Are you alright?"

You nodded and gave him a weak smile. "I am tired."

Marcus withdrew his hips, sliding his softening cock out from your clutch. You cried out in pain and he instantly jolted out of bed to soak a clean rag in some leftover warm water, then hurried back to press it between your legs.

"Better?"

"Yes," you sighed. "Thank you."

He gave you a quick kiss and slid back under the covers. He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into his chest so he could nuzzle your hair and murmur sweet nothings in your ear.

"Must you leave me in the morning? Can you not spend just one day recovering from your wound?"

Marcus kissed your bare shoulder and shook his head.

"The war is almost done. Tomorrow, I will make them surrender so we may sail home and start our life together."

You grinned and burrowed deeper under the covers. "Did you mean that?"

"What is that, my love?"

"When you said you would make me your wife," you said sheepishly. "Or was that just your mind getting lost to desire?"

"No, I meant every word," he said before rolling over and snuffing out the candle next to the bed. "When we return to Rome, I will make you my bride. You will bear my children and I will watch them play in the garden with you by my side."

You hummed and closed your eyes. "That sounds lovely."

You had very little idea of the politics in Rome and how the highest ranking general of the Roman army could possibly announce he was going to wed a poor farmer's daughter, but you knew deep down if Marcus wanted it, he would somehow make it happen. You knew this because his determination always won, on and off the battlefield.

After all, you were living proof of it.

[peeta-is-useless]

soft!joel collection | masterlist

Joel Miller x F!reader

A collection of stories between you and Joel Miller about your life together in Jackson.

WARNINGS/TAGS: MDNI. Fluff. Angst. Smut. Canon-typical violence. Peepaw Joel because I said so. Alcohol consumption. Foul language. Pet names. Soft!Joel. Domestic!Joel. Occasionally very light sub/dom dynamics. See each story for its respective warnings. Moodboard for aesthetics only.

A/N: This is truly one of my favorite stories I’ve created thus far, and it is the version of Joel I often feel most connected to/inspired to write. Instead of putting the pressure of a new series on the table, I thought a collection of stories that are implied to be in the same world would be best! Requests within the world are open and accepted!

Original Storyline (to be read in tandem)

Soft & Sweet — You share your first kiss with the last man you ever expected: your older, grouchy, overly protective patrol partner, Joel Miller.

Sugar & Spice — You lose your virginity to Joel Miller.

One Shots (can be read as standalones, but are listed chronologically)

Bubbles — You take a bath with a Joel.

dividers made by @saradika

[peeta-is-useless]

They made Dexter too early I swear to God

He was delusional, he wore a dark green henley while murdering people, he had fat tits, his ass was huge, he wore Hawaiian shirts and stupid cargo pants, he was a father of three, he was a redhead, he had not one but TWO psychosexual incest relationships, he was a feminist, he was a widower, he was-

[peeta-is-useless]

They made Dexter too early I swear to God

He was delusional, he wore a dark green henley while murdering people, he had fat tits, his ass was huge, he wore Hawaiian shirts and stupid cargo pants, he was a father of three, he was a redhead, he had not one but TWO psychosexual incest relationships, he was a feminist, he was a widower, he was-

[peeta-is-useless]

jack of no trades. master of fuck all

[peeta-is-useless]

Dial Drunk - A Frankie Morales One Shot

Young Frankie x f!reader

Rating: Explicit 18+ minors dni, please read the content warnings on this one 

Word count: 7,700 

Summary: Home has always been the boy next door.

Content: This gets pretty dark so please do read the warning, but I promise there is a happy ending, modern day Triple Frontier AU, (mostly) soft!Frankie, some descriptions of reader but she is meant as a universal (however you would like her to be bub), she has hair and there are outfit references, no age gap, reader & Frankie either teens or early 20’s, specific content warnings: references to neglect/poverty, a parent death, references and consequences of domestic abuse, brief violence, drug and alcohol references, addiction, mega angst. The good stuff? we’ve got flirting, kisses and smut; protected PIV (reader is on the pill but not mentioned), oral (f receiving – this is Frankie, come on), fingering, very light dirty talk, pet names (sugar), Frankie POV. I’ve tried to remove any overt British-isms but some may have slipped in. Please note, we’re always Fleabag coded here. Let me know if I’ve missed anything, I know this one isn’t an easy read.  

A/N: This story just flew right out of me, I was like a woman possessed. When I say I listened to Dial Drunk by Noah Kohan about 40 times? I know it covers some really hard topics and I totally get it if it’s not your thing, but I hope the love reader & Frankie have for each other helps you get through it and I promise a happy, fluffy end for them. They’re best friends, idiots in love but we’re going big on the angst. I don’t normally let my reader be rescued by a man but this Frankie did something to me and I let him save the day. I LOVE HIM. 

HUGE thank you to @pascalssbabyy for letting me run one million ideas past her & being so amazingly supportive, and of course to my America consultant @katareyoudrilling. You two are the dream. Big kisses to @luxurychristmaspudding for being an incredible cheerleader! Dividers by @saradika/@saradika-graphics

Listen to: Dial Drunk by Noah Kahan, specifically the Post Malone version, and also there are references to Homesick as well.

DIAL DRUNK

You know it’s a fucking cliche, but you’re pretty sure you’ve been in love with your best friend since you were eight years old. He’s a fucking idiot. Always has been. But he’s your idiot.

Frankie Morales has been the boy next door for as long as you can remember.

It was never a particularly nice area, but as the years wore on, the yards became unkempt, the children more feral, the parents increasingly absent. By the time you were teenagers you were both used to going to school on empty bellies and nipping into each other’s houses for three minute showers whenever the water at home was shut off, again.

You never spoke about the indignities that came with being dirt poor, of the realities of parents that either removed themselves or were far too present. You hated when you weren’t able to scrub the filth from under your fingernails and he couldn’t stand when his Dad had money for liquor. But there was solace in the silence. Comfort in a shared nightmare that you never spoke into existence with each other.

It made you brittle, old before your time. It made him dangerous, impulsive, but also quick to seek out relief in an easy laugh. When you think of Frankie, it’s often a picture of him laughing, heavenly crinkles around his dark eyes and a single dimple which you loved so much, that pulls into your vision. He always saw it as his mission in life to make you laugh, sought it out at all times as he tried to take you away from the harshness of your shared reality and gift you some joy for a few brief moments.

It was easier when you were ten, got significantly harder once the hormones kicked in at thirteen and then downright near fucking impossible once you both hit eighteen. A lot less to smile about then.

Frankie washed through girlfriends like they were going out of fashion, seemingly a different girl squished between you and him on the bench of his ancient pick-up truck each month. You never bothered to be anything more than polite. The worst offenders were the shiny ones, the prissy ones that turned their noses up at you and treated Frankie like a novelty toy. A bit of rough that would fuck them in the parking-lot, behind the bar which cast only a cursory glance over your fake IDs.

