thepascalparadox

[thepascalparadox]

This is going to be good!!! Can’t wait for the next one

What's Left of Us - Joel Miller x Fem! Reader.

Summary:

Sarah’s death shattered you. Shattered Joel. Shattered everything you built together.

Once, you were inseparable—partners in love, in life, in raising your daughter. Now, you barely speak.

For years, you survive. Nothing more.

But when you and Joel are tasked with smuggling a girl across the country—a girl who’s reckless, stubborn, and far too much like Sarah—the distance between you begins to crack. The fire in Joel’s eyes that once burned for you starts to flicker back to life. And for the first time in a long time, you wonder if there's still something left to save.

Word Count: 4k+

A/N: This chapter is not proof read and has light smut.

CW: NICU mentioned/child death/angst/anxiety/panic/broken bone/gun wound/guns/violence.

Chapter One - A Life Once Ours.

"I'm going to be out late," you tell Joel, who's dozing in your shared bed a few feet away from the dresser where you were trying to find some clean pair of scrubs. You sigh and throw a pillow at his face, making him gasp and shoot up off the bed.

"What was that for?" he grumbled, rubbing his eyes from the five hours of sleep he'd gotten.

"I said I'm going to be out late," you repeated, your voice showing a hint of annoyance.

"So?" he asked, his voice exhausted.

"So," you sigh, "you're gonna have to figure out dinner. My parents sent you a gift card to that place you like. Maybe you and Sarah can go?"

Joel exhales, running a hand through his hair. "I kinda wanna spend my birthday with you too, y'know?"

You sighed, feeling incredibly guilty, "I know, but we're understaffed again, and I can't lose this job."

You walked over to your bedside table, opened the drawer and tossed a box on the bed. "What's this?" Joel asked, picking it up. It was wrapped in light blue paper, a bow resting on the top.

You blushed a little bit as he opened it, "Well... since you never got yourself a ring, I figured I'd get you one."

He unwraps it carefully, his tired eyes widening as he lifts the lid. Inside sits a simple silver wedding band. The two of you got married young, right after finding out you were pregnant with Sarah. Money had been tight—tight enough that he couldn’t afford one for himself.

Joel stares at the ring for a long moment before looking up at you. His expression softens, the exhaustion in his face replaced with something warmer, something unspoken.

"Darlin'..." Joel began, looking up at you.

"Do you...do you like it?" you ask, suddenly feeling nervous.

"No...I-I love it," he said, a smile resting on his face.

You sighed in relief and felt him grab your hand and suddenly you were pulled onto the bed, you let out a gasp of surprise and giggled as he nuzzled his head into your neck. You pulled away from him after a few moments and kissed him before getting off the bed, "I'm gonna say bye to Sarah and head out, don't forget to pack her lunch." Joel nodded and got up out of the bed as you went across the hallway into Sarah's bedroom.

You push the door open gently and step inside. Sarah is fast asleep, her small frame curled beneath the duvet, her chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm.

Smiling softly, you kneel beside her and shake her awake. She groans, blinking sleepily up at you.

"What is it?" she mumbles.

"Jus' wanted to tell you I was heading to work," you whisper, pulling her into a hug.

She sighs sleepily, wrapping her arms around you, and for a long moment, neither of you move.

Finally, she pulls away, rubbing her eyes.

"Love you, bug," you murmur, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

Sarah hums in response, already drifting back to sleep as you tuck the blanket around her.

You smile softly and head out, closing her door on the way. Joel was already up getting coffee when you went to get your keys, you kissed him one last time before heading into your car and driving towards the city.

------

The drive to the city consisted of you listening to Sarah's Dawn of the Wolf soundtrack she forgot to take out and humming to the scene where the main character stays in her room for months on end after her vampire boyfriend left.

You smile thinking when you and Sarah dragged Joel out to see it, he didn't want to of course but he loved his girls so he didn't have a choice.

Pulling into the employee only parking space, you realized how crowdy and busy it looked, far busier than usual.

With a reluctant sigh, you pushed open the door and headed inside, weaving through the chaos toward the NICU. It was where you spent most of your time, caring for fragile newborns and their anxious parents.

Some days, the sight of those tiny, struggling babies brought back the memories—the fear, the helplessness of watching Sarah fight for her life in this very place.

Other days, you felt grateful. Grateful that she made it. Grateful that now, you got to help mothers who were living through the same nightmare you once did.

Your shift went by as normal, talking to your co-workers, giving babies their medication and feeding them, rocking the restless ones to sleep so their mothers could get their much needed rest. The only thing that seemed strange was that the ER and ICU were on lockdown and that your higherups looked really worried, so worried they made you leave early and locked the maternity ward down.

"Hey, Mrs. Miller!"

You turn around to see one of the interns, Stacey, rushing towards you as you stood near the exit.

"Yeah?"

"Did you hear about that patient that attacked one of the nurses in the ER?"

"No, why?" you ask.

She shrugged, "we don't know, they’re not giving us any new information, but it seemed pretty bad. Anyways, I gotta go, see ya tomorrow!" As Stacey left, you shivered a bit but shrugged it off, the ER gets psychological patients all the time.

As you stepped outside, the air felt different—thicker, colder. The usual hum of the city had shifted, replaced by a more frantic energy. You could hear the distant wail of sirens, the flashing red and blue lights reflecting off buildings as ambulances and police cars lined the streets.

It was clear: something was wrong.

You tried to ignore the knot forming in your stomach, telling yourself it was probably just some isolated incident. Still, you couldn’t shake the feeling that the city itself was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.

Your car felt like the safest place in the world as you slid into the driver’s seat, but even then, you couldn’t help but glance around, half-expecting someone to rush past or knock on your window.

The roads were quieter now, but you could still feel the pulse of anxiety in the air. Whatever was happening, it was spreading.

It was around three in the afternoon as you pulled into the driveway, Joel still wasn't home and Sarah should have been home from school by now.

You walked into the house, your worry drifting away when you walked into the kitchen and spotted Sarah doing her homework at the table.

"Hey, baby," you said, kissing her head. She looked up at you in surprise "Daddy said you were working late," she said, glancing at the clock. You shrugged, "Yeah, but they were being nice and let me get off early," you told her, trying to make it seem like you weren't worried about something.

"You need help?" you ask, sitting beside her. She shakes her head, "Nah, I got it," she said. You chuckled and got up, "well, if you do, I'll be upstairs."

You made your way up the stairs, and into your bedroom to change out of your scrubs and into something more comfortable. You settled into your bed and pulled out your phone to check if Joel had messaged you.

0 New Messages.

You put your phone on your bedside table, he would text or call if he needed you. Pulling the covers over your exhausted and sore body, you let sleep take you.

"Mom?" you heard a voice, and opened your eyes as you felt someone shaking you. You grumbled and smacked their hand away. "Mommy!" Sarah exclaimed, you gasped and opened your eyes, looking around frantically, "what?" you asked, grasping your chest as you realized it was only her.

"I'm hungry.." she mumbled.

You sighed and got up, grabbed your phone and looked at the time. It was five in the afternoon and you've been asleep for two hours. You stretched and got up, "when your daddy comes home will get something from that place he likes, okay?" you say, patting her on the head. She grumbled, "He told me he's not gonna be home until later tonight." You furrowed your eyebrows, "Really? He didn't tell me that." Sarah shrugged, not really seeming to care whether he told you or not.

"I guess we can order pizza and save the gift card for this week," you said, going downstairs to look through the menus that Joel has kept throughout the years. "What do you want?" you ask, showing her the menus, she looked through them until she handed you the one she wanted. You dialed the number and told them what you and Sarah wanted, you would save the food you didn't eat for Joel when he came home.

"I have a cake mix in the pantry we can make before your daddy comes home," you tell her, flopping down on the couch and turning the T.V. on. You and Sarah settled on watching Dawn of the Wolf until the pizza came. You both ate until your stomachs hurt and by seven-thirty, Sarah was sleeping. You smiled and tucked her hair behind her ears and got up to make that cake, she would want to help but you knew she needed to sleep.

After you mixed all the ingredients together, you popped the cake into the oven for twenty-five minutes and went upstairs to check your phone.

You had a new text from Joel which read "Going to be out late, forgot to tell you this morning, left Sarah a note to order food, love you." You smiled and texted him back, "I got out early and we already ate, ordered pizza, making you a cake that we can eat when you get back, love you too 🥰🥰."

You also had a next text from one of your closest co-workers ten minutes ago.

"Watch the news, something weird is going on."

You turned your phone off and turned the T.V. that was in your and Joel's room, like a few hours ago, police and ambulances were everywhere. It worried you, something awful was happening. You turned off the T.V. and instead grabbed a book you were meaning to read. A few pages in, the oven sounded, indicating the cake was done so you went downstairs to take it out and leave it on the table so you could ice it when it was cooled down.

Sarah walked in a few minutes later and frowned "I wanted to help make it," she said, sitting at the table.

"I know, but you needed sleep, you can ice and decorate it though," you suggested. Sarah nodded and you brough down the pink icing you didn't get to use for Sarah's birthday and a few candles. As the cake cooled down and Sarah iced it, you took your portable camera out and snapped a few pictures. "Moooom," Sarah groaned, trying to hide.

"Aw, come on, please?" you ask, "Just a few?"

Sarah sighed and let you take a few more and after a few minutes, the cake was done and decorated. Sarah used a bit of the gel we got at the store a few days earlier and wrote, "Happy Birthday Daddy," on the front.

The cake was in a container on the counter and all you had to do know was wait for Joel to come home so you could enjoy it with him.

And enjoy a few other things too...

It was about ten o'clock when you awoke to the sound of a door openeing, Joel was back home. You sat up, it was dark outside and you were exhausted. Rolling over to Joels side of the bed, you grabbed his pillow and inhaled his scent. Earthy, coffee, and leather, that's what you smelled, his scent was engraved in your mind. The door opened and Joel smiled, "hey, darlin'," he said, sitting down beside you as you scooted and sat up.

"Hey," you said, scooting closer to him, grabbing his hand and holding it.

"You're wearing it," you pointed out the ring you gave him this morning and he shrugged "had no where else for it," he joked. You rolled your eyes and shoved him playfully, "Is Sarah awake?" you asked, looking at the clock. Joel shook his head, "No, I took her to bed," he sighed, laying down. You laid down beside him and started kissing up his neck, going towards his jawline.

"What are you doin'?" he asked, a smirk laced in his voice.

"What? Can I not take care of the birthday boy?" you ask, straddling his waist and kissing him deeper.

He groaned into you and grasped your thighs rolling his crotch into yours. You noticed something on his right arm and looked closely at it "Where'd you get this?" you asked, the watch on his wrist secure.

"Sarah gave it to me," he said, kissing your neck.

"We have a cake downstairs that we made," you told him. He nodded, not really interested, "That's nice, now can you get back to kissing me?" he said, raising your shirt over your head, and audibly gasping at the sight of your bare chest. You giggled and before you could unzip his pants, his phone rang. You both groaned but he answered it.

"Hello?" He asked, irritated.

You could hear a frantic, female, voice on the phone. It was most likely Mrs. Cooper, one of your closets neighbors.

"O-Okay, Mrs. Cooper, I'll be there shortly," he hung up and threw his t-shirt that you discarded on the floor back over his body.

"What's wrong?" you asked, putting your own shirt on.

"Nothing," he sighed, "She said Jimmy don't look right and she needs my help getting him to the hospital."

"Um, okay," you said, following him out of your room.

"I'll be back, okay?" he said, giving you a kiss before heading out of the door.

You sighed and flopped on the couch, so much for spoiling him tonight.

Hours passed and still Joel hasn't come back, it was two in the morning and he hasn't answered any of your calls or texted you back. You thought about contacting your brother-in-law, Tommy, but thought against it. He would be fast asleep. To pass the time, you turned the news on, and gasped. Fires were blazing through out the city, people screaming and police, including the military, everywhere.

Your chest tightened, that was close by, Joel could be hurt.

You rushed up the stairs, grabbed your phone and dialed Joel's number, it went to voicemail, you tried again, voicemail, again, voicemail. You were audibly gasping for air, panicking.

"Mom?"

You whipped around and let out a sigh as Sarah walked in, rubbing her eyes.

"Hey, baby," you said, "do you know where your daddy is?"

She shook her head, "No, b-but I'm worried, I heard a-"

You shook your head and pulled her into a hug "I will not let anything hurt you, okay? You have nothing to be worried about."

"Promise?" Sarah asked, her voice breaking.

"Promise," you said, kissing her forehead. "

You both walked into Joel's office, and still, he was no where to be found. You were about to speak until the sliding door slammed opened and Joel ran inside, covered in blood.

"Joel!" you exclaimed, rushing towards him.

"Stay back!" he exclaimed, "Are you both okay? You hurt?"

You shook your head, "no, were okay," you said, making Sarah stand back as Joel grabbed his pistol and loading it with bullets.

"What's goin' on?" Sarah asked, fear in her voice.

"It's the Coopers, somethin' ain't right with em, I think...I think their sick."

"What kinda sick?" Sarah asked.

You and Sarah gasped as a figure banged into the sliding glass door, you pulled Sarah back behind you as Jimmy, or what was left of Jimmy, threw his body into the door.

"Dad?" Sarah asked, terrified.

"Honey, c'mere, c'mere," he demanded, shoving both and you Sarah behind him, one arm shielding you, one on the gun. The door shattered, and Jimmy was growling, and flailing his arm around, Joel walked towards the doors of his office, still shielding you and Sarah. "Jimmy, I am warning you!"

Jimmy threw himself at Joel and you held onto Sarah, as Joel shot him.

Sarah was hyperventilating and all you could do was hold her.

"Go, go!" Joel yelled, rushing the two of you out of the office. "You...you shot him," Sarah said, her voice quiet and shaky. Joel put his hands on her shoulder, "Listen to me, there is something bad going on, we have got to get outta here. Do you understand me?" Sarah nodded "Yeah."

Car lights illuminated the room and Joel grabbed Sarah's hand, leading her, with you following, out of the house. You kept following him but you wished he would stop so you could grab some stuff, like Sarah's baby album or your wedding pictures. You settled on grabbing a picture frame, Joel and baby Sarah the day she graduated from the NICU. You rushed out of the house and went into the back seat.

"Where were you?" Joel asked, from the front seat.

You pulled out the picture from and he sighed and shook his head.

You took the picture out of the frame, folded it, and put it in your pant pocket.

"Can we hear what's on the radio?" Sarah asked as Tommy drove out of the driveway. Tommy agreed but when he tried to turn it on, it was only static. "No phone, no radio, yeah, were doing great," he muttered.

Sarah settled in beside you and you held onto her.

"They say where to go?" Joel asked.

"They said uh..Army's puttin' up road blocks on the highway. Not gettin' into Travis County."

"Then we need to get out of here. Take 71."

Police cars, sirens and lights on, sped down the road when Tommy turned right.

"Did they say how many were dead?" Sarah asked, looking out of the window.

"Probably a lot. I saw this one family mangled up inside their home."

"Tommy," you snapped, glaring at him from the back seat.

"Right," Tommy muttered, "Sorry."

"How did this happen?" Joel asked, a car was slammed into a pole, "they got no idea," Tommy replied, "at first they were saying it was just the South. Now they're goin' about the East Coast, West Coast." Tommy passed a burning barn, you looked away, you couldn't bare thinking about whoever was in it. "Are we sick?" Sarah asked after a few moments. Joel turned around in his seat and glanced at you, "No, of course not." Sarah leaned into you, "How do you know?" she asked. "They uh.." Tommy began, "they said it was only people in the city, we're good."

"But...momma works in the city," she said, looking at you in fear.

"I'm okay," you reassured her, "I promise you I'm not sick."

She nodded and leaned back, seeming reassured.

A family was on the side of the road, a small child standing beside them, Tommy slowed down but Joel made him go on, not wanting to chance it. "Joel, they have a kid," you said, a little surprise that he would refuse to help them. "So do we," he snapped, "I ain't risking it." You passed the hospital you worked at and the highway was filled to the brim with other cars. A man got out of his car to yell at someone and one of those things came out of the woods and attacked him, another one climbing into his car to attack the people in it.

Strings of swears left both Tommy and Joel as Tommy pulled back and sped down the road and into the city where people were frantically trying to escape. Tommy slowed down as to not hit people while Joel was telling him to speed up. When he did get through, he drove down the city. Headlights were coming towards the truck and the next thing you knew, the car was flipped over on its side and a shard of glass was stuck in your thigh. You groaned, your head dizzy and frantically looked around for Sarah.

"Sarah?" you asked, your voice loud and frantic.

"Here!" she said.

You could see Joel getting out and one of those things attacking him. You gasped when your palms hit glass and your heart pounded as the thing got closer to his face. A bang was heard and the creature fell to the ground. Sarah got out first, she whimpered when her leg hit the ground and Joel helped you out, giving you a hug and noticing your thigh.

"It's nothing, I can still walk, you're gonna have to carry Sarah." Joel nodded and handed his pistol to Tommy, who took the rear as the four of you walked down the frantic city streets. People were screaming, buildings were on fire and your leg burned with every push.

"Daddy, I'm scared," you heard Sarah say. Your heart ached, you never wanted her to experience something like this.

A car exploded into a gas station and as you turned into another street, people and buildings were on fire. You could hear Sarah and Joel speaking but couldn't make out way their were saying. You all turned into an alleyway, but still the creatures were following you. You and the others made your way into a building and Tommy was holding the door closed, arms trying to get through.

"Get to the highway!" Tommy yelled.

"What?" Joel asked, determined not to leave his younger brother behind.

"Go! You got the girls!" Tommy demanded, not taking no for an answer.

"I will meet your there," Joel said, indicating for you to follow him and when you did, you could still see the infected following, you pushed up, making sure to run faster but still stay behind Joel, you couldn't let them get to her. As the three of you headed up the hill, gunshots sounded, the infected falling to the ground. A light blinded you, Joel and Sarah as you stopped beside him.

"It's okay, baby, we're safe," Joel told Sarah, "you okay?" he asked, you nodded "fine," you replied, your voice shaking, you were nauseous, and wanted to throw up but couldn't bring yourself to.

"Hey! We need help!" Joel begged, getting up and walking towards the solider.

"Stop!" the man ordered, pulling his weapon up.

"Okay...we're not sick," Joel began, taking a step back to seem less intimidating.

"Got a couple of civilians in the outer perimeter," the soldier said into his walkie-talkie, "please advise."

"Daddy what about Uncle Tommy?" Sarah asked.

"We're gonna get you and your momma to safety and go back for him, okay?" Tommy said.