He was almost impossibly handsome, it was stupid. Fully aware of the effect he had on women, he always used it to his advantage. You’d watch with sharp eyes as he gave teachers, social workers and truant officers those big brown eyes on full blast, lifting his cap quickly and smoothing his hair to the side in the way he did when he was nervous. Boy could get away with murder if he wanted.

You were hardly an innocent in it all. Maybe you and Frankie were more alike in that respect than you’d care to admit.

Your penchant was for the football boys, preferably rich and dumb, easy on the eye and light on the conversation. You got what you needed and then hot-footed it the fuck out of there. Something from their parent’s well-stocked liquor cabinet or a packet of smokes ‘borrowed’ on the way out. No one ever complained, let the trash take itself out.

It was a minor miracle you’d both graduated high school with no teenage pregnancies and only two or three suspensions between you. Your teachers couldn’t contain their glee that you were both off their hands, but also still in one piece. You’d bowled down those corridors with a capital T for Trouble; Frankie in his signature blue cap and more than a hint of mischief, you in your regulation black boots and permanent scowl.

The thing about your Frankie is, he’s a fucking idiot, but he’s also smart as hell. There was no fucking way he was going to stay in this no horse town forever.

There were plenty of opportunities over the years for your close friendship to cross over but you both held back, something sacred in the secrets you held together, a thread that ran through your lives that the promise of sex would have cut through and left you both dangling alone. It was all too tightly wound, and you were both too frightened to go it alone.

Until you had no choice, until he decided to up and leave you. The fucker.

“I can’t smoke weed no more Sugar, not if I’m gonna get into the army.”

You are stunned into silence, so you take a long drag of the joint you were supposed to be sharing, sitting together on a ratty blanket in the flatbed of his truck. You let the haze settle into your mind, feel your limbs soften, exhale into the night air. Your eyes are heavy already, your mouth dry. You swallow thickly. Take a sip of the cheap-ass can of beer you hated the taste of but was a necessary evil.

“You not going to say anythin’?”

“What do you want me to say Frankie? You’re abandoning me. Just like every other fucker.”

It would ideally have come out as a hiss, but your voice is too low, drowning in the weed and you can’t hide that you’ve had the air knocked right out of you. Your one constant, deserting you. Mother. Fucker.

You use the pot to blank you to nothingness, let yourself go entirely numb, so that you’re giggling like a fool by the time Frankie has to practically carry you out of the truck and up into your bedroom. The house is empty, cold. The lights won’t turn on so you’re in the dark.

Your feet are like lead; you let Frankie pull your DM’s off and you float back down onto the unmade bed, somewhere between this world and the next. You’re soft and pliant as he sits next to you with his knees firm on the bed, takes off your borrowed, too big, plaid shirt in an effort to make you more comfortable. It switches on something in your addled brain.

Maybe this is the right time. Nothing to lose now.

You undo the top button on your denim cut-offs, wiggle out of them in a way you hope is alluring, eyes closed so you don’t have to meet Frankie’s. You can feel his gaze on you. He’s completely still.

You’re just in a tight white tank and black panties now, but the room feels hot and clammy suddenly. A pulse of anticipation. You can feel it in your cunt, a beat of desire that you normally close your ears to. You open your eyes, taking in the look of confusion on Frankie’s face; you lift your hands up to him to stroke at the beginnings of a patchy beard.

“Sugar, what are you doing?”

“Come on Frankie, can’t tell me you haven’t thought about it?”

Your arms are too heavy, you let them fall back behind your head, a delicious stretch so you know your tank top will ride up, giving him a better view of your soft tummy, letting your chest rise and fall with a gentle desperation you know he can feel.

His hands almost, almost, reach to touch your face, but he leans back on his haunches instead, lets his hands fall to his feet by his side.

“You’re high as hell baby, we gotta stop. This… this ain’t right.”

You try to sit up on your elbows, but the movement brings spots to your eyes, makes you feel dizzy. You flop back down again. Instead, you reach for one of his hands, draw it up to your breast and place it on you; his eyes flick back and forth between your eyes and your tits, feeling your nipple pebble underneath his touch. He can’t help but let his fingers curl around you, the softest pinch that makes a gentle whine escape from your throat.

He licks his lips so slowly, runs his thumb over the wetness but doesn’t take his other hand from you. He’s a little stoned too, but not nearly as gone as you, his eyes still bright. Considering all the implications of what this might mean.

There’s a heat at your core you need him to feel, you’re practically burning for him and he needs to know.

“I want you to touch me Frankie.”

“I…”

Your hands are gentle but firm, you pull him down so he’s lying beside you, hand still at your breast, breath caught in his throat.

You watch lazily as he runs his fingers down your body, traces the outline of your waist and reaches your belly button, before hovering just above where your panties begin. Your breath in, so there’s a visible gap between the material and the softness there calling his name, beckoning him to let go of reason. He’s just a man after all.

You’ve never even kissed and all you can think of is what it would be like to have his tongue on your pussy, feel the heat that’s emanating from him, between your soft thighs. As if reading your thoughts, he dips his head down and places an almost chase kiss on your stomach, letting his tongue taste the salt of your skin for just the briefest of moments. Fuck. Your hands are heavy on him, rubbing against the thickness of his dark hair greedily and willing him to take you in his mouth, fuck away this pain you’re feeling with his tongue, make you forget that he ever mentioned leaving.

His hand cups your still clothed cunt and holds you tight, you swear he must be able to feel you pulsing beneath his touch.

“Fuck, I could come just lookin at you sugar, hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“You don’t mean that Frankie. You’ve got with plenty hotter girls.”

He shoots you a hurt look, “You seen yourself Sugar? I gotta practically sit on my hands to stop me reaching out and touching that ass, squeezing those tits. You’re… fuck… prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

His hand is grinding against you now, you keen at the praise, lift your hips to meet his fingers and let the pleasure thrum through you. He lets one finger slip underneath the cotton and you know he’s going to find you soaking wet for him. He drops his face down so it’s an inch from you, works his finger into your wetness and looks deep into your soft, stoned eyes.

“This all for me Sugar?” He brings his fingers to his lips, licks your slick right off before he dives not one, but two, thick digits back into you.

“Fuck yes Frankie. It’s always been you.”

He kisses you then. So easy, it’s almost like you’re in a dream, wrapped in a lightness that both pulls you down to earth and makes everything feel unreal. Part of you wishes you weren’t quite so high but you know, as he pulls at your tongue with his own and sighs heavily at the way you instinctively twist together, that this never would have happened sober. He tastes like your sex and something else you can’t put your finger in. You hope it’s not regret.

His fingers don’t stop moving in you, his thumb now pressing against your clit, a jangle of nerves rushing through your spine and you can feel yourself tightening around his fingers, as he ruts his hips against you for some friction. Something clears in the fog of your mind for a second and you realise you want to feel him, desperately. You remove your hands from deep within his hair and undo the top button on his jeans so you can stuff your hands down his pants. It’s all a bit teenage but then that’s what you are? 19 and on the cusp of something, the precipice of forever.

Frankie’s dick is everything you dreamed; weighty, thick, so hard in anticipation. And already weeping for you. You wipe your thumb over the top and savour the wetness of his pre-cum, letting your hand trail down his length before taking him firmly in your grasp. He groans as you pump him languidly, but you can’t really concentrate; his tongue in your mouth, fingers in your pussy and dick in your hands, is all too much for your scattered mind to handle, it’s too much for your body to comprehend. It pushes you over the edge into bliss and you convulse around his fingers, an ‘oh fuck’ dropping from your lips and you turn your face from his as you feel heat crash into your cheeks from your orgasm.

Your hand is still tight around his cock and you marvel at how hard he is. Frankie stutters beneath you, “Sugar I’m gonna come right in your hand, can I… can I fuck you?”

“Please Frankie, I want to feel you, I need to feel you.”

He whips his top and jeans off and you’re still pulsing from your orgasm as he lines himself up and slowly pushes in the tip.

“Oh shit, you’re so tight Shug. I’m not gonna last a minute.”

“I don’t care Frankie, please.” You’re practically begging him, it feels so good, the burn of him, that it’s him. Frankie. Finally.

Inch by inch he invades your senses, makes you so full of him, moving slowly, experimentally, before his lips brush yours again. He rests his forehead on yours, skin burning with desire, stilled for a heartbeat so you can enjoy the connection of your bodies melted together.

It’s just about now that you realise this isn’t a crush, that you love him. Something that can’t be undone is ripping apart inside you.

As you stare into each other’s eyes, he begins to move in earnest, fucking into you at a pace that verges on desperate, the noises coming from him are wild; he paws at your breasts, nips at your throat and you lift your hips to meet him with each thrust.

“Jesus Christ sugar, I can’t…” He grits his teeth, stops moving so he can yank you down by the hips and have access to where you need him, your pussy stretched so beautifully around him. He uses your own slick against your clit, rubbing in tight, firm, circles, just the right amount of pressure, not daring to move lest he explode. The look on his face, it’s so serious all of a sudden, it takes you by surprise, his desire to bring you pleasure, the care that pours out of him and you almost feel hopeless at how pure he is.

The warmth rises in your belly and you tip into oblivion; it feels like love.

He comes as you tighten around him, unable to stop himself, crashing down against you in a wave of pleasure, lips searching for yours again in the dark. You lie together like this, entwined, hot and sticky, in a state of bliss and grief all at once.

“Shug, I’m gonna miss you so much.”

He still leaves; nothing changes except your whole world.

Four Years Later

Your mom died. Although it was a shock, she fell down the stairs dead drunk and never woke up again, it had felt so inevitable that your brain had taken months to comprehend it was real. A gradual decline you’d been a witness to your whole life. Something you’d been dreading forever and now the worst thing had actually happened.

Frankie sent flowers and you cried in the grocery aisle thinking about him.

Your much older half-brothers came home for the funeral, but they only stayed for one, very raucous and horrendously drunk, night. With your dad nowhere to be found, they said they wanted you to have the house.

It still had a big old mortgage, so it was a burden as well as a blessing, but the three of them promised to send a little bit of money each month and you had your job at the diner and working as a receptionist at the insurance place to keep you ticking over. It was doable and at least your home was still yours. You felt inexplicably tied to it, both the house and the boy that no longer lived next door.

This damn house was how Jason happened. Things kept breaking in it, years of neglect meant it was practically rotting from the ground up, and he was always offering to help out. Inevitably you fell into old patterns from when you used to make-out at parties in high school. It was fine. He was fine. Useful to have around until somehow, he seemed to have moved himself in and things started to change between you.

Slowly, a kind of cruelty crept back into the house. Maybe it was cursed, maybe you were destined to always be haunted by unhappy people searching for meaning at the bottom of a bottle, or the tip of a needle. Jason became your problem and no matter how many times you threw him out, he wormed his way back in with false hope and the usual addict’s playbook of tricks. You hated yourself for it. Although not nearly quite as much as you hated him.

You’ve checked yourself out of the hospital and there’s nothing to drink in the house. You crash about for a few minutes trying to find Jason’s hidden stash, but he’s drunk the house dry. Again. You let out a little cry of frustration.

The locksmith is coming in a few hours and you can’t bear to go through that process again sober. You know you’re not supposed to drink on the painkillers they’ve given you, but who would you fucking be if you didn’t spice up your pain meds with a little whiskey chaser?

You know you don’t have enough cash for a whole bottle without even having to look in your purse. A perfunctory glance and now you’re certain you’re going to have to go to the bar if you’re to drink anything stronger than some piss-weak beer from the 7-Eleven.

Your right arm is in a brace and you wince when you blink, with dark purple and yellowing bruises down one side of your face. It’s so clear to everyone in the bar what’s happened to you and you jut your jaw in anticipation of anyone saying a single word. One functioning arm or not, you will take any fucker down who says anything. You feel like a cornered cat; claws sharp, no fear, only rage and a snarl for anyone in spitting distance.

Darlene behind the bar shifts her weight uncomfortably, ventures a cautious, “Shit honey. You ok?”

“Fine thanks Darlene. I just need a drink, please.”

Darlene’s generous with her measure and a few extra coins fall into your hand as she passes you your change. It takes everything in your willpower not to break down and cry right there.

You grit a ‘thank you’ through watery eyes and take an empty booth to nurse your drink in silence. You thank the lord that no one comes up to you. You’ve set your bruised face to a firm scowl and stare off into nothingness as you let the whiskey warm your blood and take the edge off the anxiety that’s still coursing through your veins.

You’re aware Jason could have killed you this time. Very nearly did. You lift your glass up to your lips with a shaky hand.

That’s why you don’t see Frankie at first, you’re practically in a trance when he spots you and does an immediate double take.

You practically jump out of your skin when he slides into the booth unannounced, pushing another double whiskey over to you.

“What the fuck happened Sugar?”

You haven’t seen him in years.

There’s a new scar across his cheek, his hair longer than it’s been since he went through that phase at 16. You hate that you know that, still know that. Almost curls poking out from under his baseball cap.

“Jesus Christ Frankie, you can’t creep up on someone like that.” You take the drink without acknowledging it, add it to your already swirling system.

“I tried to get your attention Sugar, but you obviously didn’t hear me.”

“Yeah well, probably got a busted ear drum along with everythin’ else.” You shrug your shoulders in forced nonchalance but it fucking stings and you suck in your breath in a way that feels way too dramatic.