"Sir, there's a little girl," you heard the solider say. You took a step back, not trusting his tone.

"But...yes, sir."

The soldier pulled his gun up and the light again blinded the three of you. Joel gasped and you got in front of them, the soldier blasted his weapon and the three of you fell down the hill, a bullet grazed your arm and you frantically searched for Sarah as the man walked over to you and Joel.

Before the soldier could shoot Joel, another gun flared and he fell to the ground. Tommy was standing, Joel's pistol raised.

"Oh, no..."

You turned to where he was looking and rushed, not caring about your thigh or arm and collapsing next to your daughter. Sarah's shirt was pooled with blood, she clutched your arm and Joel's as he came next to her open side.

Tears blurred your vision as you wiped Sarah’s tear-streaked face, her cries stabbing through your heart. You rocked her in your arms, whispering nonsense, anything to comfort her. Anything to take the pain away.

Joel tried to pull you away from Sarah, but you couldn’t—wouldn’t—let him. Your hands gripped her tighter, her soft sobs breaking you further.

Then her chest stopped raising, you looked, her eyes were open but they were hollow.

"Don't do this to us, baby," Joel begged.

You wailed as you realized what had happened, Joel held you close, his chest falling in soft sobs.

Your baby, your baby girl who you saw fight in the hospital, was gone just like that.

[thepascalparadox]

cherry

pairing: joel miller x f!sex worker!reader

wc: 7.2k

summary: Lonely, widowed, Joel seeks company where he knows he shouldn't.

warnings: age gap (20s/50s), smut [m!receiving oral], reader is a sex worker, poverty and issues and dangers that come along with that, smoking (r and joel), loneliness, joel struggles a loooooot with guilt, mentions of grief and past romantic relationships, smoking, r is referred to as cherry due to not giving her actual name out (only used once, will be used sparingly), first part in a series though this part can be read as a standalone, new parts every tuesday

a/n: yeah, yeah, yeah, we've all read it before, age gap, etc. but this is my version of this kind of trope. this is the first part in a series that is mostly completely written and that I've dropped and come back many, many times, edited to hell, and then rewrote. It's like, my baby and exactly what I want from this type of relationship. write the fic you want to read and all that. let me know what you think if you read!

Curiosity ruins your life. 

It sets a wheel in motion that you are powerless to stop, unable or just unwilling you might never know, like a cat that sees a sparrow beyond it’s window and decides prowling along a too high, too narrow branch, is worth it. 

Your sparrow looks like a man, handsome and sad and weathered and just a little like a cowboy if you use your imagination. If this were a saloon and not a club, if there were some jaunty tune being played on a twangy piano, double swinging saloon doors at his back, not the pulse of too deep bass and the flash of girls’ teeth in the dark. Pulsingly red, dim lighting, the shadows of dancers on the walls, sticky floors and reaching hands, neon lights. 

He doesn’t belong. 

You watch one girl lean against the bar, proposition him, leave a few minutes later, pouting just a little.

Chastity flounces away from him, cheeks flushed a delicate shade of pink, like she’s a girl again, like there’s something real in her name. You push away from the wall where you watch from the shadows, wasting time, decidedly not making any money though you can’t seem to help it. 

You’re entranced; you need to know. 

You catch her elbow as she passes by.

“What happened?” 

“Just not interested, I guess.” There’s a glow in her eyes, lingering on the surface of her skin. “He’s kind, really. Not like they usually are, thinkin’ they’re doing you a favor.” 

“Why does he keep coming here, then?” 

This is the third week in a row he’s sat there, pretty and unavailable. You’d considered it a waste of time and put him out of your mind the first two times. 

She shrugs, giving a flirty wave to someone over your shoulder. “One of my regulars is here,” she says. “I don’t know, I get the sense he’s real lonely. Maybe he just wants to sit and have a drink.”

Weren’t there better places to just have a drink, to feel less lonely? 

He’s good looking and seems sad, and, well, there’s something about him, repeatedly u internationally reeling in women he apparently doesn’t want. 

It’s a waste of time. 

It’s impossible for you not to walk over, sidle into his space at the bar, close but not too close. 

“You look lonely,” you greet, leaning against the counter next to him. Close enough to lean in and smell his cologne, close enough that he won’t have to work to see down your shirt. 

“Howdy,” he answers, eyes flicking up to yours briefly before fastening to the bartop again. He’s nursing a drink that’s long gone warm and watery. 

You eye him for a moment, the sharp line of his jaw, the lines by his eyes, the way his t-shirt stretches over his shoulders. He looks tired up close, drawn in a way that points your compass toward grief. “You look like you could use another drink.” 

His eyes slide up again from the cherry red wood of the bar to meet your gaze. He blinks and settles back on the stool. There’s surprise in the pretty depth of his eyes. A brown color, cast darker, maybe, because of the low lighting. “I don’t mean to offend you, but I already said no to your friend. Chastity.”  

He says her name so gently, it makes you smile. 

“You remember her name.” 

“Well I just talked to her.” 

You shrug and hop up on the barstool next to him, adjusting your skirt as you go. He might be surprised at how little a girl’s name, fake or otherwise, mattered to so many men. “Oh, sweetheart, trust me I know. I’ve been watching you all night. I won’t bother you for long, I promise.” You can’t waste your whole night with someone who won’t pay you anyway, no matter how enticing the flutter of their wing. 

“Huh,” his eyes flick over you again. “Seems like there’s plenty of willin’, uh, customers, to go around.”

The way he says it makes you want to giggle, and one slips out before you reign it in. He’s oddly polite, and strangely shy. Maybe even awkward, but in a charming, warm way. 

“There are,” you say and wave down the bartender, gesturing at his poor excuse for a drink with one hand. “But you’re different.” 

“How d’ya figure that?” 

You don’t answer for a moment, smiling at the bartender when he sits the drink down in front of you.

You push the whiskey in front of him and then slide the much held onto glass from between his loose fingers. His hands immediately circle the new glass, like it’s some kind of fucked up security blanket. It’s hard not to notice how nice his hands are, thick fingers and broad palms lined and scarred from work. He wears a watch on his left wrist, the green band worn and stained in places. His hands tell a story, that he works with them everyday, blue collared and tired, tanned from the sun, a tiny sliver of paler skin peeking out from behind the watch face. 

When you look up, you find him already looking at you. At your face, surprisingly. When you push out your chest, elbows narrowing subtly in towards your waist, his eyes don’t move. You tilt your head at him and he raises a brow. 

“Every girl on this floor thinks you’re a widower,” you explain with a shrug. “They have since you first came in three weeks ago. And, usually widowers out looking for a girl treat them a certain way.” Your mouth twitches up into another smile, “So you’re special.” 

You glance up and meet his eyes. “And I won’t ask, but I kind of agree with them. You have that look.” 

He breathes out sharply. “How’s that?” 

You tip your chin against your palm. “Sad. Like you’re ashamed to be here, and really lonely, but not in a desperate way.” 

“Jesus,” he mutters and takes a sip from the glass. He makes a face and pushes it away. “All that just from me sittin’ here?” 

You blink and tilt your head at him. “Well, you’ve been coming back. Was I right?” 

There’s a long pause, like he’s considering not responding or agreeing. But then he says, almost defeatedly, “Yeah. Most of it, anyway.” He releases the lowball glass to slide one hand down his face, fingers scraping roughly over his beard before cupping his chin. 

“Sorry to hear that.” 

He just nods. 

“All right, well, I was being honest about not bothering you and I’ve satisfied my own curiosity. I’ll leave you be, and I’ll tell the other girls to leave you, too, if you really don’t want to be approached. I could suggest somewhere better though, where you won’t be bothered, if you only want a drink,” you lean in, brush your hand against his arm. “And, if you take my word on nothing else, take it on this: the drinks here are shit.” 

His skin is warm beneath yours; there’s a scar along the top of his forearm, a scrape and pull of hair against your nails when you let your hand slide off and turn away. 

Before you can vacate your seat, his hand covers yours, and you pause. 

The touch is brief but warm, and enough to make you stay. You can suddenly feel the eyes of all the other girls working that night on your back, hot with jealousy, holding their breath, curious as the cat finally stepping off the window ledge, that much closer to the sparrow. 

You cross your legs and prop your chin on your fist again, watching him spin the glass on the bartop and not drink it, not say anything. “You don’t really look like you belong here,” you murmur, reaching out to trace your nails along his forearm absently. “You don’t really fit in here.” 

In fact, no one has ever looked more uncomfortable. Nervous, you see that all the time. But not this. 

He clearly wants something that he doesn’t know how to ask for. Or, maybe it’s the shame and the loneliness again, tangled up and impossible to unravel. 

“We could just talk, you know,” you say gently. “Or. . .sit together. You don’t seem like much of a talker. And sometimes it's enough to have another warm body in the room.” You don’t say it, but you could pet him like this too, nails against his wrist, catching at the dark hair on his forearm. 

He fidgets with the watch on his wrist, looking down at it like it holds the answer to a question he doesn’t know how to ask. After a long moment, he scoffs. “Startin’ to see why I’m special.” 

You nearly backpedal, but the gruffness is directed inward, not at you. The last thing you need is to offend him, not see the swing of a fist and flinch fast enough. 

You nod, knot between your shoulders smoothing away again. “Yeah. It’s usually about the. . .companionship more than anything else. You’re missing someone and that’s okay. I can fix that. Or, ease it, at least.” 

He turns to look at you fully then, eyes flicking over your form, and you can tell exactly what he’s thinking. This isn’t a place you really fit in. Like him. There’s something different about you, that’s not like the others that have approached him. 

You just smile at him again, run your nails along his arm again. 

“Do you have somewhere quiet we can go?” 

His gaze casts away, and he clears his throat. “Yeah.” 

“All right, sweetheart. Ready to go now?” 

A tendon in his jaw jumps when he clenches it hard, the muscle pulsing beneath his skin. You’re afraid for a moment that you read it wrong, his tone and the shape of his shoulder, and he is about to hit you, but the turmoil seems to be turned inward once more. 

Instead of answering, he tosses back the rest of his drink and stands, offering you a hand as he goes. “You’re right about the drinks.” 

“Gentlemanly of you,” you say and take his proffered hand, balancing heavily on him as you stand. “And I usually am.” 

His fingers are light against your spine as he guides you out of the dim interior of the club, the pulse of light coating him in harsh reds and blues before you push through the doors out into the parking lot. “Not a compliment I usually get.” 

“Well, that’s a damn shame,” you coo as he directs you across the pavement. “You are exceedingly polite.” 

This is usually the scariest part, getting into a car with a man you don’t know. By the time you get to their room you’re settled, but this is where you’re always reminded of the risk you’re taking, the very real danger you could land yourself in. That anything could happen to you, and that probably no one would know or care if something did happen, that no one would look for you. 

He stops beside an older pickup truck and opens the door for you with a squeak, hand offered for you to brace yourself on again. “Well I’d like to know who isn’t calling you a gentleman,” you say with a smile as he releases your hand. 

It earns you another amused huff, before he closes the door and rounds the hood. 

The interior of the cab is worn but clean. In the dark, you can only make out a few details. A tree shaped air freshener hangs from the review mirror that no longer puts off any smell. There’s a woven mat spread over the leather bench seat, a friendship bracelet knotted around the gearshift, a tangle of straw wrappers in the side of the door and an empty pack of cigarettes on the dash. 

The dome light flickers back on briefly when he opens his door. 

You’re plunged into shadows again just as quickly, but the flash of light is enough for you to see the box of cassette tapes by your toes that you’d missed. 

The truck rumbles to life beneath you, a calming purr against the bare backs of your thighs. It reminds you, just briefly, of evenings spent in a different truck. More rundown than this one, more likely to break down on the side of the road than get you to your destination, the smell of cigarettes and your mother’s perfume thick on the air, billowing up from the stained fabric seat. 

Pushing the memory away, you point to the box. “Mind?” 

He inclines his head slightly. “Go ahead.” Then, “Seatbelt.” 

“Who bothers with seatbelts?” You ask, crossing your ankles delicately, plucking up the box to deposit on your knees. 

“Me,” he grunts.

Well, so do you, but the men you find yourself with usually don’t. They want to put their hand high on your thigh and talk about their car as they drive. They want you to lean over and suck their cock. 

This man puts one hand on the steering wheel, the other along the back of the seat, as he reverses out of the parking spot. 

Jesus, he’s good looking. The relief of his face is sharp, plunged into shadow and light as you pass beneath streetlights. 

When he pulls out onto the highway, lined with scrubbrush and cacti and hot red dust, both his hands anchor on the wheel. He doesn’t even glance over at you, and remains quiet. It unsettles your nerves further, just a little. Either he’s nervous and worried about what his dead wife would think of him, or driving you to the middle of some open plot of desert next to an emptier stretch of highway to kill you. 

You pick through his cassette collection as he drives to calm your nerves and try to glean something about him from it. He asks you twice if you’re cold, despite how hot the night is. “I’m fine,” you say. “Really. It’s actually a little warm.” He rolls down the windows so the sweltering summer air filters in. 

You’re grateful for the warm air, for the soft caress of the late breeze against your face. 

It feels good on your skin, chilled from the air conditioning at the club. He must have noticed your cold hands when you touched him. 

At a red light, you hold up one of the tape cases. “You have good taste.” 

Johnny Cash, Garth Brooks, Pearl Jam, Metallica, Halican Drops are only a few you skim over. 

“Well, ain’t all of it mine.” 

“Whose are they?” 

He hesitates for a long moment. “My daughter,” he answers eventually. “She left ‘em in here.” 

You nod. “She has good taste then.”  

The light flickers green and the truck rolls forward again. His pretty face is still, unmoving, revealing nothing. You admire it anyway, the curve of short graying hair behind his ears, the scar along the bridge of his nose, the way he blinks hard, thinking something over, fingers tapping against the steering wheel. “That don’t bother you?” 

“What?”

“That I have a kid?”

“Does it bother you?” 

He doesn’t answer, but the muscle in his jaw tightens again as he runs a hand over his chin. 

Thinking again, you suppose, as you cross from one side of town to another. It’s a wealthier area, usually you only see the inside of the motel down the road from the club. 

Eventually, he pulls into the parking lot of a hotel, imitating Spanish style vistas in a way that feels real, the front entrance manicured and clean. 

It’s a nice hotel, one of the locally owned ones with charm, not a soulless chain. He kills the engine and looks at you through the dark, through the yellow light of the buzzing streetlamp on the corner. 

“Yeah.” It takes you a moment to realize he’s answering your question, if it bothered him that he has a kid. You open your mouth to respond, but he’s already out of the cab, door slamming behind him. 

He’s at your side of the vehicle before you have a chance to reach for the handle, holding your door open and offering you another hand. It’s strange; you try not to think about it. “Why?” 

“I figure you two must be about the same age.” 

Ah. Still, surprising for a man to care. 

“You must have had her pretty young.” 

He doesn’t answer you again, hand pressed lightly to your back, like this is a date and you’re a lady he’s taking home, guiding you toward the brightly lit, glittering facade of the hotel. 

It’s very odd and sweet and totally unexpected. This isn’t how this usually goes, how any of this usually goes, and it almost makes you resent him. 

As much as you can resent someone you just met and who you’re about to fuck and forget and be paid for the privilege. Still, it stings, persistently itches at the inside of your skin, in a way that makes you wish he’d just be rough with you instead.

“You’re never going to see me again after tonight. I’m just an ear, sweetheart. You can tell me and I’ll keep all your secrets.” You say it low, leaning into his side; intimate and just a tad sweet, a secret between lovers. 

“Sweetheart,” he repeats. 

Oops. Maybe the familiarity was a mistake. 

“What’s your name?” You course correct as he pulls open the heavy front door for you. “Doesn’t have to be your real name. Just need something to call you if you don’t want me calling you sweetheart.” 

The hotel is different, too. 

You’ve become accustomed to flickering neon motel signs seen though tattered window shades, rough, threadbare carpet beneath your knees, rust stained shower drains, furniture a decade or so behind the times, a persistent smell of mothballs and grease that permeated the lobby, if you even got to pass through it. Most times there was no need, a parking space right in front of a too flimsy door, a chain lock that hasn’t been attached to the wall in at least a year. The belch of refrigerant that only ever served to make you sneeze and cool down the room not at all. 

“Never said that,” he grunts. 

“Okay.” 

The lobby is cast in a strange white, gold light. A quiet kind of elegance seeps in around the edges of your vision, deep green walls and softer cream accents, dark woods and crystal that you fear might be something more expensive. 

Plants thrive in the front window, lending an air of carefully curated locality to the space. The employee at the front desk greets you as you go by, not a hint of judgement in her carefully schooled features. “Good evening, sir,” she inclines her head at the pair of you.

“Ma’am,” he answers, just as polite. You like how he sounds, how his voice touches the farthest reaches of your lungs when it reverberates against you. You feel bad for it, but you can’t help but notice how at odds he is with the place, and wonder briefly what he does for work. 

The rest of the lobby is deserted. 

There’s a bar, you notice, and a restaurant, empty at this hour.

The warm ghost of his fingers against your spine again urges you slowly along through a dark wooded archway and then up the stairs. 

He seems mindful of your heels and how short your dress is as you ascend. You wouldn’t mind if he tried to look up your skirt or touched the back of your thighs, but he doesn’t. 

“Joel,” he says when he unlocks the door to room 202 with a keycard. 

“Hm.” The room is intimate but not small, dominated by a large bed, sheets a crisp, clean white. The furniture here, too, is dark and quietly luxurious. It smells nice, not like cheap disinfectant and dollar store room spray. “Joel,” you repeat, and perch on the edge of the bed, cool against the backs of your legs. “That’s a nice name. I don’t even mind if it’s not your real one.” 

Joel fidgets with the lock, then slowly sits down next to you. He seems tired. “You got somethin’ I can call you, darlin’?” 

“Darlin’,” you say, imitating his drawl. The sound of his voice is comforting. It reminds you of the people you had grown up around, of your mother; your own accent shaken like a bad habit when you finally got away from them. “I like the sound of that.” 

“So you don’t got a name?” 

“Not really, no.” 

He leans close to you, there’s a hint of laughter in his voice for the first time. “That’s a damn lie.” 

You smile, flutter your lashes down, just a tad of innocence. “They call me Cherry.” 

“Cherry,” he repeats, trying it on for size. “Why?” 

“Why not? They have to call me something.” 

You aren’t fond of it, in truth, but you were loath to pick something like Chastity or Divinity or something worse. At least Cherry had a meaning, connected to something more. 

“Hm.” He looks like he’s thinking it over, eyes on the far wall and then back on you, watching you curl your legs up on the bed, palms braced on the mattress behind you. “I think darlin’ might work better.” 