“Shit Sugar, what the fuck? This Jason? That son of a bitch, I always hated him.”

“You always hated him?” You are so sharp he needs to watch himself or you’ll cut right through him. “When he was sweet as apple pie in high school and you used to go out on benders with him all night, you hated him then did you? You didn’t know shit Frankie. Don’t tell me I should have known better.”

“No, no, that’s not what I meant at all… I just… I… he was never good enough for you? None of them were.”

“Yeah, ‘cause whole armies have walked over me, ey? Dumb slut was bound to end up with a wrong’un, the way she gets through men? Think we’re done here Frankie. I gotta get back for the locksmith, try and keep your old drinking buddy out of my fucking house before he fucking kills me, or I get done on a manslaughter charge.”

You down the drink in one go, suppress the shiver it sends down your aching spine.

“Shug, let me help? Is there anythin’ I can do?”

“Frankie, you don’t even know me anymore? You haven’t been here for four years. Don’t you dare come riding back into town on a white horse thinking you can make anything better. You forgot about me before, I suggest you do the same again.”

You’d stalk out but it hurts too much, so you just kind of limp away in the saddest fashion. Fuck him. Fuck this.

Frankie’s POV

After watching you slink clumsily out of the bar, Frankie stares at your two empty glasses for longer than is sensible. A rush of thoughts chasing him in circles; this was not how he’d thought seeing you again would go. It was a lot more like a Hallmark movie in his head, all soft smiles and whispered ‘I missed you’s’. But your reality had never looked much like a warm focus, made-for-TV, romance. It was sharp and hard, no promise of a happy ending. He knew he was stupid for creating these scenarios in his own head without consulting the one person who would actually have been able to put him right, tell him to stop being such an idiot. You would have set him straight. You did set him straight; no white horse, remember?

Fucking Jason. He did always hate that guy. Although not for the reasons you thought; it was because it made him feel sick to watch Jason touch you. Jason was always a lowlife, although it was hidden under new, well-fitting clothes and shiny, clean hair. Fucking obnoxious. He can still remember that dizzying moment he’d first seen you making out with Jason at a house party all those years ago. He’d actually thrown up, blamed it on the disgusting home-brewed moonshine that was being passed around.

He meant it when he said none of those boys were good enough for you, but Frankie really, truly, still doubts if he is good enough.

These years he’s been away, he’s done things he’s not proud of. He’s not the man he once was, not the boy that you knew so well.

Yet… maybe that’s a good thing. His boys, his new, found-family of Benny, Will and Santi, they lift him up. Help him to believe that he can be something more, could be enough. Santi practically bullied him about it, always asking about you, getting him to pull out his treasured, somewhat tattered photo of you and warning Frankie if he didn’t make a move soon, he was going to have to come visiting.

You deserve so much; Frankie wants so desperately to be the one to give it all to you. This fear of fucking it up, making everything worse rather than creating a space for the life he’s always dreamed of for you both, it’s paralysing.  

So, instead of doing the right thing, swallowing his fear and marching right over to your place, he’s done as his father always did, and hidden himself at the bottom of a bottle. He was only supposed to be nipping into the bar for a glass of Dutch courage before he went to your house to find you, but as with a lot of Frankie’s plans, that’s been thoroughly derailed.

Four drinks in, he’s practically freewheeling by the time he staggers up to the bar, again. Darlene looks less than impressed. 

“Been a long time since we’ve seen you round these parts, Frankie. What brings you home?”

“My Pop’s going into a home, gotta help him move and sort out the house. And… well…” He nods his head to the door, as if you’re still standing there, scowling at him.

Darlene’s got a tight lipped smile, mouth set in a hard line; “Always been unfinished business between you two. I was surprised when you didn’t come home for her Mom’s funeral? Those brothers of hers caused quite the ruckus.”

“I was deployed, Darlene, couldn’t go nowhere.”

She just hmmms in response, pours Frankie one of her special measures, even with him already so unsteady on his feet. People don’t always know the best ways to show love and care.

He’s knee-deep into a nonsense conversation with some of the old timers around the bar, tongue thick with booze, when Jason makes an appearance. Frankie doesn’t doubt that Mommy dearest bailed out her golden boy without a word of reproach and now he’s tipped himself straight back into the nearest bar. Fucking typical. 

Frankie knew he would be mad if he saw Jason, but the force that descends on him, the pure rage that flows through his veins, it takes even him by surprise.

He’s been in plenty of bar fights before, hell, for a while it was the weekend’s regular entertainment. This is different, this is almost like an out of body experience; he’s watching himself as he literally launches himself at Jason. From 0 to 60 in as long as it takes Jason to clock it’s him and let out an, “Oh! Fuck, Frankie! I…” 

Last time he was in a fist fight with Jason they’d both been skinny delinquents, with only youth on their side. Now Frankie’s been honed into a literal fighting machine, whilst Jason has mostly sat on his ass drinking, when he’s not been picking on women half his size. Frankie knows it’s not a fair fight, that any judge would say Frankie attacked without even the slightest provocation, but there’s not a thought in his head as he pummels Jason. He has him pinned to the floor and there’s an awful wet crack when his fist connects with Jason’s jaw.

It takes three of the old boys to haul Frankie off and even then, he tries to go back, tries to twist himself from their grasp and get to the dazed, bleeding motherfucker sprawled out on the floor.

Frankie bellows at him, “You go near her again, I will fucking kill you. Do you understand?”

Slowly he comes back into himself, can hear Darlene shouting his name, see the blue flashing lights through the bar window. He stops struggling against the older men’s grip on his shoulders, lifts his palms up in submission, lets out a harsh, deep sigh.

Might just have made things a bit worse here. He mutters a ‘shit’, when two police officers come sauntering in.

“Frankie Morales! Long-time no see, buddy! Looks like you’ve been catching up with old friends.”

Frankie offers up his hands to Officer Danny with no resistance, his heart rate slowly coming back to normal. He gives Danny a somewhat sheepish smile while the officer handcuffs him. The other cop gives Jason a little poke with his boot to check he’s still breathing; he groans but no one makes a move to help him. There’s obviously very little community concern about Jason’s welfare.

“Officer Danny. Been a while.” 

It’s hammering it down with rain when they enter the darkness of the evening, Frankie is soaked to the bone by the time he’s sat in the back of the cop car. He leans against the cool of the window, wills himself to feel more sober, for his thoughts to become more ordered and not a jumble of regret, shame and fuck, such a longing to see your face.

Doesn’t think twice about giving you as his emergency contact.

Unfortunately, you have the police department number saved in your phone. It’s practically on speed dial. It flashes up and you pick it up almost instantly, still on high alert.

“Sugar, it’s me. Look, I might just have fucked things….”

You hang up.

You can tell by the slur in his voice that Frankie is wasted, and your stomach drops to your knees as you consider what it could be that he’s done. An uneasy feeling washes around your stomach, this is the last fucking thing you need.

The phone rings again. And again. And again.

You ignore it each time; you’re not here to clean up Frankie’s fucking mess. You’re in enough of a nightmare already without having to deal with whatever the fuck it is he’s done this time. You thought his years away would have at least straightened him out; he was supposed to be a military man now, not being picked up stinking drunk from seedy hometown bars.

A different number flashes up this time. Your old school pal, now a police officer, Danny, who you’re pretty sure is stood next to the drunk tank looking directly at a hammered Frankie sat between the usual reprobates.

“Hey hun, you not going to answer your boy Frankie’s call for help?”

“Danny…. He’s not my boy. He’s not my problem, I got enough of my own…” You pause and wait for Danny to fill the silence, but he offers nothing. “Fine. What the fuck did he do?”

“I believe he was defending your honour, hun. We’re going to let him sober up and then chuck him out, I doubt Jason will be pressing charges any time soon. Thought maybe you’d like to come pick your knight in shining armour up in a few hours? Can you drive with your arm?”

“I can drive just fine…. Jesus Christ.” You can’t help it, your lips curl into a smile. A feeling that might be akin to pride creeps under your skin, tingles in your chest. You wish you’d been there to see it. “Is he ok?”

“Jason?”

“No, fuck Jason. I hope he rots. Frankie? He ok?”

“Not a scratch on him.” You hear it in Danny’s voice too. He’s suppressing a grin and you let one take up residence on your face, it stings but it’s worth it. You haven’t let happiness in for months.

“I’ll come get him in a couple hours. Don’t tell him though, let him stew in his own juices for a bit.” You add a very unconvincing, almost too soft, “Fucking idiot.”

Danny’s still laughing at you when you hang up again.

You’re sat in the police station on the hard, purposefully uncomfortable, scratched plastic chairs. You’ve been here far too often recently, the ladies on the front desk give you an overly warm smile and you find yourself glowering at your black boots. Someone you don’t actually know brings Frankie out to you, deposits him on the seat next to you with his stuff in a brown paper bag resting by his feet. He pulls up his cap quickly, flattens his hair in one smooth move. You’re making him nervous.

He starts to speak, but you don’t want to hear it, don’t want to hear anything.

All you want is his arms around you, to be pressed up against his dirty, blood flecked flannel and smell Frankie, your Frankie. The sweat, the drink, the all of him. He envelopes you, holds you as tight as he can bear, so aware of your fragile physical state. You want to live here, want to forever be pressed up against his hard chest, soft belly, firm arms locking you in. You breathe it all in. 

“Sugar, I am so sorry.”

You don’t move away from him, shake your head into his chest, trying to dismiss any thoughts that he may have about needing to be sorry.

Your voice catches in your throat as you look into those beautiful, soulful eyes, “Frankie, I don’t want to die in the house I grew up in.”

“We’re not gonna let that happen, Shug. We’re gonna get you out of here, I promise.”

Suddenly, every phone in the place seems to be ringing at once, you look around at the frenetic energy that has appeared as if from nowhere. Danny is quickly by your side, frown firmly etched into his forehead.

“Hun, we’ve got reports there’s a fire back at your place, jump in my car with me I’ll take you there.” He tuts, “Don’t just sit there Frankie, you’re coming too.”

“Jason?”

“Jason.”

You’re in Frankie’s new home, a six hour drive from your own.

Even with four boys living in this apartment, it’s cleaner than you could ever get your house; it always had a residue of something unsavoury even after you’d scrubbed and scrubbed.

Not that you’ll ever be on your hands and knees trying to scour that kitchen floor ever again. Now it’s gone. Burnt to the fucking ground. Jesus Christ. It still doesn’t feel real.

Frankie’s bed is so, so, soft. After years of never having proper sheets on the bed you just know he’s gone out and got the finest cotton he could find, and you let yourself sink into it. You’re shaking, it must be the adrenaline leaving your body. You’d slept all the way here in the car. That’s what children do apparently, when they’re scared; they find somewhere to sleep, to escape fearsome things they can have no control over. You do feel like a child again, safe with Frankie by your side once more, letting him cocoon you away from the world.

You’re not tired now; on high alert, your nerves are rattling, and you wish, wish, wish you could stop your body from shaking so violently. You close your eyes and feel a few stray tears run down your face.

You hear Frankie come back into the bedroom and crawl slowly up next to you, trying to be as light as possible so as not to disturb you. He kisses the tears away, holds you against him, solid and warm, as you let the ripples of fear continue their travels through you. He nestles into your neck, breathes you in.

“I was always coming back for you Shug. I never should have left you so long, I just always thought I needed a bit more cash, to get myself more sorted, and then I could make everything better.”

“We never needed any money Frankie, why did you think I wanted that? I just needed you.”

“No… thing is Shug, we do need money. We do. Ain’t romantic, but I don’t want what we had before, I wanna keep you safe, keep you warm, have the lights always on if you want them.”

“I always felt safe with you Frankie. Always.”

“Even when we did stupid shit, like stealin’ Mrs Ramirez’s car?” He stutters a laugh, some of the dumbest shit you’d ever done.

You suppress your own laugh, try to keep your mouth set in a firm line. It may be his role in life to make you laugh, but it’s your job to try and maintain the facade that he’s not funny, doesn’t know exactly how to tip you into giggles even when the sky is falling in.

A simple, opportunist joyride in an unlocked car had turned into a nightmare when you’d both realised Mrs Ramirez’s fucking ancient cat was in the basket in the back. You’d practically wet yourself cackling as you’d abandoned the car and Frankie had slunk back to Mrs Ramirez’s house, making up some bullshit about finding Princess Diana (no word of a lie) abandoned on the side of the road. She was so grateful she’d given you both a load of homemade cookies, that you’re pretty sure were chock-full of her medical marijuana. You damn near laughed until you’d cried that evening; stoned out of your heads and replaying the moment you’d both clocked the fucking cat yowling from her basket, again and again.

“Princess fucking Diana.”

You give into the laughter, let your fingers twist into his hair and enjoy the flash of bright white, even teeth, contrasting so beautifully against his golden skin. You’ve missed the sound of Frankie’s laughter so much, but even more? The sound of your laughter melding together, you mirror each other in the pitch and volume, always. Somehow, over the years, it’s become the same laugh.

The chimes of your laughter, they quickly become tears. You try to hide your face in your hands, to stop Frankie seeing you, you feel so pathetic. But he won’t let you hide from him. There are tears in his eyes as well.

“You’re going to stay here with me Sugar.” It’s not a question.

You try and mull it over, find some way to protest, but you can’t land on a single reason not to. The house is gone, but with that will come insurance money and no monthly mortgage payments to make. You’ve never loved your jobs, won’t miss the town gossip that will surely be circulating for months while Jason awaits trial for his part in burning everything to dust.