“You’re giving me a name?”

The beginning of a smile tugs at his mouth. “I reckon so. There a reason they call you that?”  

You lie back on the bed. “Doesn’t matter. You can call me whatever you want, Joel. I don’t mind.” 

He looks at you, eyes flitting over you again with a sudden clarity. The crease between his eyes deepens and then something firm settles in his gaze. “You mind me askin’ how old you are?” 

You blink hard, surprised, like cold water was thrown over you. “How old do you want me to be?” 

Something pained passes behind his eyes. That’s a first for you. That coy little response usually gets you a laugh and a worryingly low number as a reply. “That ain’t—I really want to know.” 

“My real age?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Why?”

When he doesn’t answer you slide your hand across the bed, rest your finger tips at the base of his spine and work into the tense flesh. If anything, he goes more rigid, so you let your hand drop. “My, my you are riddled with guilt.” 

He scoffs. “Yeah, well, if my wife knew I was with a woman half my age she’d crawl out of her grave to take me into it with her.” 

You shrug. “But she doesn’t know. And we aren’t really doing anything uncouth.” 

“Uncouth,” he murmurs, a huff of reluctant, almost laughter on his tongue. “You are somethin’ else.” 

You aren’t sure where to place that assessment. Supposing it’s a compliment, you pay him one back. “Well, I don’t think I’m half your age.” 

“You gonna tell me how old you are?” The question is barbed on his tongue, a sharp rebuke to your teasing. This is serious to him, and means the difference between spending the night with him, or wasting time getting back to the club, finding another john. You need the cash, you need him to decide. 

You have only a brief moment to consider if you should lie or not. But really it’s an easy choice, older is clearly going to soothe him. You tweak it and add a couple of years. If it soothes his conscience, let him relax, the lie is worth it. 

Besides, it doesn’t really matter. You’ll never see him again, after tonight. 

“I’m twenty-seven.” You press one hand over your heart, “Scout’s honor.”  

He squints at you. “Serious?” 

“If you were a different kind of man I’d guess I’d tell you I’m freshly eighteen and you would believe it.” 

“Jesus,” he mutters, not laughing. 

“I look. . .younger, I guess,” you say, earnestly as you can. That is true, at least. “Which is important in this line of work. I also don’t think men can really tell how old women are, most of the time anyway. I’d show you my ID but I think that’s bad business practice.”

“No, I believe you.” 

“Why? How old did you think I was?” 

He thinks for a moment, and then finally sinks down beside you. He stares up at the ceiling, fingers threaded together over his stomach. “At least twenty-two is what I was tellin’ myself.” 

“So if that’s half, you must be. . .forty-four?” 

“Try fifty-two,” he grunts. 

You think for a moment. “So not half your age, exactly,” you murmur, tentatively reaching out to touch him, waiting to see if he tenses up again when you stroke your fingers over his beard. 

He really is unfairly handsome. 

It’s no wonder all the girls had tried with him. A pretty, sad, lonely widower that just needed someone to talk to. 

Still, you wouldn’t mind if he did want to fuck you. 

“Close enough,” he says. 

“Is that why you said no? To Chastity?” 

Chastity, as far as you know, really is freshly eighteen.  

Those dark eyes meet yours. You can see streaks of gold in them, even in the dim lighting. He doesn’t stop you when you move your hand from his face to his chest, slowly rubbing back and forth. “You’re real good at this.” 

“At what?” 

“Gettin’ me to say more than I should.” 

“It comes with the territory. Besides, isn’t that the point? You can say it to me, and it won’t matter in a couple of hours. Like speaking into a void. Wishing it away.” 

He swallows and looks back at the ceiling, covering your hand with one of his own to pause its path. You can feel the echoing beat of his heart against your hand. It’s an oddly intimate move and for a moment you’re taken aback and unsure what to do. “One of my daughters is older n’ you. Than all of them girls that—” He glances at you. “Hard not to feel like a dirty old man.” 

“You’re a dirty middle aged man at worst.” 

A grunt of surprised laughter leaves him. “You’re funny.” 

“I know. It’s part of my charm.” You move your hand again and he releases your fingers to let you, eyes closing. The tension pulling at his neck and shoulders loosens as he finally relaxes. “It’s a good age though, really.” You notice the sheaf of little gray hairs starting to creep into the hair at his temples, a few in the bristles of his beard. It’s more honest that you usually dare to be, that you usually can be. 

You like older men; like the lines by Joel’s eyes and at the curve of his cheek when he smiles, the worn, steady quality of his palms, the gray hair, the not yet faded strength in his shoulders. “A handsome age. Girls like an older guy, you know.” 

“Uh-huh. Now you’re just sayin’ shit.”

You mean it though. He’s a dream, in more ways than one. You wonder what he’d think of you if you told him this isn’t your day job, that this is simply a means to an end, that you are more than this, a girl literally and figuratively on her knees. 

“Are you sure you don’t want me to at least take my clothes off?” You offer. “I promise I’m pretty.”

He laughs again, still that slightly surprised huff, and the lines by his eyes crinkle up. “You’re plenty pretty right now, darlin’.” 

“See? A goddamned gentleman if I’ve ever met one.” 

He chuckles, there’s a looseness in his limbs now. You’ve satisfied something at least, enough to have him relax. 

You don’t ask, but he tells you a little of his wife, then. It wasn’t a love marriage, it seems, but convenience. She had a child from another man, him, a daughter from another woman, and it made sense for them to be together. Logistically and realistically and for tax reasons and trust reasons. But they lived together and shared everything, adopted a third kid together. His kids moved out years before, and now he’s alone so much of the time, now. They were companions and partners and he loved her in his own way, even if it hadn’t been strictly romantic.

It had been complicated, tangled. He seems like he still isn’t sure what they really were together. But he misses her, loves her still. 

“So you’ve never been in love?” 

He blinks. “No. I guess not. Not like that.” 

“That makes two of us.” 

“You? Really?” 

“It just doesn’t seem to find me.” 

Joel doesn’t ask what you mean by that. 

You listen and touch him, tracing the thick veins in his arms, the minute wrinkles by his eyes and the lines in his forehead. His is a face you’ll never forget for how long you’ve been gazing at him. It’s a face you won’t want to scrub from your memory the moment you leave the room. 

It’s nice to know you were right, that he is just lonely, just unused to being alone. 

Joel is a stranger, but it doesn’t really feel like you met him just hours before. You move his shirt and feel the outline of a scar on his side, the coarse hair on his belly, and he doesn’t stop you. 

He acquiesces when you tug it further up and then over his head. Some of them don’t like to be kissed on the mouth, so you don’t, pressing your lips along his neck and chest and belly. You listen to the hitch of his breathing, the sigh of his lungs. He closes his eyes. If you didn’t know better, you’d say he sounds nervous.

It’s impossible for you not to notice when he gets hard. Your skimming fingers and the close heat of the room seem to have been enough. “It’s all right to want this,” you murmur. You cup the bulge of him and squeeze gently. Air hisses through his gritted teeth. “Relax,” you coo and look into his face for a moment, his closed eyes, rubbing him gently through the thick denim of his jeans, relishing in the harsh breath that leaves him. 

Joel opens his eyes and meets your gaze. His stare is heavy and watchful, but he nods. 

With deft fingers, you unbuckle his belt. You have to look away to get the button undone and slide his zipper down. His breathing hitches when your fingertips brush his lower stomach, the dark thatch of hair that draws your hand lower. 

He groans lowly and threads one arm behind your back, tugging you into his side when you circle your fingers around the base. He’s bigger than you expected, thick. A whine spills out of his throat when you move your hand down him slowly and then back up, thumb sweeping over the already leaking head. 

“You like that, huh?” 

“Damn,” he mutters against your hair; the brush of his facial hair against your temple is a delicious little scratch. 

You turn your head to suck a harsh kiss against the side of his throat. He tastes like the salt of sweat there. Familiar and somehow new. “Been awhile, sweetheart? Is this all it takes?” You squeeze a little tighter as you twist your hand up.

He takes the teasing in stride, but shutters in your grip all the same, arches into your hand. It’s desperate, and he’s trying to keep it in.  

You like them like this, shivery and needy, and had not expected this man to be that way. You move your fist along his length, warm and heavy in your palm, pulsing with need in your grip. It makes you feel powerful in a way this moment usually makes you feel dirty.

You curl your fingers softly through his hair, watching him closely. There are spots of color high in his cheeks, eyes clenched closed. “Let go,” you murmur. “It’s just me and you here,” you assure. “Don’t keep it in.” 

He grunts softly, a breathy fuck whispering past his lips when he suddenly covers your hand with his. For just a second, he guides your fist, then stops. “Hold on. You sure?” It’s a panted question. 

“Sure?” You tilt your head, confused. 

“It ain’t what we agreed on, necessarily.” 

You laugh and sit up, stroking him from root to tip slowly, twisting your wrist. “Do you want me to stop? Kind of already in the middle of something here.” 

“Christ, no,” he grunts. 

His palm moves to press flat against your spine when you sat up. You expect it to wander, but it stays in place, warm against the naked expanse of your spine exposed by your top, like he’s supporting you. 

“Mhm.” 

He arches into your hand again when you move your hand faster, eyes fluttering shut. It really must have been awhile for him, or he’s incredibly sensitive, and you aren’t sure which is better. Warmth pools heavy between your legs, a formless ache that twists in a curl up into your gut. 

You want to touch yourself, and wish Joel would be a little more handsy, that he’d slide his fingers beneath your skirt and push your panties aside. His hand arcs from your hip to your spine and back again. 

Instead, you lean over and take him into your mouth. “Fuck,” he whispers, one hand against the back on your head now. “Warnin’ woulda been nice.” 

You pull back and spit lightly against him, rubbing the tip against your lips, and keep stroking him, fast and firm. You glance at him and then shift to move to the floor between his legs, not stopping the movement of your fist. “I’m about to suck your dick,” you say. “Unless you don’t want that. Is there something else you want from me?”

You slot yourself between his legs, curl one hand on his stomach and squeeze the other around the base of his cock. “Please?” A whine slips into your voice that you don’t work to put there. “You taste good.” 

There’s an oddly conflicted look on his face, lust tangled up with that earlier guilt, the shame of what he’s doing.

You slow your hand and rub his thigh. “Don’t feel bad about it. I promise I don’t.”

Sometimes, you have to lie. You do feel gross and disgusting and used. 

You aren’t lying to Joel now; there’s no need to. 

He covers your hand, big palm running up your arm to cup your elbow as he sits up. It’s surprisingly, so strangely, tender.

He surprises you again by reaching back with his other hand for a pillow. “Here,” he says and drops it on the floor. You want to tell him this is nothing, you’re used to kneeling on much rougher surfaces, fiberglass laden carpets that haven’t been vacuumed in years, scratching and leaving a rash that persisted until the day before you found yourself back there again. 

Instead, you wriggle forward onto it, the cool relief on your knees immediate, twisting your hand up his shaft as you go. 

Joel cups your cheek and presses a thumb over your mouth, spreading the shine of spit and precome left there against the seam of your mouth. You part your lips, and he touches your tongue, depresses the pad of it there until you close your mouth and suck gently, curling your tongue around him and let your eyes flutter closed for a moment. 

“Hell,” he mutters, caressing your cheek again when you release his thumb, waiting patiently for you to open your eyes. “Look at you.” 

A shiver tightens at the base of your spine. The light praise punches you squarely in the chest. You want him to keep looking at you like that, a songbird in a cage, a docile thing to do what he asks, for him to say that again. 

You let him lower your head to slide your tongue against his balls before flattening your tongue against the base of him, licking slowly up to the tip. You suck lightly, not looking away from him, running your tongue along the slit. He tastes like salt, a clean muskiness.

“Can you take all of it, darlin’?” 

You pull back with a little gasp and cough, feel the cup of his palm slide to your chest. “Yes,” you murmur, rubbing your thumb against the sensitive tip until he hisses through his teeth. “I can try.” 

You take his cock down your throat slowly, relaxing your esophagus, stroking what you can’t take yet. His palm is against the back of your head, guiding you down and then back up. “Good girl,” he mutters, the glow of that praise taking up residence in your chest again. “Takin’ me so well.” 

A fiery need pulses through your pussy, an ache that sits hollow between your legs, as you bob your hand, taking a little more of him each time, drool pooling at the corner of your mouth. “C’mon, baby, you’re almost there. Know you can take it all.” 

The praise settles itself deep in your chest, thick and welcome. He guides you back and you take a gasping breath, coughing and looking up at him through tear webbed lashes. For one horrible moment, you think he might kiss you, but he just rubs his thumb against your lips again. 

You jerk his cock, not looking away from his eyes, the sound of your spit and his precome squelching in your first. 

His head tilts back, lips parting. You’re treated to the sight of his throat working, thick muscle contracting, veins standing out in a prominent green against the sheen of damp, golden skin. Joel’s hand slides to the back of your neck, then the top of your shoulders, palm flat against your spine. 

You lean down to suckle at the head again, and take a breath before sliding his thick cock down your throat, until your nose nestles against the thick thatch of hair at the base. The burn makes you choke around him, but you hold yourself there, tongue sweeping out against his balls. 

“Good girl,” you hear him mutter, the sound distant, throat contracting when you swallow around him. “Good job, darlin’.” 

You draw slowly up, and then look at him, releasing his dick with a pop. “I want you to come in my mouth.” 

Fingers curl against your jaw and draw you down. He hisses when you circle your tongue around him, coaxing him closer and closer to the edge of his orgasm. His body strains against you, hips bucking up to follow your mouth when you pull back. “Please,” you whine and lick the pulsing vein. “Please, Joel.” 

He grunts and then moans when you seal your mouth around him again. He pulses in your mouth, bitter and warm but not altogether unpleasant. You swallow it all, sucking until he makes a pained noise and pulls you up. 

You lick your lips and watch him flop back against the bed, hands beneath his head. “Jesus Christ.” 

“Just me.”

His laugh is exhausted and weak.  

You crawl up beside him, taking the pillow with you from the floor, ignoring the agony between your legs, how soft the bed feels beneath you.  Just the slightest brush of his fingers against you would probably make you come. The need is so intense your thighs ache, muscle spasming in little jumps. 

Still, you lie next to him and watch him breathe, chest rising and falling evenly. You brush a hand against his chest, the wiry curl of hair like lightning over your skin. He’s falling asleep and trying not to. “I can go.” 

He blinks and looks at you and the expression on his face tells you he forgot for a moment. He forgot that you’re whore, forgot even, maybe, that you aren’t his wife. 

“Do you smoke?” You say, to soften the blow of it.

“Not usually.” 

“Do you smoke right now?” 

“Sure.” 

You turn and scrabble for your purse, fishing in the depths for the carton of cigarettes. His fingers brush gently against your curled legs, against your ankle and calf and then jerk away, remembering himself with sudden alacrity. “Here,” you murmur, flopping on your back next to him. You flip the package open and pull out a cigarette and the lighter you stuffed inside earlier. 

You light it, blowing smoke toward the ceiling and hand it off. 

For a while, you pass the cigarette back and forth, fingers brushing, shoulders pressed together, before you curl over his stomach and put his soft dick back in your mouth. This time it only takes him a few minutes to come, sensitive and too spent to hold off longer, panting quietly into the warm air of the room.

You sit up, after, and peer in the mirror across the room to make sure you don’t look too much of a mess.  

Joel smokes again and then stubs the cigarette out in the tray on the bedside table, shifting to search for his wallet.

He has the gall to still look a little embarrassed. 

You take the cash out of his hand, doing a quick count, smiling, before you throw a leg over his hips and push him down, bracing your palms against the mattress by his head. You take a long look at him, knowing you’ll never see him again. Too guilt ridden, loneliness soothed for the moment. Shame will keep him from ever returning. You memorize his face, his shoulders and arms, the feeling of his wet cock between your legs, pressing against your underwear where your skirt had ridden up. 

“Don’t think about this too hard, okay?” 

“Think about what?” 

“About needing something.” 

He blinks and you shake your head. “It was okay. To need this. You’re welcome to come find me again anytime. Goodbye, Joel.”

With that, you roll away, adjust your skirt, and slink toward the door.

You hear him shift on the bed as the door snaps closed behind you, and sense there was something he wanted to say. But you don’t turn back. 

You ask the woman at the front desk to call you a cab back to the club, to your car. Joel tipped so well, or maybe just overpaid so much, that you don’t need to go back inside.

When you get back to your tiny, shitty apartment that you can barely afford, there’s no other face that you can conjure but his when you finally touch yourself in the darkness of your too hot bedroom, fingers working quickly, not bothering to hold back the moan in your throat. The sound of his voice, his praise, won’t soon fade. It loops on repeat in your mind, imagination trailing to what his beard would feel like on the inside of your thighs, if his cock might feel good inside you. 

Sweat beads at the backs of your knees and under your breasts, hips lifting toward an invisible mouth. 

When you come, you feel like you should mourn it being over. 

You decide you will not think about him, about why he affected you this way when none of the others ever had. 

[thepascalparadox]

😂 I told you things would get worse!! They were together for so little time, it wasn’t enough to really get to know each other… but we’ll get to that, I promise <3

Chapter Nine: A Fragile Bubble

Word Count | 3.8k Pairing | General Marcus Acacius x OC F!Reader Chapter Warnings | switch pov, allusions to battle series masterlist

As the haze of sleep begins to dissipate, the world around you slowly comes into focus. Yet, it is not your world, not the familiar warmth of your bed or the gentle breeze from your balcony. Instead, the cushion beneath your head is firm and warm, rising and falling in a steady rhythm. The consistent beat beneath your ear—strong, measured, alive—grounds you in a way that feels both foreign and soothing. A gentle hand moves languidly across your bare back, tracing idle circles, coaxing you to remain in this serene moment.

"Good morning, my princess," comes Acacius’ low, resonant voice, the deep timbre reverberating from his chest to your very soul. You keep your eyes shut, as though by doing so you can prolong the spell of the night before, let the memories linger a while longer before reality claims you. A soft hum escapes your lips as you nestle closer to him, seeking more of that warmth, more of him.

He chuckles, a deep, rumbling sound that vibrates against your cheek. "Didn’t think you were one to sleep late," he teases, his tone light and playful. "But as much as I’d love to stay here all day..." His voice dips lower as he shifts, turning so that he hovers above you, his strong hand capturing yours and pinning it gently beside your head.

"Loving you..." he murmurs, pressing a tender kiss to the hollow of your throat. "Worshiping your body as the goddess you are..." His breath grazes your ear before his teeth catch the delicate edge of your lobe, sending shivers cascading down your spine.

At last, your eyes flutter open, meeting his gaze. And there he is—your husband. The sight of him steals your breath, his dark curls tousled, his features softened by the faint morning light filtering through the tent. How could anyone describe this moment? No words seem sufficient to capture the quiet perfection of it, of him.

"We need to get up," he says, though his voice is tinged with regret. His lips curl into a kind smile, as though softening the blow of the day’s demands intruding on this fragile bubble of intimacy.

You lift a hand, cupping his cheek, and watch as his eyes fall shut at your touch. The faint shadows beneath them catch your notice, a testament to the restlessness of his sleep. Memories surface—his tossing and turning, though never letting you go, always keeping you close.

A pang of longing and concern twists in your chest. Perhaps the ghosts of his battles still haunt him, stealing his peace even in the safety of your arms. The thought stirs something deep within you—a need to shield him, to offer him the same comfort he has given you.

His eyes open again, finding yours. For a moment, the world stills. The storm in your gaze meets his steady calm, and the connection between you speaks louder than any words. How long this exchange lasts, you cannot say. Seconds, minutes, eternity—it all blurs.

Before either of you can speak, you lean up and press your lips to his, a kiss filled with quiet devotion.

"Good morning, husband," you whisper against his mouth, the word feeling new yet natural, like it had always belonged to him.

The term draws a low groan from him, his forehead falling to rest against yours. "You’ll drive me mad one day, you know that?" he murmurs, his voice tinged with something raw, almost pained.

"Have I done something wrong?" you ask softly, your fingers threading through the curls at the nape of his neck.

He pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, his brow arching as though you’ve asked something absurd. "Wrong?" he repeats, almost incredulously. His eyes flick away for a moment as he searches for the right words. Then, with a resigned sigh, he continues, "It's just that... Well, how can I say it... Oh, what am I doing? We are married, after all."

With that, he rises swiftly, as though summoned by some unseen duty. You stifle a laugh at his abruptness, pulling the sheets around you as you prop yourself on one elbow.

"Well, I suppose we are. Now more than ever," you reply, a teasing edge to your tone, alluding to the intimacy shared just hours before.

His smirk turns mischievous as he fastens his tunic. "Indeed. What I meant to say is... now that I have you, I’ve no idea how I’ll ever resist you. It’s as though everything you do—every word, every look—calls to me, beckons me to... Do things." He trails off, his voice thick with emotion.

"If it’s my permission you seek to kiss me whenever you like," you interrupt with a sly smile, "then consider it granted, Soldier."

His eyes soften as he returns to your side, leaning over you. His face hovers mere inches from yours, his breath mingling with yours.

"I’ll remember that, wife," he murmurs before capturing your lips in a kiss that promises all the love, all the passion, all the devotion he holds for you.

· · ───────── ·𖥸· ───────── · ·

The tension in the tent was almost tangible, an invisible weight pressing down upon everyone present. Valerian’s voice cut through the air, sharp and unyielding, as though shaped by the countless battles he had weathered.

"We have every reason to believe Rome is already aware of the princess’s marriage," he declared, his tone as steady as the blade of a well-forged sword. "That is why we must act without delay—bring the war to their doorstep. The General commanding the Eastern legions sent word this morning, swearing allegiance to the late Emperor Antoninus. With both our armies united, our chances of victory grow stronger. Together, we can overthrow Macrelius and restore order to the empire."

Each word carried a sense of urgency that made your chest tighten. The talk of war unsettled you; its grim realities were foreign and cold, a world far removed from anything you had known before. Standing at the edge of the room with Lena, you felt like an intruder in this grim council of men whose lives revolved around strategy, conquest, and bloodshed.

At the table’s center, Acacius sat alongside Valerian and three others, their faces illuminated by the flickering glow of oil lamps. The low murmur of their discussion was steady, measured, and wholly at odds with the storm of discomfort growing within you.

"How many of us against how many of them?" Acacius asked, his voice calm but laced with a sharp edge that betrayed his focus.

"Approximately three thousand of ours against... four thousand five hundred of theirs, my lord," one of the men replied, his words respectful yet tinged with unease.

Acacius leaned back slightly, his eyes narrowing as he considered the numbers. "Doesn’t sound like much of an advantage," he murmured, his voice barely louder than the whispers of the wind against the canvas walls.

Valerian stepped forward, placing a firm hand on Acacius’s shoulder. His confidence radiated like an unshakable pillar amidst the uncertainty. "The men they have lack our experience," he said, his tone resolute. "With the right strategy, there is no number that can stand against us, brother. You know this."

A silence followed, thick with the weight of decisions yet to be made. Then, with a nod, Acacius rose, his movements deliberate and composed. "Then you know what must be done, Valerian," he said, his voice cutting through the stillness like a blade. "Gather the men. Ready them. We march at dawn. Time is a luxury we cannot afford."

As he stood, his gaze flickered toward you—a fleeting glance, no more than a second, yet it sent a strange, bittersweet warmth through your veins. Before you could decipher the look in his eyes, he turned and strode out of the tent, his cape sweeping behind him like the shadow of his determination.

"Must they leave so soon?" you whispered to Lena, your voice hesitant, almost inaudible against the somber atmosphere.

Lena sighed, her expression a mixture of resignation and sorrow. "Just when I thought I would have them together for a little longer..." she murmured, her voice tinged with wistfulness. You watched as she moved to Valerian’s side, her delicate hands resting on his chest as their foreheads met. He cupped her face with one hand, his other rubbing soothing circles over her swollen belly, the silent exchange between them brimming with love and unspoken fears.

The sight stirred something heavy within you, a pang of guilt settling deep in your chest. For the first time, the full weight of your choices crashed down upon you. Every life in this camp now seemed tethered to your actions. Lena’s future, her happiness, and the child she carried—so fragile, so full of promise—were all at risk.

Have I condemned them all without realizing it?

You lowered your gaze, your hands clasping tightly as if to anchor yourself. When you had woken in Acacius’s arms that morning, the world had seemed perfect—blissfully, selfishly perfect. But now, that fleeting perfection felt like a cruel illusion, one that had blinded you to the price others might pay for your happiness.

Have I made the right choice? Or had my desires sown the seeds of ruin for everyone around me?

The questions lingered, unanswered, as the murmur of preparation began to rise outside the tent.

When you entered your tent, you hoped to find Acacius waiting there, but the space was empty. A faint sigh escaped your lips. The absence of servants to prepare your belongings was no surprise; after all, the camp’s resources were directed elsewhere. Resigned, you set about the task yourself.

There wasn’t much to pack—just enough to fit into a single casket shared between you and Acacius. The process was methodical, almost soothing, as you folded the dresses gifted to you since your arrival and carefully arranged the tunics belonging to the General. Among the modest pile of clothing lay the small bag you had carried from the palace, its contents untouched since you arrived.

As you opened it, your fingers brushed against something hard and familiar—the little sac containing your father’s ring. The sight of it sent a rush of conflicting emotions through you. It had remained hidden, untouched, since the day Acacius had become your maritus. You had expected him to take it, to claim the symbol of your father’s legacy and, with it, the throne.

But here it was, undisturbed.

A realization settled over you like the weight of a quiet truth.

He has no intention of claiming the empire.

That is why my father entrusted it to him. He knew Acacius didn’t crave power or glory for his name.

Your thoughts were abruptly interrupted by the sound of hurried footsteps and the sudden entrance of the man occupying your mind.

“Are you ready?” Acacius asked, his voice firm, his expression taut with an edge of impatience.

“I am,” you replied, still holding the folded fabric in your hands. “I was just gathering our things. But... aren’t we leaving at dawn? The sun has barely passed its peak.”

His jaw tightened, and he avoided your gaze, moving briskly around the tent to collect his belongings. “We are not leaving. The army departs at dawn. You, however, are going home—with Lena.”

The words struck you like a blow. “I—what? No. I’m going with you. To my home. Our home. That’s the plan, isn’t it?”

He paused briefly, his lips curling into a bitter, humorless laugh. “What, are you planning to don armor and fight alongside the soldiers? Don’t be ridiculous.”

The dismissive tone ignited a fire within you. Anger flared, sharp and unrelenting. “Don’t you dare mock me, soldier. I am still your princess.”

“And I am your husband,” he shot back, his voice low but laden with authority. “And you will do as I say.”

His eyes finally met yours, and the intensity of his gaze caught you off guard. There was fire there, yes, but it was not born of anger alone. It burned with something deeper, something almost desperate.

“Oh, so that’s what you wanted?” you challenged, stepping closer, your voice laced with defiance. “To tame me? To finally have the right to command me, to boss me around? Well, let me make something clear, husband. I will never—”

“Aemilia, please.”

His voice broke through your tirade, quieter now, laced with something that made your breath catch. His hand rose to pinch the bridge of his nose, his eyes closing as though warding off the weight of the moment. When he spoke again, it was softer, almost pleading. “This is hard enough as it is. Just... listen to me this time. Please.”

You stood frozen as he stepped closer, his hands finding their place on your shoulders, the warmth of his touch a stark contrast to the tension in the room. His fingers moved gently, soothingly, up and down your arms, as though trying to ease away your resistance.

“I need to know you’re safe,” he said, his voice breaking slightly. “If I can’t... if I'm not sure you’re out of harm’s way, I’ll lose my focus on the field. I can’t afford that. Not now. Do you understand?”

For the first time, you noticed the raw emotion etched into his features. It was there in the slight furrow of his brow, the heaviness in his eyes. Beneath the hardened exterior was something fragile, vulnerable. He looked almost... afraid.

Your anger softened, replaced by an ache that settled deep in your chest. Slowly, you raised your hands to rest on his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath beneath your palms.

“I’ll listen this time,” you began softly, your lips curling into a faint, playful smile, “But just this once. Next time, I’ll be the one giving the orders. Deal?”

For a brief moment, his lips twitched as though tempted to smile, but the weight of the situation held him back. He nodded slightly, his hands lingering on your arms before dropping to his sides.

“Deal,” he murmured, though the word carried an unspoken promise of something heavier, something that lingered even as the silence between you grew.

The truth was stark and unrelenting: this "deal" would mean nothing if he died. Death, once a distant companion—an inevitable visitor with no known hour or place—had been a concept he had long accepted. As a soldier, he had learned to coexist with its shadow, feeling its cold breath on his shoulders without fear, merely acknowledgment. This was the life he had chosen, and he bore it with unflinching resolve.

But now, something had shifted. Death was no longer his alone to contemplate. The weight of another’s life rested in his hands—a fragile, precious burden. Recklessness was no longer a luxury he could afford; to fall now would mean leaving Aemilia with nothing but sorrow and an unfulfilled promise. And if he dared admit the truth to himself, he found that, for the first time in years, he did not wish to meet death at all.

Not now. Not when he had tasted the sweetness of love, the ache of yearning for a future that seemed suddenly, achingly possible. For the first time, the world held a beauty worth fighting for—a beauty that gazed back at him with a smile that lit the darkest corners of his soul.

He exhaled sharply as he secured the final clasp of the carriage, his hands working methodically even as his thoughts whirled. His features betrayed his inner turmoil: the hard set of his jaw, the furrowed brow, the quiet efficiency of his movements. He knew how he must look—stoic and impenetrable. Yet inside, the storm raged.

You watched him in silence, understanding the rhythm of his moods. Now was not the time for words or levity. Instead, you waited, your hands clasped, your eyes tracing his every motion as if memorizing him just as he was.

"Come," he said at last, his voice steady but heavy with unspoken emotion. He extended a hand to help you into the carriage. You took it, your touch light but deliberate, and noticed the way his eyes shimmered, betraying the tight rein he held over his feelings.

Inside the carriage, Lena sat quietly, her tears falling in subdued streams. Acacius lingered by the door, his grip on your hand tightening as he spoke. "Promise me you'll be careful," he murmured, his tone raw with desperation.

"Only if you promise the same," you replied, your voice a deliberate contrast—light, steady, as though trying to lend him your calm.

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips, a fragile thing that made your heart swell. "For you, I will," he said softly. "Lumina mea." His lips brushed the back of your hand, lingering, as though he could pour all his devotion into that single act. "May the gods be with you."

"And may they bring us together once more," you whispered, leaning in to seal your words with a kiss.

In that fleeting moment, he memorized everything. The taste of your lips, the scent of your skin, the softness of your hands cradling his face. A single tear slipped from your eye, mingling with his own, and he cursed the betrayal of his emotions.

A soldier must not cry.

He pulled away abruptly, his composure snapping back into place like a shield. Turning to his men, he barked the order to depart, his voice carrying the weight of finality.

As the carriage wheels creaked into motion, he did not allow himself to look back. His feet carried him away, but his heart remained behind, bound to you in a way no distance could sever. And though he refused to admit it, the thought gnawed at the edges of his resolve: perhaps this was the last time he would see you.

But for you, for the promise of what you shared, he would fight the gods themselves if that’s what it took to return to you.

· · ───────── ·𖥸· ───────── · ·

Nightfall was an unusual time for a departure, a choice that would have raised questions among the troops if not for the urgency of their mission. Time was a luxury they could not afford. With the sheer number of men under his command, the march to Rome would stretch over nearly five grueling days—five days that Macrelius would exploit to strengthen his hold on the city.

Valerian, ever the tactician, had dispatched envoys ahead of the main force. Their orders were clear: to weave whispers of hope among the loyalists in Rome while maintaining an illusion of submission. The senate must believe the people were content, that the city’s pulse beat steadily under their rule. Only then would their defenses falter, their vigilance wane.

The plan was bold: to strike under the cover of darkness, freeing captives from the dungeons and spiriting them away before the city could rally. Yet, as the idea unfolded in Acacius' mind, doubts crept in like shadows lengthening with the night.

Would the cover of darkness truly give them the upper hand? Or would it merely announce their arrival, granting the enemy precious moments to prepare?

His thoughts churned ceaselessly, a storm of possibilities and pitfalls. The weight of command pressed heavily on his shoulders, a familiar burden but no less relentless. Until Rome was reclaimed, until the republic was restored and peace reigned once more, his mind would find no rest.

Acacius gazed ahead, the dim outline of the road blurring as his thoughts pulled him inward. Duty demanded resolve, yet doubt whispered insidiously, questioning every decision. He reminded himself that he was not alone in this. Valerian, his brother in arms, was surely strategizing as well.

Three days lay ahead before the soldiers would begin their rigorous preparations. Three days to refine their plan, to turn doubt into certainty, and ensure that every step taken would lead to victory.

The General tightened his grip on the reins of his horse, his jaw set with determination. The night wind tugged at his cloak, a silent reminder of the fleeting time. Failure was unthinkable, not when so much was at stake. The situation demanded his strength, his mind, his very soul. And he would give it all, willingly.

For the glory of Rome.

· · ───────── ·𖥸· ───────── · ·

The gentle sway of the carriage had lulled Lena to sleep, her tears finally spent after what felt like hours of quiet sobbing. Perhaps in her dreams, she found a fleeting solace—a fragile hope for a brighter future. You couldn’t blame her for retreating into that sanctuary, nor had you questioned her silence as you departed. She sat on her side, and you on yours, the weight of unspoken fears pressing down on you both. Two women lost in thoughts of the man you loved heading into battle.

You wished you could sleep too, but peace of mind had always been a struggle. The only true rest you had known in days was the night spent in Acacius' arms, his steady heartbeat lulling you into a rare peace. But now, his absence was a tangible ache, and all you could do was cling to fragile hopes and whispered prayers for his safety.

The carriage shuddered to a halt, jolting you from your restless thoughts. Darkness had deepened outside, and you wondered if you had finally reached your destination or if the soldiers meant to make camp until dawn. Curiosity and unease propelled you forward, your hand parting the curtain to glimpse the world beyond.

And then, it came. The unmistakable metallic whisper of a blade being drawn.

Your breath caught as the sounds of a scuffle erupted—grunts, the clash of steel, the chaos of battle unfolding in the shadows. Your heart raced, every beat a hammer against your ribs. Your eyes met Lena’s, wide and frantic now, her sleep shattered by the same dreadful realization that had seized you.

There was nowhere to run. The confined space of the carriage became a prison, each passing second stretching into an eternity. The hope that flickered faintly in your chest was a fragile thing—perhaps they would pass you by, perhaps the Roman soldiers would dispatch these attackers swiftly.

But then the silence fell.

It wasn’t the relief you had hoped for. Instead, it wrapped around you like a suffocating shroud. Your stomach twisted, dread settling deep within you. The curtain moved slowly, pulled aside with deliberate care.

And there he stood.

A stranger, his expression twisted into a cruel smile, his eyes alight with malice. His gaze raked over you both, and the chill in his voice cut deeper than any blade.

“Well, well… The Emperor will like this very much indeed.”

[thepascalparadox]

𝐒𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐍𝐞𝐰 - 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐲 𝐈𝐧 𝐁𝐞𝐝

pairing: pre outbreak!joel miller x f!reader, one sided tommy miller x f!reader

genre: angst, smut, romance, slow burn, mutual pining, secret relationship

series summary: After your grandfather’s passing, you find yourself moving into his home in Texas. You meet the Millers; Tommy, his older brother Joel and his daughter Sarah. With time, you and Tommy become close friends and Sarah visits you often. But Joel…Joel keeps his distance. The reason for this is due to one crucial fact you don’t know but he does; Tommy has a crush on you. Which means you’re off limits no matter what. But as your own feelings for Joel grow, things start to get more and more complicated.

additional notes: Joel is 36 and since I saw Tommy's age nowhere, I decided to give them a five-year age gap which will make Tommy 31 in this story. Reader is in her late twenties.

word count: 1.2k

chapter summary: Joel gets a new neighbor.

warnings: none for now!

a/n: thank you to my dearest @pedrito-friskito for editing and allowing me to scream at her over this as always, love you to the moon and back ❤️❤️❤️

chapter one

Joel sits with Tommy on the porch, surrounded by the brilliant warmth of the sun. The sky is a canvas of blue, with a few fluffy clouds lazily drifting by. The air is filled with the sweet scent of blooming flowers, and the gentle breeze feels soft and tender over his sunburnt skin. A car passes by their house and comes to a stop at the next. Sarah is at school, and for the first time in weeks, Joel feels that he can fully relax. He’s speaking to Tommy, but as always, his brother only half-listens, nodding absently as his gaze remains fixed on the woman emerging from the vehicle.

Joel observes the woman stepping out of the car. She looks young, likely closer in age to Tommy than to himself. She carries a box with her as she makes her way into her new home. Her expression is in complete contrast with the bright sunshine and blooming flowers. He knows why. Losing a family member is never easy.