You could just be here, safe, with Frankie.

“I’m gonna run you a bath. You’re gonna love the tub Shug, it’s enormous. Santi’s got some bubbles I’m gonna steal.”

He washes it all away.

This new beginning is clean, soft, with Frankie right beside you.

You sit in the bath with your knees pulled into your chest, water almost scalding, just how you love it. Frankie is squeezed in behind you, his large frame somehow wrapped around you and his legs must be uncomfortable, but he doesn’t complain, uses a sponge to sop your skin so you’re soaking. In another time it might have been sexy to have your wet skin slippery against each other, but this feels different. Almost ceremonial, there’s a hushed quiet between you.

He’s so gentle, knows you’re still hurting, cleaning every scrap of your skin until it’s practically shining. He uses a jug to wash your hair; you tip your head back and gaze at him, watch the frown etched into that beautiful face, he’s concentrating so hard he doesn’t notice for a few moments, tiniest hint of his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth, but when your eyes do connect he gives you a wicked grin.

That’s him, that’s your Frankie.

He uses his fingertips to run the shampoo through your locks, rubbing circles into your scalp with a pressure that feels as close to bliss as you can get. He rinses your hair clean and then repeats the process with the conditioner, twisting your hair into a tight coil to remove the excess water. You’re never felt cleaner in your life.

You let yourself lie back against his broad chest, eyes closed, hand now on Frankie’s knee. Thumb running against the dark hairs and hard bone. Frankie’s chin is resting on your shoulder, a tickle of his scruff against you as he lets his hand trail down your left arm, the right is hooked over the side of the bath as you try and not get the brace wet. 

Something flickers, the energy shifts almost imperceptibly; you stretch out your legs and turn your face with the tiniest of movements so that your lips are a breath away from him.

“Shug….” Whatever he was going to say, you kiss it away.

He carries you, wrapped in the softest of towels, back to his bedroom. Peppering kisses all over your face, naked as the day he was born, golden skin still shiny wet. You’re near hysterical in your laughter when you hear Santi exclaim a ‘holy shit Frankie’ as he catches sight of him in the corridor. Frankie just gives him the biggest grin you’ve ever seen and pushes open the bedroom door with his shoulder.

He carries you over the threshold like a newlywed, “Been dreamin’ about your pussy for four years Shug, I hope you’re ready.”

You wrap your arm tighter round his broad shoulders, lean into the shell of his ear, “Take me to bed or lose me forever Frankie.”

The laughter barrels out of you both, a thousand recollections of movie nights tucked up together to keep warm, empty tummies but the glow of the TV keeping you both distracted. No cable, you’d just had to watch whatever was on. Must have seen Top Gun thirty times.

This is you and Frankie; a quilt of memories that holds you together, wrapped in long, hungry summers, holding each other in the dark as a TV flickers, or hiding in the garden while a storm rages in your kitchen. Maybe you’d like to forget some of these squares, sown into your consciousness against your will, a patchwork of the depths of despair you’ve experienced together.

Frankie was always your light in the dark, you were his comfort in the chaos. Now it’s time to make new memories.  

For Frankie, being between your thighs is like an act of worship. He lets out a hum of pleasure that you can feel at your very core as he trails kisses down your tingling flesh, rubbing that fine nose deliberately against your clit and letting his tongue explore you. He’s taking his time, enjoying each pulse of his tongue, each graze of his teeth against the softness of you, swirling your slick with his own spit, so set on his path to make you come undone for him. He flattens his tongue, moving his head quickly from side to side and you buck against him, but he’s pressing you firmly down by the hips, not letting you wiggle free as a stream of almost incoherent obscenities escape your quivering lips.

“Jesus, fuck, Frankie, feels so good, please, please, shit, please, don’t stop.”

He laughs at the merest suggestion and it sends another wave of pleasure through you, you begin to mirror his laughter, but it disappears into the air as a gasp when he pushes two fingers into you, focusing his licks and nips on your clit as he works to find the softest spot in you, curling and pulsing so that you’re a mess of want and ecstasy underneath him.

You prop yourself up on your good elbow so you can watch him under hooded eyes, his eyes are glistening with delight, blown black with desire, pulsing his tongue in time with the rhythm of his fingers. You groan with pleasure, a warmth spiralling up your spine and the fucker actually winks at you as you fall apart.

Bliss on bliss, you clutch at his hair, pulling at it and letting your head roll back as your orgasm washes over you and you throb around his fingers. 

He kisses you deeply, your release wet around his scruff and you can’t get enough, feel desperate for more kisses, more sex, more Frankie. You reach for his hard cock and hook your leg over his thick thigh, dragging him into your heat. Fuck it feels good, it feels right. The stretch is divine, he has to stop kissing you to let out a groan of pleasure, snapping back his hips and diving deep into you again and again.  

You’re both panting by the time he pulls you up onto your knees, holding you tight against his chest across your breasts, fucking up into you from behind as he rubs his fingers against your soaking seam and you card your hand through his hair. He showers you with kisses at your throat, whispers into your ear.

“I fucking love you Sugar.”

“I’ve always loved you Frankie.”

He spills into you as you come around him, a heat that makes you both collapse onto the bed together. Soft, burning, blissful.

You’re sat curled up on Frankie’s lap, watching the three boys attempt to make you a slap-up breakfast around you. It’s absolute chaos. Santi is insistent that he makes the best pancakes ever, throwing you overly flirty glances as he cracks the eggs and promises the most delicious breakfast you’ve ever eaten with a smirk. You’re already half-full from the bacon Benny insisted you try and the protein smoothie Will forced you to drink. They’re shouting at each other, but it feels like music; there’s joy here and you? You already feel a part of it.

Frankie holds you close, arms wrapped around your tummy, skin hot against yours. You let your head lean on his shoulder, taking it all in.

You have never felt more safe; you are protected, warm, belly full and the lights are blazing.

Tagged in some Frankie fans, but let me know if you'd like to be taken off: @yorksgirl @ptime1999 @1-bb @theanothersherlockian @pedrosballsack @fandx14 @rav3n-pascal22 @ozarkthedog @clownd1ck @ghotifishreads @theywhowriteandknowthings @magpiepills @survivingandenduring @mothandpidgeon @bitchwitch1981 @bitchesuntitled @freelancearsonist @misstokyo7love @chronically-ghosted @readingiskeepingmegoing @sp00kymulderr @survivingandenduring

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JOEL MILLER THIS

JOEL MILLER THAT

BUT HAVE YOU CONSIDERED

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Being so normal about this :)

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My toxic trait is that I think I can understand my favorite media/characters more than anyone else💀

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gabriel luna is so fuckin fine can not wait to see him commit atrocities <3

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Wholeheartedly agree🙇‍♀️ I need my man.