"We should go say hi," Tommy suggests, pulling Joel out of his contemplations. "And maybe help her with the rest of her stuff."

Joel raises an eyebrow, running his tongue over the roof of his mouth before speaking. "You do know how she got the house, right? Her grandpa died. Not exactly a happy occasion."

"Maybe they despised each other—" Tommy counters, but his sentence is cut short as Joel smacks him on the back of the head. The younger brother rubs at the throbbing pain, shooting a glare at Joel, who remains unfazed.

Joel’s eyes drop to the green grass, observing each and every green blade, “The old man talked about her all the time. I doubt there was nothin’ but love going on between them. Have some respect will ya,” 

“I feel like that’s all the more reason to go help,” 

Joel releases a heavy sigh, loathing the fact that his brother is correct. Without a word, he rises from his seat, the short wooden stairs groaning beneath him as he descends. Tommy is quick to follow, a little too enthusiastically, Joel observes.

Joel approaches the door and gives a short, booming knock. He takes a step back when the door opens, the woman looks at the two men with a confused expression, her eyebrow raised in question.

“May I help you?” she asks, eyes flitting between the two. 

Tommy takes the lead, which surprises no one. 

"Hi there, we're your neighbors," Tommy says, his eyes briefly scanning the inside of the house. "Thought we might offer some help?"

"Oh," the woman gasps, realization hitting. She quickly extends a hand, a nervous chuckle falling from her chapped lips. She introduces herself, squeezing Tommy's hand first, then Joel's.

Joel notices the way her gaze seems to see right through him, which makes him feel at unease. He clears his throat and points at Tommy, "He actually doesn't live next door, I'm your real neighbor, me and my daughter Sarah," he says, his hand still cradling hers. "Nice to meet you,"

Tommy shoots Joel an exaggerated look of offense, which he ignores but she laughs at. "It's nice to meet you too," she says, her laughter circling them both.

 It’s a pleasant sound, one that leaves both men speechless. 

“I’m actually done with all the boxes,” she says with a hint of pride. “But I would love to have you and your family over.” she addresses this part to Joel, then she adds as an afterthought; “After I get everything sorted, that is,”  

Joel opens his mouth to answer but Tommy beats him to it, “You got it, sweetheart. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to knock on our door,” 

“My door,” Joel grumbles, his eyes digging holes into Tommy’s skull. 

Luckily his new neighbor doesn’t hear him. The only evidence that the words actually left his mouth is provided by the sharp elbow Tommy digs into his stomach. 

Bastard. 

He winces in pain, hand shooting to his stomach with a cough caught in his throat. Joel doesn’t know how to react when she reaches over and places a soft hand on his shoulder, his pulse skyrockets, crimson red peppering all over his skin. 

“Are you alright?” she asks. “Do you need me to get you a glass of water?” 

“Oh, don’t worry about him,” Tommy says. “He’ll be fine.” 

When Joel manages to catch his breath, her hand is still on his shoulder. His body reacts impulsively, taking her hand and holding it between his fingers. Blood tingles under his fingernails. He doesn’t know why, but in that moment she reminds him of stained glass; beautiful, mesmerizing, delicate. 

What the hell is going on with him? 

“I’m fine, don't worry,” he croaks, letting go of her hand. She seems just as flabbergasted as him. “Well then, we’ll be off.” 

Tommy chirps next to him, his voice like nails on a chalkboard, “Are you sure you don’t want that water, Joel?” 

“I’m sure,” he answers, his brows furrowing. “Let’s not trouble our new neighbor any longer,” 

If Tommy wants to object, he doesn’t. Just as they’re about to leave, her voice calls out to him. He turns, and the world around him shifts into slow motion. Your eyes are glossed over, not looking at him but down to the pavement underneath. He cocks an eyebrow. 

“Did you know my grandfather?” she asks, stunning him further. Joel finds the strength to nod but his mouth is drained of all moisture. “If—If you don’t mind, could you tell me about him sometime? What his life was like living here. I…I hadn’t spoken to him for a while. I didn’t even notice a month had passed since…” 

Her voice breaks and trails off. Joel’s heart beats slow and steady. He looks at her with a sympathetic smile and when he turns to Tommy he sees that his brother is looking at her the same way. Grief is a cruel teacher, they both know.

“Of course,” Joel replies and your face lights up.

With that the brothers walk away from the house. The brief exchange replays in Joel’s mind in a constant loop, lingering on the memory of her smile and the tears that threatened to fall. 

“She’s quite somethin’ isn’t she?”

“Huh?”

Wide-eyed, Joel turns to Tommy. His stomach drops when he sees that same love-struck expression he’s seen his baby brother make since they were youngins. He sharply sucks his bottom lip through his teeth and bites it, he’s feeling anxious all of a sudden. The clear oxygen around him feels polluted, somehow.

“I said, she’s quite somethin’, isn’t she?” Tommy repeats, agitated. “You never listen to me do you? Anyway, you think she’d say yes if I asked her out?” 

“I don’t see why not,” Joel answers with a forced shrug. “Y’re not a complete eyesore which is a plus,” 

“Yeah?” Tommy grins, throwing his arm over Joel’s shoulder. “I think I will.” 

Joel doesn’t have anything to say to that. He allows Tommy to drag him back to their home, the subject has already changed to something mundane. 

But his mind is left at her porch. Wondering when their next conversation will be. 

[thepascalparadox]

Chapter Nine: A Fragile Bubble

Word Count | 3.8k Pairing | General Marcus Acacius x OC F!Reader Chapter Warnings | switch pov, allusions to battle series masterlist

As the haze of sleep begins to dissipate, the world around you slowly comes into focus. Yet, it is not your world, not the familiar warmth of your bed or the gentle breeze from your balcony. Instead, the cushion beneath your head is firm and warm, rising and falling in a steady rhythm. The consistent beat beneath your ear—strong, measured, alive—grounds you in a way that feels both foreign and soothing. A gentle hand moves languidly across your bare back, tracing idle circles, coaxing you to remain in this serene moment.

"Good morning, my princess," comes Acacius’ low, resonant voice, the deep timbre reverberating from his chest to your very soul. You keep your eyes shut, as though by doing so you can prolong the spell of the night before, let the memories linger a while longer before reality claims you. A soft hum escapes your lips as you nestle closer to him, seeking more of that warmth, more of him.

He chuckles, a deep, rumbling sound that vibrates against your cheek. "Didn’t think you were one to sleep late," he teases, his tone light and playful. "But as much as I’d love to stay here all day..." His voice dips lower as he shifts, turning so that he hovers above you, his strong hand capturing yours and pinning it gently beside your head.

"Loving you..." he murmurs, pressing a tender kiss to the hollow of your throat. "Worshiping your body as the goddess you are..." His breath grazes your ear before his teeth catch the delicate edge of your lobe, sending shivers cascading down your spine.

At last, your eyes flutter open, meeting his gaze. And there he is—your husband. The sight of him steals your breath, his dark curls tousled, his features softened by the faint morning light filtering through the tent. How could anyone describe this moment? No words seem sufficient to capture the quiet perfection of it, of him.

"We need to get up," he says, though his voice is tinged with regret. His lips curl into a kind smile, as though softening the blow of the day’s demands intruding on this fragile bubble of intimacy.

You lift a hand, cupping his cheek, and watch as his eyes fall shut at your touch. The faint shadows beneath them catch your notice, a testament to the restlessness of his sleep. Memories surface—his tossing and turning, though never letting you go, always keeping you close.

A pang of longing and concern twists in your chest. Perhaps the ghosts of his battles still haunt him, stealing his peace even in the safety of your arms. The thought stirs something deep within you—a need to shield him, to offer him the same comfort he has given you.

His eyes open again, finding yours. For a moment, the world stills. The storm in your gaze meets his steady calm, and the connection between you speaks louder than any words. How long this exchange lasts, you cannot say. Seconds, minutes, eternity—it all blurs.

Before either of you can speak, you lean up and press your lips to his, a kiss filled with quiet devotion.

"Good morning, husband," you whisper against his mouth, the word feeling new yet natural, like it had always belonged to him.

The term draws a low groan from him, his forehead falling to rest against yours. "You’ll drive me mad one day, you know that?" he murmurs, his voice tinged with something raw, almost pained.

"Have I done something wrong?" you ask softly, your fingers threading through the curls at the nape of his neck.

He pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, his brow arching as though you’ve asked something absurd. "Wrong?" he repeats, almost incredulously. His eyes flick away for a moment as he searches for the right words. Then, with a resigned sigh, he continues, "It's just that... Well, how can I say it... Oh, what am I doing? We are married, after all."

With that, he rises swiftly, as though summoned by some unseen duty. You stifle a laugh at his abruptness, pulling the sheets around you as you prop yourself on one elbow.

"Well, I suppose we are. Now more than ever," you reply, a teasing edge to your tone, alluding to the intimacy shared just hours before.

His smirk turns mischievous as he fastens his tunic. "Indeed. What I meant to say is... now that I have you, I’ve no idea how I’ll ever resist you. It’s as though everything you do—every word, every look—calls to me, beckons me to... Do things." He trails off, his voice thick with emotion.

"If it’s my permission you seek to kiss me whenever you like," you interrupt with a sly smile, "then consider it granted, Soldier."

His eyes soften as he returns to your side, leaning over you. His face hovers mere inches from yours, his breath mingling with yours.

"I’ll remember that, wife," he murmurs before capturing your lips in a kiss that promises all the love, all the passion, all the devotion he holds for you.

· · ───────── ·𖥸· ───────── · ·

The tension in the tent was almost tangible, an invisible weight pressing down upon everyone present. Valerian’s voice cut through the air, sharp and unyielding, as though shaped by the countless battles he had weathered.

"We have every reason to believe Rome is already aware of the princess’s marriage," he declared, his tone as steady as the blade of a well-forged sword. "That is why we must act without delay—bring the war to their doorstep. The General commanding the Eastern legions sent word this morning, swearing allegiance to the late Emperor Antoninus. With both our armies united, our chances of victory grow stronger. Together, we can overthrow Macrelius and restore order to the empire."

Each word carried a sense of urgency that made your chest tighten. The talk of war unsettled you; its grim realities were foreign and cold, a world far removed from anything you had known before. Standing at the edge of the room with Lena, you felt like an intruder in this grim council of men whose lives revolved around strategy, conquest, and bloodshed.

At the table’s center, Acacius sat alongside Valerian and three others, their faces illuminated by the flickering glow of oil lamps. The low murmur of their discussion was steady, measured, and wholly at odds with the storm of discomfort growing within you.

"How many of us against how many of them?" Acacius asked, his voice calm but laced with a sharp edge that betrayed his focus.

"Approximately three thousand of ours against... four thousand five hundred of theirs, my lord," one of the men replied, his words respectful yet tinged with unease.

Acacius leaned back slightly, his eyes narrowing as he considered the numbers. "Doesn’t sound like much of an advantage," he murmured, his voice barely louder than the whispers of the wind against the canvas walls.

Valerian stepped forward, placing a firm hand on Acacius’s shoulder. His confidence radiated like an unshakable pillar amidst the uncertainty. "The men they have lack our experience," he said, his tone resolute. "With the right strategy, there is no number that can stand against us, brother. You know this."

A silence followed, thick with the weight of decisions yet to be made. Then, with a nod, Acacius rose, his movements deliberate and composed. "Then you know what must be done, Valerian," he said, his voice cutting through the stillness like a blade. "Gather the men. Ready them. We march at dawn. Time is a luxury we cannot afford."

As he stood, his gaze flickered toward you—a fleeting glance, no more than a second, yet it sent a strange, bittersweet warmth through your veins. Before you could decipher the look in his eyes, he turned and strode out of the tent, his cape sweeping behind him like the shadow of his determination.

"Must they leave so soon?" you whispered to Lena, your voice hesitant, almost inaudible against the somber atmosphere.

Lena sighed, her expression a mixture of resignation and sorrow. "Just when I thought I would have them together for a little longer..." she murmured, her voice tinged with wistfulness. You watched as she moved to Valerian’s side, her delicate hands resting on his chest as their foreheads met. He cupped her face with one hand, his other rubbing soothing circles over her swollen belly, the silent exchange between them brimming with love and unspoken fears.

The sight stirred something heavy within you, a pang of guilt settling deep in your chest. For the first time, the full weight of your choices crashed down upon you. Every life in this camp now seemed tethered to your actions. Lena’s future, her happiness, and the child she carried—so fragile, so full of promise—were all at risk.

Have I condemned them all without realizing it?

You lowered your gaze, your hands clasping tightly as if to anchor yourself. When you had woken in Acacius’s arms that morning, the world had seemed perfect—blissfully, selfishly perfect. But now, that fleeting perfection felt like a cruel illusion, one that had blinded you to the price others might pay for your happiness.

Have I made the right choice? Or had my desires sown the seeds of ruin for everyone around me?

The questions lingered, unanswered, as the murmur of preparation began to rise outside the tent.

When you entered your tent, you hoped to find Acacius waiting there, but the space was empty. A faint sigh escaped your lips. The absence of servants to prepare your belongings was no surprise; after all, the camp’s resources were directed elsewhere. Resigned, you set about the task yourself.

There wasn’t much to pack—just enough to fit into a single casket shared between you and Acacius. The process was methodical, almost soothing, as you folded the dresses gifted to you since your arrival and carefully arranged the tunics belonging to the General. Among the modest pile of clothing lay the small bag you had carried from the palace, its contents untouched since you arrived.

As you opened it, your fingers brushed against something hard and familiar—the little sac containing your father’s ring. The sight of it sent a rush of conflicting emotions through you. It had remained hidden, untouched, since the day Acacius had become your maritus. You had expected him to take it, to claim the symbol of your father’s legacy and, with it, the throne.

But here it was, undisturbed.

A realization settled over you like the weight of a quiet truth.

He has no intention of claiming the empire.

That is why my father entrusted it to him. He knew Acacius didn’t crave power or glory for his name.

Your thoughts were abruptly interrupted by the sound of hurried footsteps and the sudden entrance of the man occupying your mind.

“Are you ready?” Acacius asked, his voice firm, his expression taut with an edge of impatience.

“I am,” you replied, still holding the folded fabric in your hands. “I was just gathering our things. But... aren’t we leaving at dawn? The sun has barely passed its peak.”

His jaw tightened, and he avoided your gaze, moving briskly around the tent to collect his belongings. “We are not leaving. The army departs at dawn. You, however, are going home—with Lena.”

The words struck you like a blow. “I—what? No. I’m going with you. To my home. Our home. That’s the plan, isn’t it?”

He paused briefly, his lips curling into a bitter, humorless laugh. “What, are you planning to don armor and fight alongside the soldiers? Don’t be ridiculous.”

The dismissive tone ignited a fire within you. Anger flared, sharp and unrelenting. “Don’t you dare mock me, soldier. I am still your princess.”

“And I am your husband,” he shot back, his voice low but laden with authority. “And you will do as I say.”

His eyes finally met yours, and the intensity of his gaze caught you off guard. There was fire there, yes, but it was not born of anger alone. It burned with something deeper, something almost desperate.

“Oh, so that’s what you wanted?” you challenged, stepping closer, your voice laced with defiance. “To tame me? To finally have the right to command me, to boss me around? Well, let me make something clear, husband. I will never—”

“Aemilia, please.”

His voice broke through your tirade, quieter now, laced with something that made your breath catch. His hand rose to pinch the bridge of his nose, his eyes closing as though warding off the weight of the moment. When he spoke again, it was softer, almost pleading. “This is hard enough as it is. Just... listen to me this time. Please.”

You stood frozen as he stepped closer, his hands finding their place on your shoulders, the warmth of his touch a stark contrast to the tension in the room. His fingers moved gently, soothingly, up and down your arms, as though trying to ease away your resistance.

“I need to know you’re safe,” he said, his voice breaking slightly. “If I can’t... if I'm not sure you’re out of harm’s way, I’ll lose my focus on the field. I can’t afford that. Not now. Do you understand?”

For the first time, you noticed the raw emotion etched into his features. It was there in the slight furrow of his brow, the heaviness in his eyes. Beneath the hardened exterior was something fragile, vulnerable. He looked almost... afraid.

Your anger softened, replaced by an ache that settled deep in your chest. Slowly, you raised your hands to rest on his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath beneath your palms.

“I’ll listen this time,” you began softly, your lips curling into a faint, playful smile, “But just this once. Next time, I’ll be the one giving the orders. Deal?”

For a brief moment, his lips twitched as though tempted to smile, but the weight of the situation held him back. He nodded slightly, his hands lingering on your arms before dropping to his sides.

“Deal,” he murmured, though the word carried an unspoken promise of something heavier, something that lingered even as the silence between you grew.

The truth was stark and unrelenting: this "deal" would mean nothing if he died. Death, once a distant companion—an inevitable visitor with no known hour or place—had been a concept he had long accepted. As a soldier, he had learned to coexist with its shadow, feeling its cold breath on his shoulders without fear, merely acknowledgment. This was the life he had chosen, and he bore it with unflinching resolve.

But now, something had shifted. Death was no longer his alone to contemplate. The weight of another’s life rested in his hands—a fragile, precious burden. Recklessness was no longer a luxury he could afford; to fall now would mean leaving Aemilia with nothing but sorrow and an unfulfilled promise. And if he dared admit the truth to himself, he found that, for the first time in years, he did not wish to meet death at all.

Not now. Not when he had tasted the sweetness of love, the ache of yearning for a future that seemed suddenly, achingly possible. For the first time, the world held a beauty worth fighting for—a beauty that gazed back at him with a smile that lit the darkest corners of his soul.

He exhaled sharply as he secured the final clasp of the carriage, his hands working methodically even as his thoughts whirled. His features betrayed his inner turmoil: the hard set of his jaw, the furrowed brow, the quiet efficiency of his movements. He knew how he must look—stoic and impenetrable. Yet inside, the storm raged.

You watched him in silence, understanding the rhythm of his moods. Now was not the time for words or levity. Instead, you waited, your hands clasped, your eyes tracing his every motion as if memorizing him just as he was.

"Come," he said at last, his voice steady but heavy with unspoken emotion. He extended a hand to help you into the carriage. You took it, your touch light but deliberate, and noticed the way his eyes shimmered, betraying the tight rein he held over his feelings.

Inside the carriage, Lena sat quietly, her tears falling in subdued streams. Acacius lingered by the door, his grip on your hand tightening as he spoke. "Promise me you'll be careful," he murmured, his tone raw with desperation.

"Only if you promise the same," you replied, your voice a deliberate contrast—light, steady, as though trying to lend him your calm.