PSA

We need more Tommy Miller fics. That is all.

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Not me submitting most of the list💀 Sorry not sorry🖤

ppcu fic recs submitted by the community ♥️

hi everyone! thank you so much for the love on my initial post! i had so much fun putting this list together! i’ll be making more rec posts so my asks/dm’s are always open if you have anything you’d like to submit ♥️

Three’s Company by @pennyserenade - submitted by @whatsnewalycat

what aly said: Listen. I think about ex-husband dieter bravo all of the fucking time. This work especially is just… ugh. Amazing. Miranda’s prose is out of this world. It’s inspired and unique and idk I love her writing style so much. Also, obviously, this pairing is 😮‍💨🔥

Destiny and Deliverance by @mysterious-moonstruck-musings - submitted by @bitchwitch1981

what zelly said: It is so well written and detailed. Mysty put so much effort into research for the story and it 100% paid off. I have become so emotionally attached to the characters that I don't think I will ever let them go.

Someone’s Wife in the Boat of Someone’s Husband by @netherfeildren - submitted by @peeta-is-useless and @futuraa-free

what peeta-is-useless said: “Someone’s wife in the boat with someone’s husband” is such a beautiful fic that literally feels like you’re reading a novel. It completely draws you in and connects you with the characters. Basically, you come for spice and stay for a gorgeous plot😭

what bella said: This is probably one of the first Joel fics I ever read when i joined the fandom, it’s everything you want it to be: it will make you cry, it will make your heart melt and it will make you wish this version of Joel Miller was real. Plus Vic is an incredible writer all around.

Someone to be thankful for by @joelsgreys - submitted by @peeta-is-useless

what they said: Someone to be thankful for” is really a cute little one shot for Thanksgiving that captures family trauma and throws in a side of finding love and healing. Again, gorgeous story by an amazing writer.

Good to Me by @tonysopranosrobe/swiftispunk13 on ao3 - submitted by @peeta-is-useless

what they said: “Good to me” is one I found quite a while ago and I thought that I wouldn’t be into the plot but then I started reading just because and swiftispunk trapped me into this alt universe, porn with feelings goodness. I’ve been so in love with many of their fics though.

Red Light by @kiwisbell on ao3 - submitted by @peeta-is-useless

what they said: Red Light” is not something I would normally read at all. I’m not usually here for the dark stuff… however this was so good and you really get into the head of someone who thinks he’s doing the right thing- also it’s really fucking hot.

Soft & Sweet + Sugar & Spice by @cavillscurls - submitted by @peeta-is-useless

Soft & Sweet” and “Sugar & Spice” are so lovely. I don’t even have that much to say- they really are the definition of what I look for when I want Jackson Joel🖤 fluff, spice, a little angst and it’s tied up in a little bow.

A Lover’s Pinch by @hier--soir - submitted by @peeta-is-useless

what they said: “A lover’s pinch” is one I can never stray far from. I always find myself coming back because it also reads like the most beautiful novel. Just the progression and spice to feelings ratio- aghhhh. Like the perfect fic.

Gravity by @insomniamamma - submitted by @fromthedeskoftheraven

what raven said: She's a lovely person, brilliant wordsmith, and master of writing Ezra and the Prospect universe, and I think everyone needs to read her work (and whatever you do, do not miss her Prickle'verse fics, because they are sublime) 💖

Dark Shades of Innocence Lost by @mermaidgirl30 - self submission

what jamie said: it’s just my favorite that I’ve written and would love to spread the love to others who might not have gotten the chance to read or see it ☺️

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Well this was absolutely beautiful and the definition of what I’ve been looking for as far as Marcus fics😭🖤 perfect mix of adoration and spice, exactly how I love them.

Broken Vows

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x Temple Maiden!Reader

Summary: When Marcus receives word that he is to be sent to the arena, he must decide where his true loyalties lie.

Rating: Explicit 18+ (By proceeding to read beyond this warning, you are agreeing that you are 18 years or older)

Content: Explicit Smut (Possessive, Breeding Kink, Mention of Pregnancy, some hunter/prey dynamic)

Word Count: 1.8K

Masterlist

He wants to burn it. 

Wants to take the scroll and fling it into the flames, watch it disintegrate into nothing but smoke and ash and charred remnants of words scratched out in pretty gilded ink.

White and gold. How they love to dress it all up in white and gold. The emperors. The chariots. The parades. The decrees. Him.

Make it look like something sent by someone holy and they’ll forget it’s just a trick of humanity. 

He never thought they’d do it to him. And maybe that had been foolish. So fucking foolish to think his loyalty meant something, because now he realizes that he had been safer on his battlefield. Had been safer on his daily walks beside Acheron than he was strolling through the streets of Rome.

His fist tightens around the scroll, the paper creasing in his palm before he rolls it out and reads it again and again and again. As if the words may change. 

They’d condemned him to the arena. Sentenced him to death in their flowing decree that he fight for glory as if he hadn’t already grown up with a blade in his hand. As if he hadn’t brought them lands and riches and treaties on a blood-stained platter as their general. As if he hadn’t already given everything for Rome.

Well, almost everything. 

Marcus looks over his shoulder to the place where you sleep in his bed, and it’s the first time he hasn’t thought about how you look so right there. So perfect. So safe.

Who will protect you if he’s gone?

Gods, he doesn’t think he’s ever been afraid of death. Not really. Not until now. Now it’s this clawing thing, the lion waiting at the gate.

He’d thought… Gods, he had thought. After the last campaign, he had thought of being done, of finally giving in to the ache in his bones that told him it was time, of finally acknowledging the gray in his beard that you were so fond of tugging between your delicate fingers. He had thought of a different kind of life.

In truth, he had mainly just thought of you.

Every night he’d been away without your body curled next to his, every morning he’d woken to the cold reality of war instead of the warmth of your smile, he’d thought of you. Wanted you with a fierceness that rivaled the way he fought to return to you.

Just let me see her, he’d prayed to the gods. Just let me see her one more time.

Maybe he should’ve known they’d never be so generous as to grant his request without a sacrifice. Not after what he’d done. Why shouldn’t they steal from him? He’d stolen from them first.

You. He’d stolen you. 

Promised in childhood as a priestess to Apollo in much the same way Marcus had been promised as a soldier to Mars, you had bowed before him when he entered the temple that day, and his first impulse had been to place his hand beneath your chin, to lift your gaze so that you’d look at him.

He hadn’t done it, of course. Not that time. Or the next. Or the next. No one seeming to think anything of a general spending so much time on his knees as long as it was in service to a god. No one seeming to notice that his eyes were never on the altar.

There is a softness to the way you move. A gentleness to your smile that he was unaccustomed to after so many years spent surrounded by iron. Hearing it in his ears. Tasting it on his tongue. Maybe that’s why he’d undeniably craved something sweeter.