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips, a fragile thing that made your heart swell. "For you, I will," he said softly. "Lumina mea." His lips brushed the back of your hand, lingering, as though he could pour all his devotion into that single act. "May the gods be with you."

"And may they bring us together once more," you whispered, leaning in to seal your words with a kiss.

In that fleeting moment, he memorized everything. The taste of your lips, the scent of your skin, the softness of your hands cradling his face. A single tear slipped from your eye, mingling with his own, and he cursed the betrayal of his emotions.

A soldier must not cry.

He pulled away abruptly, his composure snapping back into place like a shield. Turning to his men, he barked the order to depart, his voice carrying the weight of finality.

As the carriage wheels creaked into motion, he did not allow himself to look back. His feet carried him away, but his heart remained behind, bound to you in a way no distance could sever. And though he refused to admit it, the thought gnawed at the edges of his resolve: perhaps this was the last time he would see you.

But for you, for the promise of what you shared, he would fight the gods themselves if that’s what it took to return to you.

· · ───────── ·𖥸· ───────── · ·

Nightfall was an unusual time for a departure, a choice that would have raised questions among the troops if not for the urgency of their mission. Time was a luxury they could not afford. With the sheer number of men under his command, the march to Rome would stretch over nearly five grueling days—five days that Macrelius would exploit to strengthen his hold on the city.

Valerian, ever the tactician, had dispatched envoys ahead of the main force. Their orders were clear: to weave whispers of hope among the loyalists in Rome while maintaining an illusion of submission. The senate must believe the people were content, that the city’s pulse beat steadily under their rule. Only then would their defenses falter, their vigilance wane.

The plan was bold: to strike under the cover of darkness, freeing captives from the dungeons and spiriting them away before the city could rally. Yet, as the idea unfolded in Acacius' mind, doubts crept in like shadows lengthening with the night.

Would the cover of darkness truly give them the upper hand? Or would it merely announce their arrival, granting the enemy precious moments to prepare?

His thoughts churned ceaselessly, a storm of possibilities and pitfalls. The weight of command pressed heavily on his shoulders, a familiar burden but no less relentless. Until Rome was reclaimed, until the republic was restored and peace reigned once more, his mind would find no rest.

Acacius gazed ahead, the dim outline of the road blurring as his thoughts pulled him inward. Duty demanded resolve, yet doubt whispered insidiously, questioning every decision. He reminded himself that he was not alone in this. Valerian, his brother in arms, was surely strategizing as well.

Three days lay ahead before the soldiers would begin their rigorous preparations. Three days to refine their plan, to turn doubt into certainty, and ensure that every step taken would lead to victory.

The General tightened his grip on the reins of his horse, his jaw set with determination. The night wind tugged at his cloak, a silent reminder of the fleeting time. Failure was unthinkable, not when so much was at stake. The situation demanded his strength, his mind, his very soul. And he would give it all, willingly.

For the glory of Rome.

· · ───────── ·𖥸· ───────── · ·

The gentle sway of the carriage had lulled Lena to sleep, her tears finally spent after what felt like hours of quiet sobbing. Perhaps in her dreams, she found a fleeting solace—a fragile hope for a brighter future. You couldn’t blame her for retreating into that sanctuary, nor had you questioned her silence as you departed. She sat on her side, and you on yours, the weight of unspoken fears pressing down on you both. Two women lost in thoughts of the man you loved heading into battle.

You wished you could sleep too, but peace of mind had always been a struggle. The only true rest you had known in days was the night spent in Acacius' arms, his steady heartbeat lulling you into a rare peace. But now, his absence was a tangible ache, and all you could do was cling to fragile hopes and whispered prayers for his safety.

The carriage shuddered to a halt, jolting you from your restless thoughts. Darkness had deepened outside, and you wondered if you had finally reached your destination or if the soldiers meant to make camp until dawn. Curiosity and unease propelled you forward, your hand parting the curtain to glimpse the world beyond.

And then, it came. The unmistakable metallic whisper of a blade being drawn.

Your breath caught as the sounds of a scuffle erupted—grunts, the clash of steel, the chaos of battle unfolding in the shadows. Your heart raced, every beat a hammer against your ribs. Your eyes met Lena’s, wide and frantic now, her sleep shattered by the same dreadful realization that had seized you.

There was nowhere to run. The confined space of the carriage became a prison, each passing second stretching into an eternity. The hope that flickered faintly in your chest was a fragile thing—perhaps they would pass you by, perhaps the Roman soldiers would dispatch these attackers swiftly.

But then the silence fell.

It wasn’t the relief you had hoped for. Instead, it wrapped around you like a suffocating shroud. Your stomach twisted, dread settling deep within you. The curtain moved slowly, pulled aside with deliberate care.

And there he stood.

A stranger, his expression twisted into a cruel smile, his eyes alight with malice. His gaze raked over you both, and the chill in his voice cut deeper than any blade.

“Well, well… The Emperor will like this very much indeed.”

[thepascalparadox]

They have serious problems with communication… Mostly because it is their first time dealing with all this emotions, wanting each other to be happy but not knowing how, unsure and insecure with everything… Chapter eight things get a little bit better but things will definitely get worse right after (sorry!)

Thank you so much for your comments!

Chapter Seven: Princess of Nowhere

Word Count | 5.5k Pairing | General Marcus Acacius x F!Reader OC Chapter Warnings | none, more (a lot more) angst, switch pov an: I (unintentionally) am doing chapters bigger and bigger, I'm sorry! I'm loving to hear your thoughts, and for this one I'm even more excited! thank you to everyone reblogging and commenting, it makes me very happy and eager to keep telling this story!

It did not take long after leaving the General's lands for the red banner to appear on the horizon, its bold color cutting through the muted greens and browns of the countryside—a herald of the army camp that lay ahead. The sight filled you with a strange mixture of dread and resignation. The last three days with Acacius had been unexpectedly revealing, peeling back layers of the man whose presence once felt like an enigma. He had answered your endless questions, each reply tinged with a patience that surprised you. What once stirred a dangerous heat deep in your chest had softened into something steadier: admiration, perhaps even fondness.

He might not feel the same for you, and you had long stopped hoping for anything more. His friendship, for now, felt like enough. Yet, as the camp drew closer, the harsh reality of your situation loomed larger. Acacius had become the last familiar thread in a tapestry that was unraveling too quickly. Your home was gone. Your parents were gone. You were a princess of what? No land, no future, and no allies to call upon. The weight of it pressed heavily against your chest, stealing the air from your lungs.

What will become of me once we reach the camp?

The thought turned over and over in your mind, each repetition sharper than the last. You imagined your aunt, your mother’s sister, whose letters had been scarce and formal at best. She lived in the distant lands of North Africa, across vast seas you would have to cross alone—an impossible task for someone in your fragile position. The mere idea made your pulse quicken with unease.

The silence between you and Acacius felt tangible now, broken only by the steady rhythm of the horse’s hooves on the dusty ground and the faint rustle of the wind through the sparse trees. It was not an oppressive silence but one that carried a bittersweet weight. You glanced sideways at him, wondering if you should ask another question to break the quiet. Yet something held you back. This moment, this quiet farewell to the intimacy you had shared over the past days, felt strangely sacred.

I think I’ll miss him.

As the first signs of the camp came into view—soldiers moving purposefully, their forms growing sharper against the backdrop of tents and banners—the shift in atmosphere was palpable. The men recognized Acacius immediately. Their gazes snapped to attention, shoulders straightening as they acknowledged his presence with murmured respect. Some stopped their tasks entirely, their voices carrying hushed words you barely caught: “The Princess…” The tone was laced with something unfamiliar—sympathy, perhaps.

They pity me.

“They respected your father above all else,” Acacius murmured, his voice low and steady as if he had read your thoughts. His gaze remained fixed ahead, his jaw tight with purpose. “They will help us. You have no reason to worry.”

You nodded, though his words offered little comfort. As the two of you dismounted, Acacius moved with practiced ease, first offering you his hand, then bracing your waist as you slid from the saddle. His touch was brief but grounding, a subtle reminder of his presence. Together, you walked toward the largest tent, its fabric swaying gently in the afternoon breeze. A soldier stepped forward to take the reins of the horse, nodding in deference as he led it away.

The whispers followed you, and with each step closer to the tent, your unease deepened. At the entrance, Acacius gestured for you to go first. You hesitated, turning toward him in search of reassurance. His eyes softened, the hardness of the soldier momentarily replaced by something warmer, quieter. His hand found the small of your back, guiding you forward with a touch that spoke of unspoken promises.

Inside, the air was thick, the heavy canvas walls trapping the warmth of the day. The room was dimly lit, streaks of light filtering through seams in the fabric. A central table dominated the space, its surface strewn with maps and figurines—an unmistakable strategy table. Three men stood around it, their gazes lifting as you entered. One of them, clad in armor as elaborate as Acacius’s, straightened immediately, his face breaking into an expression of palpable relief.

“Finally, my friend…” The man’s voice carried a weight that matched his stature, a breath exhaled after what felt like years of tension.

Before you could fully take in the scene, a figure emerged from the shadowed corner of the tent—a woman. She moved swiftly, her voice ringing with unmistakable warmth as she called Acacius’s name.

“Lena,” Acacius said, clearly caught off guard by her approach. She reached him in moments, her hands cupping his face with an intimacy that made your chest tighten.

“You’re alive,” she breathed, her eyes glistening with relief. “I was so scared... I thought we had lost you.”

His hands found her waist instinctively, steadying her as though she might collapse from the weight of her emotions. “You’re not rid of me yet,” he said, his voice lighter now, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

The tenderness in her gaze was undeniable, her fingers lingering as if reassuring herself that he was truly there. You looked away, suddenly acutely aware of how small you felt in this space. The warmth between them was palpable, a bond forged long before you had ever entered his life.

The other man approached Acacius with the familiarity of an old friend, pulling him into a firm embrace that spoke of years spent side by side in battles unseen and victories hard-won.

“Missed you, brother,” he said, his voice carrying the easy warmth of someone who had long grown comfortable in Acacius’s presence. “Your men arrived days ago and said you were just behind them. What kept you?”

It was then that you were noticed. Slowly, deliberately, the attention in the room shifted, settling on you like a weight pressing against your chest. Their eyes, sharp and questioning, lingered a moment too long, and despite the heat of the tent, an icy shiver ran down your spine.

You wished you could meet their gaze with the boldness of a woman who belonged here—a princess unshaken by the sudden shift in her life. You wished you could hold your chin high, your shoulders square, like the noblewoman you had been raised to be. But confidence felt like a distant dream, slipping further from your grasp with each passing second.

Instead, your eyes faltered, dropping instinctively to the ground as if the canvas beneath your feet could offer refuge. The voice in your head whispered cruel truths: you were out of place here, a fragile shadow of who you once were. A princess of nothing, nowhere, standing in a room of men who carried the weight of empires on their shoulders.

Acacius, perhaps sensing your discomfort, shifted subtly beside you. His presence, solid and steady, anchored you in a way you could not explain. You took a slow breath, trying to gather the fragments of your courage, willing yourself not to shrink beneath their scrutiny.

Be strong, you thought, the words a soft plea within the silence of your mind. You’re still standing. That must count for something.

"Princess..." The man bowed his head respectfully. "I am General Valerius, Commander of the Iron Legions, Loyal to your father, Antoninus Justus. I am deeply sorry for your loss." He extended his hand to you, and you placed yours in it — as any lady should. He was a strong man, his stature almost equal to that of Acacius, though younger in years. His shoulders were broad, yet there was a weariness in his eyes, a quiet burden carried beneath the weight of his armor.

"I appreciate your loyalty, General. My father is—" You faltered, the truth of his absence settling heavy in your chest. "My father would be most grateful for your services to the empire."

"He will be missed dearly." General Valerius’s voice softened, his gaze lingering for a moment on Acacius. "Sit down, Marcus, Lena will fetch you wine and bread. You must be hungry."

"Thank you, brother, but first, I would ask something of you." Acacius’s tone was low, measured. "Could you prepare a tent for the princess? She is weary and not quite... accustomed to such a life." His words, though respectful, carried a certain delicacy, as if speaking of a world you no longer belonged to.

"I'll see to it," Lena replied quickly, her voice calm and assured, as she brought a cup for both of you. Your cup held water, while the General’s contained wine. A subtle distinction, one you pondered as she drew nearer, noting the curve of her belly—her child. Who is this woman? She offered you a smile, kind yet unsettling, and for reasons you could not place, doubt lingered in your heart.

"It will be arranged, Acacius," The General continued, his voice carrying a hint of finality, "but first... I’m afraid we have some political matters to discuss."

The words hung in the air like a shadow, and as you prepared to rise and leave—so accustomed to doing so with your father’s matters—you were met with the soldiers’ expectant gazes. You hesitated.

"Do you... wish for me to stay?" Your voice faltered, barely above a whisper.

"You must, Princess. It all revolves around you," came his reply, almost too obvious, as if the weight of your presence could not be denied.

"We have received a letter from Rome," General Valerius continued, his tone now somber. "From one of the Senate’s men, Macrelius."

The words struck you like a blow. Fury flared inside your chest, a fire burning bright and hot. If the man stood before you now, you were certain you would strangle him with your bare hands.

"I’m sorry for reading it, Princess, but we weren't certain of your... survival. We thought it might contain important information."

"What did he say?" you demanded, your voice trembling with a rage you had not yet realized resided within you.

"Well..." General Valerius hesitated, his face tightening as he recounted the words. "He spent a great deal of time apologizing, claiming that the plot was never intended to kill the emperor. Though it didn’t sound sincere. Then, he asked for your hand."

"He what?" Acacius’s voice cracked with the intensity of his anger, his posture stiffening in a way that made the air thick with tension.

"He said that the people are enraged," Valerius continued, his voice heavy with the weight of truth, "that the riots will soon bring the fall of Rome. The only way to quell their fury is for you to show your support for the Senate by marrying him."

The notion sickened you to your core. How could this man, the very one responsible for your father’s death, propose such a vile marriage? His treachery knew no bounds.

"He’s a madman, Valerius," Acacius whispered, the coldness of his tone betraying the fury that swirled beneath. "Minutes before the chaos at the castle, he was laughing with Antoninus. He is the greatest traitor of all."

"The problem is, Acacius," Valerius’s voice grew more contemplative, "he’s not entirely wrong. The people of Rome adored Antoninus, and his death has left them grieving. They mourn for him as they would for their own kin. And they adore the princess just as fiercely." His gaze softened as he turned to you, his tone almost comforting. "Where your loyalty lies, the people will follow, Your Grace."

"I cannot accept such an offer, General," you said, the weight of it sinking into your bones. "He is responsible for my father’s death."

"I know," Valerius sighed, his eyes dark with understanding. "But I’m afraid you must make a decision. The people believe you dead. A marriage would give them direction. It would show them who they should stand with."

"What do you have in mind, Valerius?" Acacius’s voice was tight, his usual calm replaced by a flicker of unease. His eyes locked onto his friend’s, searching for any sign, any hint of the true intentions behind the words.

"Well," Valerius hesitated, then his voice grew quiet as he paced the room, "if a marriage must happen to show the people where they stand... then she could also marry one of us."

The words hit you like a storm. Your heart seemed to sink, your blood ran cold, and the room around you blurred into fog. You had known, somewhere deep within, that one day you would be forced into such a union, but not like this. Not now.

You noticed how Acacius, too, seemed struck by the suggestion, his expression one of disbelief, and before either of you could voice your protest, the other General spoke, his tone measured but unyielding.

"By 'us,' I mean Acacius—thank the gods, I am happily married." He stood, placing a hand firmly on Acacius’s shoulder as he faced you, his expression somber as he laid out the harsh truth. "What I’m saying is this: such a marriage would serve as a declaration that the events of that night were an act of treason. It would show that neither you nor your father condoned the attack. However, it would also provoke war with Rome, even if those now in power are not rightfully in command. And we can’t predict if Macrelius would retaliate against the people for it."

The words hung in the air like an iron weight, and you could only blink, overwhelmed by the rush of information. How could you possibly make a decision now?

Lena entered the tent again, her hand resting lightly on her swollen belly. "I have prepared everything for you, Your Highness," she said respectfully, her voice soft.

"I shall leave you to rest, Princess," Valerius said, his tone gentle but filled with gravity. "You can make your decision tomorrow. Goodnight."

· · ───────── ·𖥸· ───────── · ·

You walk in silence beside Lena, your thoughts swirling like a storm that refuses to settle. Every step feels heavier than the last, burdened by the decisions looming over you, their shadows stretching far beyond the flickering light of the campfires. Lena's soft voice pulls you from the maze of your mind.

"My brother may seem a little... stern, but he's a good man, I assure you, Princess," she says, her tone gentle, though it does little to quiet the turmoil within you.

"General Valerius seemed very interested in deciding my life," you reply, your voice sharper than you intended. The words hang in the air like a blade unsheathed. Tired, drained, you’re in no mood for small talk, especially not with someone you barely know. Trust feels like a luxury you can’t afford, and as far as you can tell, this woman, with her kind smile and soft tone, could be hiding knives of her own.

"Well," Lena says, a light playfulness threading through her voice despite your tone, "my husband has a habit of deciding my life too." She glances at you with a smirk that feels too knowing, too practiced, before adding, "But I was talking about Acacius. I noticed the way he looks after you—even in that serious manner of his. I’ve told him countless times that his temper will only ever be matched, or tamed, by a woman as fierce as he is."

The words surprise you, slipping into your thoughts like a stone breaking the stillness of water. Your steps falter for just a moment as Lena reaches forward, pulling back the tent flap to reveal the space prepared for you. The realization hits you suddenly, as if the pieces of a puzzle have been snapped into place.

"You're his sister?" you ask, your voice soft and uncertain. A faint heat rises to your cheeks, embarrassment mingling with exhaustion. The doubt you’d clung to earlier now seems cruel.

Lena’s laugh is light, forgiving. "I am. Did you think otherwise?" she asks, though there’s no mockery in her tone—only quiet understanding.

"I’m sorry," you whisper, the words fumbling out before you can stop them. "I thought—"

"It’s all right, Your Highness," she interrupts gently, waving off your concern with a small, graceful motion. "Would you mind if I help you bathe?"

The question takes you by surprise, though the very thought of being clean again nearly undoes you. You swallow against the sudden tightness in your throat and nod, unable to form words. Lena steps into the space with practiced movements, wordlessly preparing the water as you begin to untangle yourself from the layers of dirt-streaked fabric that cling to your skin.

The quiet that follows feels heavier now, but not uncomfortable. Lena works in silence, her motions sure and precise as she tends to the water and brushes out your hair. When the warm water touches your skin, you feel yourself exhale—a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. The sweet, calming scent of lavender rises from the water, lingering in the air and weaving itself through your senses like a balm for every raw edge inside you. You close your eyes for just a moment, letting the warmth seep into your bones.

When you open them again, Lena’s hands are steady, her expression gentle as she tends to you. It’s only then that you notice the familiarity in her face—the shape of her eyes, the quiet resolve in them. The same eyes as Acacius.

"How far along are you?" you ask softly, your voice tentative.

Lena pauses, her hand lingering for a brief moment as she works. When she looks up at you, her smile is small, almost wistful. "Not long now," she says, her hand settling lightly over the curve of her belly. The glow in her face speaks of something deeper—hope, perhaps, or the quiet strength of someone who’s lived through storms and learned to steady herself in the aftermath.

You don’t say anything else, and neither does she. The silence between you shifts, no longer heavy but something softer, like a fragile thread of understanding weaving itself between two strangers—two women standing at the edge of worlds far larger than either of them.

Lena’s hand lingered over her belly as her gaze drifted somewhere far beyond the tent, beyond the present moment, as though she were reaching back into the folds of time. A faint smile curved her lips—soft, wistful—as she broke the silence.

"Valerius and Acacius... they’ve always been like brothers, even when they weren’t," she began, her voice carrying the weight of old memories wrapped in fondness. "When we were children, the three of us were inseparable. My father used to call them shadows, always following each other about. Where one went, the other was sure to be close behind."

You watched her as she spoke, the calm rhythm of her voice like the gentle ripple of water over stone. It was the kind of tone that made you feel like you were eavesdropping on something sacred, a glimpse into lives lived long before you became part of their world.

"Acacius was always the quiet one, though," Lena continued, carefully wringing out the cloth and dipping it into the warm lavender-scented water. "Stubborn, serious, even then. He carried more weight than a boy his age should have. I think he was always preparing for this life, even before it came for him." She looked up at you briefly, her gaze searching, as though measuring whether you understood the man whose loyalty had been given to you. "And Valerius... well, he was the storm to Acacius’s stone."

Her words painted a picture as vivid as any tapestry you’d seen in your father’s halls—a boyish Acacius with the same unwavering stare, his shadow matched step-for-step by a younger Valerius, wild and laughing.

"They balanced each other," Lena continued after a pause, her voice softening. "Valerius brought light and laughter where Acacius would have built walls. And Acacius... he steadied Valerius when the world felt too wild for him."

You felt a pang in your chest at her words, as though the truth of them weighed on you. It made sense now, the silent understanding between the two men, the trust so deep it didn’t need to be spoken aloud. It was a bond built in youth, forged through time and tested by the world’s cruelty.

"And you?" you asked, your voice quieter than you intended. "Where did you fit in?"

Lena laughed softly, a sound full of warmth and reminiscence. "Oh, I was the little tyrant, always trailing after them, determined to be part of their adventures. They hated it, of course—Valerius once tried to lose me in the fields, thinking I’d give up and go home. But Acacius, ever the protector, carried me back on his shoulders, scolding Valerius the whole way."

Her smile softened, her gaze drifting as if caught in some far-off memory. "Despite it all, I think Valerius and I were always bound to find each other. We fought like sworn enemies back then, but somewhere between those childhood battles, I think we realized we couldn’t live without one another. He grew into the man who wishes to decide every step of my life—much to my annoyance at times—but also the man who has held my heart ever since."

The tent fell into a moment of peaceful silence as Lena finished her work, carefully laying the damp cloth aside. The lavender still lingered in the air, a quiet comfort against the unknown weight pressing at the edges of your thoughts.

Lena smiled then, a small, knowing smile, before rising to her feet. "Rest, Your Highness," she said softly, smoothing her dress over her rounded belly. "Tomorrow will come soon enough, and you’ll need your strength."

She left you alone then, the flap of the tent swaying gently as it settled back into place. For a long moment, you remained still, staring at the basin of water where lavender petals floated in soft spirals, their scent lingering like a promise.

· · ───────── ·𖥸· ───────── · ·

The tent now was dimly lit, the shadows flickering against the fabric walls as the oil lamp sputtered. You sat at the edge of the small cot, fingers twisting the hem of your tunic, lost in thought. Outside, the camp was quiet, save for the distant hum of soldiers settling into the night.

Acacius hesitated before pulling back the flap to Aemilia’s tent. It was unlike him to linger, to question himself, but tonight he did. He told himself he was only checking on her, ensuring she was well after such a long and trying day. That’s all.

Steeling his resolve, he stepped inside. Aemilia sat at a small wooden table, her hands resting on an open scroll she hadn’t been reading. Her posture was slumped, and though her face was turned away, Acacius could see the weight of exhaustion in the curve of her shoulders.

"Your Grace," he said softly, breaking the silence.

Aemilia startled slightly, her head snapping up to meet his gaze. For a moment, she just stared at him, her expression unreadable, before masking it with cool detachment. "General Acacius," she said, her voice polite but distant. "To what do I owe the honor?"

Her words were measured, but he noticed the fatigue beneath them—an exhaustion not of body, but of spirit. She looked like someone who longed for the oblivion of sleep, yet her mind refused her rest.

I know the feeling.

“I came to see if you were comfortable. If...” He hesitated, the unusual uncertainty making him shift his weight. “Perhaps you need anything?”

He hated how the words faltered as they left him, stripped of the firm authority he was so used to. The days spent together had chipped away at his armor, leaving a vulnerability he hadn’t felt in years. She trusted him now—he believed it. And more importantly, he hoped she understood he wasn’t just a soldier in her service, but perhaps something more. A friend. Maybe the most loyal one she would ever know.

“Oh.” She gasped, genuinely surprised by his concern. “Thank you, General. Not just for this but... for everything you have done. For me, for my father, and for the empire.” She paused, looking down, her fingers nervously tracing the seam of her tunic. “Unfortunately, I can’t possibly repay you now, but I promise you, as soon as I—”

“Stop.” His voice was quiet, yet firm as he stepped closer, his shadow stretching across the floor. “There’s nothing to repay. I did it gladly, and I would do it a thousand times again if necessary. Not out of duty.” He hesitated, the next words slipping from his mouth before he could stop them. “But because I...”

He faltered, his eyes searching for hers, trying to measure how much of his heart he could expose without shattering completely. “We can be considered friends, can we not?”

Her gaze softened, the hardness in her expression melting ever so slightly. “Yes...” A small, almost timid smile touched her lips, though she quickly averted her eyes, unable to bear the intensity of his. “I suppose we can.”

Acacius remained still, restless in a way that felt unfamiliar. He wanted more from her—more words, more understanding, something—as if her voice alone could unravel the tension within him.

Finally, she broke the silence, her shoulders slumping as her mask crumbled. “I’m sorry, it’s just... I’m so confused.”

She rested her face in her hands, elbows propped on her knees, and he felt a pang deep in his chest at the sight of her. The proud, unshakable woman now seemed small, fragile. Mortal.

“I’ve spent my whole life preparing for this,” she said quietly, her voice muffled against her palms. “Learning, studying the best possibilities. And now that the time has come... everything feels out of place. No matter what I choose, I fell like I'll be doing something wrong.”

His brow furrowed, her words gnawing at him. What does she mean?

She lifted her head then, and he realized his thoughts had slipped aloud. Their eyes met, and for a fleeting moment, she looked like she might weep. “Marrying Macrelius would bring peace to the Roman people,” she whispered. “There would be no retaliation. Perhaps things could go back to normal.” She swallowed, as if the words physically hurt her. “But marrying you...”

Acacius stiffened, feeling a cold weight settle in his chest.

“Marrying you would mean war,” she continued. “And I can’t do that to them. It wouldn’t be fair.”

She can’t possibly be thinking to marry that man. The thought churned through him like a poison. Am I that repulsive?

His fists clenched at his sides, though he fought to keep his voice steady. “Peace is something the Roman people haven’t seen in a long time.” His tone was colder now, the softness gone, replaced by something harder—something she hadn’t heard from him before.

She nodded faintly, as if she understood. “I miss home,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “I miss my father. My friends. Marrying Macrelius would mean going back to everything I know. It feels... safer.”

The words stung him more than he cared to admit.

“I’m not sure I can handle everything here,” she added, glancing at him briefly, her gaze calculated. “Staying here would mean staying alone.”

You speak carefully, your words chosen like pieces on a chessboard, hoping—praying—that the General might reveal his true thoughts about the matter. Your heart is a tangle of confusion, but the weight pressing hardest is your uncertainty over him. Would he truly want this marriage? Would he stand beside you willingly, not out of duty or obligation but because he chooses to?

The very idea unsettles you. For all you know, Acacius may see this as nothing but strategy, a burden to shoulder for the good of the empire. He says he is loyal—fiercely so—but would that loyalty extend to your happiness? To you?

The alternative feels like swallowing stones. Marrying the man responsible for your father’s death—whether by intent or fate—twists your very soul. Yet what choice remains? If Acacius doesn’t want you, doesn’t choose you, then what else can you do but sacrifice yourself for your people’s safety?

If only he would say it—just once. "I’ll never leave you alone."

· · ───────── ·𖥸· ───────── · ·

Your words struck him in a way he wasn't expecting. You feel safer with Macrelius than with him. And this time the anger inside can't be tamed or discased. 

“Well then,” he said bitterly, his voice carrying an edge sharper than any blade, “perhaps it’s better for you to return to the palace and go back to the easy life you had. Perhaps what happened in the last days can be forgotten with a good wedding feast.”

Her head snapped up, her eyes wide with hurt. “How can you say that?” she whispered, her voice shaking. The sadness in it, however, was quickly swallowed by anger—an anger that blazed as fiercely as his own.

“How dare you say that to me when I’ve lost everything? Everyone I love? Everyone who could care for me?” She stood abruptly, brushing past him toward the tent’s exit, but she stopped short, hesitating. Her back was to him now, her voice low but seething.

“Maybe the truth is you have no idea what real loss is, do you, soldier?” She turned, her gaze burning into his. “How could you know anything about caring? About love?”

She took a step forward, giving him no chance to reply, tone sharp as a dagger, her voice mocking now, “I wonder if that night you kissed me... was it pity? Or did you simply want to send me away so I wouldn’t interrupt your precious lonely time?”

Acacius’s eyes darkened, the fire in them matching hers.

“You’re a brute,” she spat. “The worst kind of man.”

The words landed with precision, but instead of hurting him, they ignited something worse—his pride. He laughed, a low, bitter sound that sent a chill down her spine.

“So that’s your opinion of me? A brute?” He stepped toward her, his gaze unrelenting. “Perhaps I should truly show you my worst. Then the feelings you once said you felt would go away, wouldn’t they?”

“Stay away, soldier,” she warned, though her voice faltered at the end.

“But I can’t, can I?” His voice broke then, the frustration spilling out of him like water through cracked stone. “Because even you, being the most stubborn and spoiled woman I have ever met, I can’t stay away. When I’m not thinking of you, I’m thinking of ways to protect you. And when I’m not doing that...” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I’m thinking of ways to love you. And that—that—is the worst part.”

His chest rose and fell with the weight of his confession, and for a long moment, silence filled the space between them.

“Because even if I had a thousand ways to show my devotion to you, it wouldn’t be enough. Not in this life or the next.” His voice grew quieter now, the anger fading to something almost sorrowful. “It wouldn’t be enough because you deserve a prince. One on a white horse. Young. Perfect. Not a scarred, brute of a man like me.”

· · ───────── ·𖥸· ───────── · ·

You noticed how his eyes flickered from pure anger to something quite diferent, almost a little sad. Your lips parted slightly, as if to speak, but no words came.

Does he really think so low of himself?

“Marcus...” your tone soft, reaching out toward him.

He shook his head, his expression hardening again, the walls rebuilding before your very eyes. “You should rest,” he said abruptly, the emotion disappearing from his tone. “You have a decision to make tomorrow. And by the way this conversation has gone... I already know the answer.”

Before you could say another word, he turned and disappeared into the night, the tent flap swaying behind him.

You sat back down, the weight of the conversation pressing down on you like a stone. The silence he left behind was deafening, and though you knew you should rest, all you could do was replay his words—I’m thinking of ways to love you.

And yet he was gone, believing you felt nothing. Believing he was nothing to you at all.

[thepascalparadox]

'The soldier in the armour'

Marcus Acacius x f!reader

summary: Your mother Lucilla arranges a marriage between you and general acacius to protect you from the emperor's geta obsession. Acacius doesn't love you but he is a man of honor and has swore to protect you.

warnings: angst, age gap, power imbalance, abuse of power, patriarchal society, smut, violence, mentions of blood, mention of children

wc: 12k (so far)

status: ongoing

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

chapter i

chapter ii

chapter iii

chapter iv

chapter v

[thepascalparadox]

𝐏𝐄𝐃𝐑𝐎 𝐏𝐀𝐒𝐂𝐀𝐋 as 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐋 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐔𝐒 𝐀𝐂𝐀𝐂𝐈𝐔𝐒

Gladiator II (2024). Acacius' white tunic.

[thepascalparadox]

All Too Well Masterlist

Joel Miller x Fem!Reader Summary: After meeting Joel one late night at a bar you launch into a whirlwind romance with him. But, between a nasty breakup and the end of the world, you're left with nothing but your thoughts of the past and the way they haunt you all too well. Warnings: 18+ Mature themes including: language, explicit smut, loss of virginity sexual references, SA (Not by Joel), Animal death, child death, eating disorders, starvation. Each part will have its own warnings. Takes place before, during, and after season one of The Last of Us. Set in a universe where Joel and Ellie never leave Jackson to look for the Fireflies. No use of Y/N.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Word Count: 22.9k+

Back to Main Masterlist

[thepascalparadox]

Snowed In

Summary: After a freak snowstorm you and your husband were left alone, stranded in the lake house you were vacationing in for the holidays. It wouldn't have been a problem if you hadn't gone into labor.

Pairing: Frankie Morales x Female Pregnant!Reader (mentioned to have thick hair but no physical description otherwise)

Rating: 18+

Warnings: Fowl language, descriptions of labor and the birthing process; mentions of bodily fluids. (Tried to not be too descriptive, but it's not exactly that vague either.) Two parents doing their best in a bad situation. Is this medically accurate? Maybe?

Word Count: 3,788

Author’s Note: This fic is so out of season but oh well. I got all up in my head thinking about a Pedro character having to help with the delivery of his child and just had to write it.

xxx

It had seemed like a good idea at the time, a holiday vacation to a friend's lake house in the Colorado Rocky Mountains, your last getaway before the baby arrived.

You'd planned to be there from December twenty-three to January second, with only your husband Frankie for company, just relaxing and enjoying the seclusion and peaceful atmosphere. You'd brought a bunch of DVDs to watch and your Christmas gifts, along with your necessities, and your friend Lydia had thoughtfully set up a Christmas tree in the corner of the living room sometime before your arrival.

Everything had been near perfect. The lake house offering a stellar view of the nearly frozen over lake and its fireplace offering a cozy area to curl up in.

Christmas had been completely uneventful, but the next morning you'd learned from the local television news that an unexpected snowstorm was rapidly approaching, and it was going to be pretty nasty, blinding drivers and dumping at least five feet of snow in the upcoming two days.

You'd considered leaving early to avoid it, but Frankie was nervous about getting caught up in the beginning of the storm with that warning about low visibility.

So, instead, you both made sure the house was well stocked with food and hunkered down. It wasn't like that hadn't been the original plan anyway. By the time you had to leave the storm would be just a memory.

You could've never predicted that you'd wake up at four in the morning on December twenty-seven to a terrible cramp in your stomach. You winced and your hand flew to your massive belly, clutching it. You could feel a hardness to it before something relaxed in you and the pain went away. That was when you knew the dull ache you'd felt earlier in the night was something more.

Your jaw dropped. You were going into labor.

"Oh no, oh no," you chanted, panicked. "This can't be happening. Not now!"

"Not now what?" Frankie mumbled drowsily, stirred awake by your mental meltdown. He rolled over in bed to face you and you pointed to your stomach.

"I'm having contractions," you declared. "And not the fake kind. I had a dull ache earlier, but it got worst. It's progressing."

"Shit." Frankie hissed. "You sure? You're a month early."

You nodded confidently. "I wasn't earlier, but I am now."

He stood immediately and started to dress up, yanking on a green sweater and a pair of dark blue jeans. "I'll go shovel the driveway and see if the plows have cleared the road yet." He paused and turned to you, a hand stretched out. "Are you going to be okay here for a little bit? Do you need anything, at all?"

"Yeah, I'll be alright," you replied surely. "It's not anything I can't handle right now. I'll just stay here, try to catch a little more shut eye."

"I'll start a fire before I head out," he promised you, bending over to kiss you on the lips. "And I'll be back in as soon as I can."

You nodded again and watched as he bolted out of the room like a rabbit. Your heart was thumping hard in your chest.

The storm was ongoing, still had a day left to go and had already delivered over half of the snow that had been predicted. For once the weatherman had been correct, and that was bad news for you. It meant more likely than not the road was blocked by snow. Enough of it to make it impossible for Frankie's beat up old pick-up truck to get out of the driveway. The snowplow drivers never made it a priority to plow the off beaten path roads. Especially when the owners of the lake houses in the area didn't often visit in the winter. They usually only used them in the summer and fall and for a short time period when the ice was thick enough for some winter fishing.

The anxiety building in you made it hard to fall back asleep and you gave up after spending thirty minutes in bed shifting around restlessly until the next contraction hit you.

Had it been a little more painful that time? You had no idea.

You pulled yourself out of bed and waddled over to the couch in the living room so you could sit back on it and watch the fire Frankie had made, hoping that the flickering flames and the warmth would soothe you. And it did for a little while, until Frankie stomped back into the house an hour later, looking like the abominable snowman.

"And?" you prompted.

He tugged off the gloves and the snow hat he was wearing and shook his head. "I got the driveway cleared out enough, but the main road hasn't seen a plow since yesterday afternoon. We're stuck, for now." He scratched at the base of his neck, worry in his eyes. "How are the contractions?"

"Still about the same in strength," you answered. "And around twenty-eight minutes apart. It's still very early, and since I'm a first time mom it should take a long time to really progress."

He ticked his jaw as he hung up his winter coat on the rack by the front door. "I'm going to call 911. The plows will open the road up if they have to get through."

You perked up a bit, not sure why you hadn't thought of it first. "Do it now."

He gave you a quick nod and slipped his cell phone out of his pocket, attempting to dial the emergency number.

Attempting being the word. The call didn't go through, his phone having no signal.