Maybe that’s why he’d followed you that night into the grove, chased you through the trees when you had smiled at him and ran. An ancient urge to pursue and to claim, his path lit up by moonlight as if Diana herself had blessed his hunt.

He knows you let him catch you. Let him fall from grace with you into a bed of grass and leaves and quickly discarded robes.

Maybe it had been wrong. To make you break your vow. To have you give yourself to him instead. Body arched like a bow as he held himself taut above you, as he savored the feeling of your skin and the soft sound of your moans. As he tried to go slow, as he vowed not to hurt you. He just wanted so badly not to hurt you.

“Marcus.” His name was a chant on your lips, your fingers fisted in his curly hair as he eased himself inside you that first time. A slow and careful advance inch by inch until he had taken everything you had to give, until you begged him to move while his mouth traveled over every accessible slope of bare skin. Worshiping you with the same kind of devotion he was supposed to have been paying to the gods.

You were just such a lovely, pretty thing. Sighed so sweetly for him when he hungrily kept his mouth to your cunt until you cried out into the cool night. Trembled so perfectly when he put you on your knees, one hand splayed across your lower back as he worked himself back inside the tight heat with a satisfied grunt at the sight of you taking him so well.

When he laid down with you in the field after, his body wrapped possessively around yours as if to hide the prize he’d found, it was the first time he ever remembered feeling peaceful. 

And it made him reckless.

He’d always been reckless with you in a way he’d never been as a commander, in a way that no one would have believed of the decorated soldier they knew. But he’d been even more so in the weeks and months that followed. 

Pulling you into dark corners in the temple. Following you out into the fields. Sneaking you into his quarters, his room, his bed.

There he could lay you out on his fine white sheets, strip you bare, keep you close. Your body pressing eagerly against his as he pulled you beneath him on your belly and pushed into you deep, his teeth scraping along the nape of your neck as you whined. 

On those nights, you would be slick with the oil he would massage into your skin, with the sweat of exertion, with his release where it painted the skin of your stomach, your ass, your mouth. Again and again like a ritual until he had no choice but to wash it all away and take you back.

“Need a little more, my sweet girl,” he would murmur to you in the early morning hours, rousing you from sleep so he could have you one more time before he carried you to his bath. “Need you to take just a little more.”

And you did. You always did, gripping him so fucking tight even as he kept you in his lap and let your slick cunt clench around his cock while he lazily stroked your naked back. While he made sure you ate. Made sure you were warm. Cared for. Loved. 

He hadn’t known much of that in his life. And neither had you. But he could give it to you now. He could take care of you. Make you smile. Make you laugh. Make you his in a way that nothing so pure had ever been his. He could… he thought he could. 

Such a fucking fool. He had been such a fucking fool. He should have known. He should have known he wasn’t free of the game just because he wanted to stop playing.

Ever since he’d come back all he’d thought about was how much he didn’t want to lose you. About how sick it had made him to think of you here alone without him, how exposed it made him feel to know there was no one guarding the thing he valued most. 

He had planned it out so perfectly on his return. Had thought through every strategy, every tactic, every favor that he could call in to make a scandal involving Rome’s commanding general and a temple maiden disappear. 

Whatever the price was he would pay it. To your family. To the temple. To the gods. He would let his status be a shield. His position a form of armor. He would not allow you to be taken away from him.

He hadn’t considered that they could simply take him away from you instead.

As if suddenly gripped by the same fear, you stir, shifting to your side, arm outstretched for him as your expression creases into a frown in your sleep. Your face is still puffy, cheeks tear-stained from the way you’d sobbed when you’d seen the scroll.

You hadn’t asked him not to go, not even when you’d cried so hard you could barely breathe, not when you’d let him hold you and tell you how sorry he was. You hadn't asked him because you knew that there was no question of him going if he is a man of honor, and despite what he’s done, you still believe he is one. 

He’s not so sure anymore.

You settle back into a fitful sleep, and his gaze traces every rise and fall of your body until he lands on the sheets pooled along your stomach. A crescent moon of white linen that cups the protective soft swell of your abdomen before he places his palm there. 

You could be carrying his child now. Another child of Rome who would be sacrificed to the amusement of a higher power in the same way her parents had. It’s not a certainty. Not yet. But Marcus hasn’t been as careful since he came home from the front. Hasn’t been able to get himself to pull away when the two of you have already spent so much time apart. 

Even tonight, the evidence of how weak he is when it comes to you is still sticky where he’d watched it drip between your thighs. A sign of the way soothing your cries had turned to something more frantic. An instinctive need again to lay claim before what’s his can be torn away. 

A need to protect it. Even if it means he breaks his vow, just as you broke yours. 

Marcus sets the scroll aside at last, exchanging it for a heavy bag of both your things that he slings over his shoulder. There are soft clothes and a long dark cloak that he places on the bed for you, already wearing his own but still hesitant to wake you until it’s time to run again. This time, you can’t be caught.

He’ll kill anyone who tries. 

Before he brushes his thumb across your cheek and whispers your name he takes one last look around at the gold-tipped life they believed would keep him at heel.

The emperor can take it. The gods, too. He’s sacrificed enough.

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🚨 calling all fic writers/readers/enthusiasts alike 🚨

my blog is only about a week old and i feel like i joined at a time where there seems to be a lot of turmoil in the fandom ☹️ but in order to try and turn that around i thought i’d do a fic rec list!

here’s how to participate in two simple steps:

send me an ask (doesn’t matter if you want to be anonymous or not) or a message with your fic rec

include why you love this fic!!! this is major as i want to be sure to spread some positivity in the fandom so i’ll be putting the reasons why you recc’d each fic on the post(s)!

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No, because Luke Danes was the original Joel Miller 😭 Look at this man 🥹 I love him so much!

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Ok but Grandpa!Bruce taking care of Jason's daughter. He spoils his grandbaby rotten. 🥺

Like when bae (grandma) won't let her have a cookie, Bruce will sneak her one. 🤣

He is so mellow with his grandbaby! 😭😭😭

@prettyvintageafternoon i'm pushing the pawpaw bruce agenda

Grandpa!Bruce who spoils his grandbaby to the point where if Jason tells her no, she's grabbing for the phone to call her 'Pawpaw'

Grandpa!Bruce who wears matching outfits with his grandbaby. No one can tell him otherwise. It's so bad that Bruce has gotten custom made designer outfits for the baby.

Grandpa!Bruce who has a cabinet in his offices dedicated to snacks for his grandbaby.

Grandpa!Bruce who turns a blind eye everytime that his grandbaby does something bad because they are a child who can do no wrong.

Grandpa!Bruce who will babysit without notice.

Grandpa!Bruce who doesn't listen to his wife when she says to put the baby down.

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they're identical