"How are there no fucking working towers nearby?" Frankie exclaimed, tossing his phone onto the kitchen table in frustration, palming his face. "911 calls are supposed to be picked up by any tower, whether we have that service or not."

"The storm," you reminded him quietly, as if he could forget, mouth suddenly going dry. You licked your lips and swallowed hard.

You and Frankie were alone for the foreseeable future. You could tell he had come to the same horrifying conclusion as you had because you saw your own fear reflected in his eyes in the firelight.

Your stomach dropped. "Fuck no." You rocked yourself a little where you sat. "Fuck. Why did I let Lydia convince me this was a good fucking idea? I mean, who takes a vacation so close to their due date? Where there's snow? And shitty cell reception? She doesn't even have a landline for back up. I am going to fucking kill her."

"No you won't," Frankie said with a sigh, plopping down on the couch next to you and rubbing your upper thigh, trying to comfort you. "Emma was in labor for nineteen hours, surely before then a plow will come around, and as soon as it does, I'll take you to the nearest hospital. It'll be okay."

Emma was his ex-girlfriend, and co-parent to Frankie's six year old son, Nic.

Emma had been much smarter than you. She'd stayed in Florida during her whole pregnancy. She'd delivered her son in the hospital she'd picked out, just like she had planned. You might not even get to a hospital.

As if on cue, another contraction rippled through you, and you bit your lip and pressed your hand back against your baby bump. Luckily it was still brief, and when your muscles relaxed you could feel your little one shifting inside you. Feeling the movement calmed you - slightly.

When you glanced up from looking at your belly, your eyes found Frankie's again. They were full of sympathy. "Anything I can do, baby?" he inquired again earnestly.

You had a feeling you were going to hear those words a lot that day and you were grateful.

"I'm starving," you told him. "I can't have too much food, but do you mind making toast?"

The electricity had gone out while Frankie had been out shoveling, but you could hear the backup generator running and the kitchen was one of the rooms it covered. You might as well have a bite to eat before it got too hard to keep food down, you’d figured.

He closed the gap between you and pressed a feathery light kiss to your forehead. "Course not. Coming right up."

With that, he was on his feet, headed for the kitchen like a man on a mission.

xxx

“Okay, it's okay," you said trying to calm yourself, pep talk yourself as you held on tightly to the back of the couch, mid contraction. "You almost completed nursing school, women have done this for thousands of years, you can do this."

It was many hours later, mid afternoon, and your contractions were much more intense. They were fifteen minutes apart and getting even closer at an alarming rate. The storm was still raging outside, the road was still blocked, and neither your phone nor Frankie's could catch a tower.

It had all become very real to you that you were probably going to be giving birth in the lake house, with only Frankie to assist.

Frankie, who was at your side, helping you to remain standing as you endured it, sucked in a sharp breath. "You really don't think the plow will show up before then?"

"I don't have the experience to say for sure," you replied, gasping, "But - urgh! - something in my gut is telling me we don't have much time left. We're going to have to prepare."

"Sit down on the couch," he ordered you as you slumped forward, another contraction over with. "I'll get you whatever you need."

You may have flunked out of the last few courses before you’d have graduated college, and you may have not refreshed your memory since, but you did still remember a thing or two, and you'd watched a lot of medical YouTube videos about pregnancy and birth after you'd found out you were pregnant, so it wasn't like you were totally clueless, but you were clueless enough to make your anxiety skyrocket.

You stepped around to the couch’s front and collapsed onto it, resting your head in your hands and taking a moment to collect yourself before you started to list everything you could think of that would be needed before and after you gave birth.

He swiped all the clean towels and washcloths out of the bathroom, a few pillows from the bedroom, a water bottle out of the fridge, and a trash bin from the bedroom. You had him set all the items up in the living room, even though the bed probably would've been comfier to lay back in during the last few hours of your labor.

You wouldn't have been able to explain it, but something about being in the living room, in a more open space, made you feel better. You didn't need to though. Frankie yes ma'am-ed you the entire time.

"Is that everything?" he inquired, eyes scanning the towel covered floor in front of the couch and the other items that littered the pushed aside coffee table.

"Need you to boil some water," you answered as you clutched at your aching lower back. "Lydia has some sewing string in the kitchen junk drawer. Throw a roll in the water and a pair of scissors, and let it sterilize them."

He raised his eyebrows questioningly.

"It's to tie off the cord," you explained. "It can stay attached, but after five minutes we're going to need to cut off the blood flow so the baby doesn't get jaundice. The sewing string is all I can think of in here that could do that."

Frankie left the room to start his task and within the hour the sewing string and scissors were ready, laid out on a clean hand towel on the living room side table.

He returned to your side as another, more powerful wave hit you. You closed your eyes and grimaced, nails digging into the couch's fabric beneath you. You felt him gently stroking your arm as it dissipated.

"You're going to have to catch the baby and dry them off when the time comes," you told him, opening your eyes back up.

He pursed his lips. "I figured that much."

"You'll do fine," you assured him, and he chuckled.

"I should be telling you that."

You flashed him a small, tired smile. "Exactly."

If everything went right, that and tying the cord was all he'd have to do.

If.

Something you recalled from your nursing classes had you chewing on your lower lip.

"What is it?" Frankie asked warily, recognizing your troubled expression.

"Nothing," you said, shaking your head. There was going to be a lot of risk in giving birth in the lake house, but there was also no use worrying about it at this point. You had no choice and thinking about it was just going to stress you out even more than you already were.

Eventually the pain got so intense you couldn't think about it anymore, both a blessing and a curse.

When the contractions weren't making you freeze up, you were pacing like a wild animal trapped in a tiny cage, trying to walk off the pain that was starting to feel unbearable.

Why was something so natural so painful? You wondered.

You were sweating buckets, so you stripped down, almost entirely, to nothing but your sports bra. You were getting close to being in active labor anyway, the contractions seven minutes apart.

Frankie sat quietly on the couch with you sitting in front of him, massaging your lower back, trying to ease a stitch your labor had caused.

He'd been pretty quiet for a while, seemingly not sure what to say and probably all up in his head about what he would need to do.

You weren't worried he'd pass out from the sight of your blood, but you knew all the military training in the world wouldn't be able to keep him as cool as a cucumber when the time came. Internally he was probably panicking.

When he stood and tried dialing 911 again your suspicions were confirmed.

Unbelievably, the call finally went through. You knew immediately when his eyes widened, and he frantically rattled off the lake house address and explained your situation. The 911 operator had him put his phone on speaker, with the intention of guiding you and him through the process if needed, but then the phone cut off again.

"Damn it!" Frankie yelled in frustration as he chucked his, once again, useless phone onto the couch. "We might as well be on a homestead in northern Alaska."

"At least they're on their way," you said. It made you feel a little better even if they wouldn't likely make it in time.

You were sure they wouldn't when, moments later, a contraction sent you to your knees on the towels by the front of the couch. There was a gush of fluid and, your water broken, the pain intensified by a factor of ten.

"Fuck!" you shouted, groaning as an overwhelmingly weighted sensation overtook you. "Oh god, I have to push, I have to, I have to."

You muttered those words on loop as you turned your back to the couch for support and spread your legs, bending your knees after. Fear bloomed in your chest, but it was easy to knock aside by that point.

Frankie was quickly on his knees in front of you, eyes on your face.

"Then push, honey," he said softly. "I got you." His large hands found your thighs, and the warmth radiating off them grounded you, reassuring you more than words ever could.

You looked into his eyes for a moment and there was a brief calm in them, a determination, before he swallowed hard and nodded at you.

You did the same, and with the next contraction you bore down as hard as you could, panting out heavy breaths when you remembered to breath.

It hurt, so much, but it also felt good to push. To be able to do something about it.

Through your efforts, you caught quick glimpses of Frankie's eyes darting from your face to between your legs, and the worry etched on his own face pulled at your heartstrings, but you were in no shape of mind to return the assurance his words and touch had given you earlier.

"You're doing so well, baby; the head's out," he informed you just as you were becoming concerned that you might not be making much progress, despite having been pushing for at least twenty minutes. He managed a brief smile, even though he was the definition of a bundle of nerves. "Got a ton of hair. Just like you."

His comment, and your quick glance down to confirm it, renewed your determination to get your baby out. You wanted to hold them so bad. After the hours of labor you'd endured, you more than deserved it.

You cried out with your next heave and was rewarded with another update from Frankie. "The shoulders are out," he stated, voice laced with subtle excitement. "Come on, sweetheart, I think you can do it in one more big push. Okay? Push!"

You squeezed your eyes shut, screamed with effort, and suddenly there was a sweet release as your baby slipped out of you, into Frankie's waiting hands, another gush of fluid following, spilling onto the already soaked towels beneath you.

"It's a girl!" you heard Frankie announce distantly.

You fell back briefly when his words registered in your mind, relieved that the worst part was over, before your brain switched into mom mode. Your eyes snapped open and you angled your head so you could see your baby. Frankie was cradling her half-dried body in his arms, attempting to clear fluid out of her delicate little mouth with one of his pinkie fingers. His eyebrows knitted with concern as he tried to encourage her to breath, and your heart tightened as you felt the same dread he was likely feeling because your baby hadn't taken a breath yet. Had it been ten seconds yet?

Ten seconds was typically how long it took for a newborn to take their first breath, but you were pretty sure that time frame had already passed.

Please be okay, you silently begged.

A few more agonizing seconds passed, then she released a tiny gasp as her little chest rose, and you and Frankie found yourselves both sobbing in relief, tears streaming down your faces.

"Hello, beautiful," Frankie whispered to his daughter, awe written on his face as he gently placed her on top of a clean towel so he could finish cleaning her up. Afterwards he bundled her into a fresh one as best as he could with the umbilical cord still attached to her (and you).

Once he was finished all his tasks, he passed her to you, over your stomach, laying her belly down on your chest, before getting up so he could sit down beside you against the couch. He tugged you against his side for warmth and comfort. "Are you okay? Do you feel lightheaded at all? Weak?"

You shook your head. "Just tired, and obviously, sore."

You were staring down at your daughter, studying every little feature of her that you could see. You weren't good at guessing which parts of a baby's face were shared with one of their parents, but there was no mistaking that her hair was as thick as yours, and her eyes were the same shade of brown as Frankie's.

"God, she is beautiful. We did that, Frankie." You brushed your palm under her minuscule fingers as you examined them, then lifted the entirety of her smooth, dainty hand to press it to your lips.

"You did the most work," he said pointedly, a smile on his face.

"And don't you forget it," you joked, beaming up at him, laying a hand against the center of his chest.

His smile grew wider, and he kissed your temple before resting his forehead against it. "I love you so much."

"I love you too," you whispered back, the feelings you had for him somehow even stronger than before, after having witnessed the unspoken love he had for the daughter you shared. Most of your memories of this day would likely blur, but you couldn't imagine the image of Frankie trying desperately to clear out her airway ever fading. The moment had been terrifying, but seeing him doing whatever he could think of to help his baby breathe had altered your brain chemistry nearly as much as her existence had.

It had impressed you too. "How'd you know to put your finger in her mouth?"

With no way to suction the liquid out of your baby's mouth and nose, he'd done the next best thing, you figured, without having to be told. It confused you. Where had he learned that?

The tips of his ears turned a little red. "We might have had a stray dog on base one time, and she might have given birth in my tent."

You grinned. You couldn't believe he'd withheld that story from you the entire three years you'd known each other. "So, this isn't your first time playing midwife after all."

"It's nowhere near the same," he told you firmly.

You nodded. "I'm sure."

"So, what are we naming her?" he asked, stroking your baby's cheek with the back of his hand. Her face was angled his way, her other cheek pressed against your right breast through the fabric of your soft cotton sports bra.

You'd narrowed the names down to two boy ones and two girl ones last week, having no idea you wouldn't have more time to choose one for each.

"I still like Mia best," you informed him.

"Then Mia it is," Frankie decided without hesitance, bending to kiss her forehead.

You smiled at them both as he pulled away, and you began rubbing her back gently, instinctively, when she started whimpering, getting ready to cry. "Mia it is."

Frankie had mind to check his watch. "It's been five minutes. Probably more. Time to tie off the cord?"

You nodded, and he was reaching for the roll of string when you both stilled at the sound of sirens.

An ambulance was coming. The knowledge that a pair of paramedics had been so close to arriving in time to assist you and Frankie with your daughter's birth drew annoyance from you.

You rolled your eyes dramatically. "Now they show up."

Frankie couldn't help but laugh loudly at your comment, and Mia, in turn, started crying.

xxx

Main Masterlist

[thepascalparadox]

Chapter Eight: Responsibility Above All 

Word Count | 5.9k Pairing | General Marcus Acacius x F!Reader OC Chapter Warnings | allusions to smut, switch pov

The General’s tent looked so different in the morning light. Last night, it had felt heavy with mystery and unease, the kind that made it impossible to relax. Perhaps it was the strangeness of the place—unfamiliar faces and unfamiliar surroundings—but now, everything seemed calmer. The soft rays of sunlight poured through the open flaps, making the candles from the night before seem unnecessary. A gentle breeze moved through the tent, replacing the sticky heat with something cooler, almost refreshing. You wondered if this change in the air would make it easier to say the difficult words you had prepared.

As expected, sleep never came to you. When the first light of dawn appeared, you decided to stop tossing in bed and face the day. Hours had passed with nothing but your thoughts: plans forming and silent prayers to the heavens, hoping for some divine guidance from your mother or father. Yet the silence of the gods remained unbroken, and you were left to face this moment alone.

In the corner of the tent, a wooden chest sat quietly. It was a gift from Lena, the General’s pregnant wife, filled with fresh dresses to replace the one torn from your ride through the woods. Her gesture had surprised you. You were so used to hollow kindness from people trying to gain favor with the Emperor’s daughter. But here, in this encampment, you had no title, no throne to sit upon. You were no longer a princess. Perhaps, just perhaps, Lena’s gesture came from a place of genuine goodwill. You made a mental note to thank her later, with sincerity.

The sound of footsteps interrupted your thoughts. Valerian, Lena, and Acacius entered the tent together.

For a brief moment, your eyes met Acacius’s. His expression was different from last night’s anger; instead, there was something else—something quieter, as if looking at you caused him pain. You forced yourself to ignore it. Your feelings didn’t matter right now. A leader couldn’t afford such weakness.

“Your Grace,” Valerian said, his tone casual, as though this decision was a simple one. “Have you reached your conclusion?”

“Be kinder, my love,” Lena interjected, her voice gentle but firm. “She is not one of your comrades to be addressed so carelessly.” She moved gracefully across the tent and settled into a chair near a modest table bearing fresh fruit. A quiet exchange passed between her and Valerian—an unspoken connection that only lovers share. His boyish, almost bashful smile hinted at a shared secret. For a fleeting moment, you wondered if the gods would ever grant you something even remotely resembling their bond. “Forgive us for the delay, my dear. This little one decided to make quite the fuss after all the excitement of last night.” Her hands rested protectively on her belly, caressing it with the tenderness of a mother. A gesture so natural, so familiar, that it stirred distant memories of your own mother.

“There is no need for further formality.” You stood, squaring your shoulders to project a confidence you did not entirely feel. “I have reached my decision. To do so, I had to set aside my personal desires and emotions. My duty is to the Roman people, just as my father’s always was. He would not have tolerated a usurper taking the city through unjust means. That is why I must marry General Acacius.”

You kept your eyes fixed on Valerian, unwilling to face Acacius and risk seeing the disdain you were certain must be etched on his features.

But if you had looked, you would have seen his expression shift. Surprise overtook his face, his breath caught in his throat, and for a heartbeat, his chest seemed to freeze mid-rise.

“My father despised war,” you continued, your voice firm and deliberate, “but he understood the cost of peace. He would never have wanted me to wed someone as corrupt as Macrelius, merely to appease the Senate. His memory must not be dishonored, and our people must be free from the tyranny of those men.” You finished your speech with as much resolve as you could muster, praying that your words conveyed the image of a determined and courageous leader. Yet beneath the surface, your heart trembled.

· · ───────── ·𖥸· ───────── · ·

What, in the name of all the gods, was she doing?

Acacius mind replayed the events of the previous night with merciless clarity. Their encounter had spiraled out of control, unraveling in a way he hadn’t anticipated. To him, it had been obvious—marrying that man was never an option. Yet when you uttered those cursed words, that you would feel safer with Macrelius, something inside him had snapped.

He regretted his reaction, bitterly. His words, his tone—they had been unbecoming of a soldier, let alone a man who loved a woman. And love you he did. The realization had struck him with the force of an enemy’s blade. There was no other explanation for the jealousy that had clawed its way through him, no excuse for the way his chest burned at the mere thought of you choosing another. After storming out of your tent, he’d spent the night tangled in the memory of your voice, your expression, the pain etched into your every word.

For a fleeting moment, he’d considered returning to you, swallowing his pride to apologize. But what good would that have done? Surely, you would choose Macrelius. You deserved happiness, and if it lay with another man, then he would have no choice but to accept it. He would support it, even, if only to keep you safe.

But now—now you stood here, and your words shattered everything he thought he understood.

I must marry General Acacius.

The walls he had so carefully built around his heart crumbled in an instant. His breath caught, his pulse racing as though he were preparing for battle. His body screamed at him—fight or flee. But which was it to be? Should he run from you and the chaos you brought into his soul, or fight for this fragile, impossible thing between you? For the first time, Acacius questioned everything he had promised himself.

"Well, it seems you're very much decided, Princess," Valerian’s voice broke through the haze in his mind. “I can see your father left a great legacy. My wife will handle all the... womanly matters, given that she’s one of the few here not at home raising our son as I begged her to do a thousand times.” His tone was light, teasing, as he glanced at Lena, who responded with a knowing smirk.

"Wait," Acacius interrupted, his voice unsteady, almost desperate. "Do I not have a say in this?"

“To be honest, brother, you don’t,” Valerian replied, his tone soft yet firm. “We’ve already discussed this, and much to your dislike, you can’t escape marriage forever.”

Lena rose carefully, her movements slow under the weight of her pregnancy. “Perhaps they should have a moment alone,” she suggested, slipping her arm through Valerian’s. Her playful tone returned as she whispered, “Your son is crushing my ribs, and I need some air.”

As the couple left the tent, you turned to Acacius, your heart pounding so loudly it drowned out the rustle of the canvas around you. “I know this decision doesn’t bring you joy,” you began, your voice wavering. “But this is something I must do—for my people, for my father—”

You couldn’t meet his eyes, spilling the words in a rush as your fingers twisted nervously at the hem of your dress. The weight of his presence was unbearable, pressing down on you like a storm cloud.

“Lumina mea,” he interrupted, his hands reaching for yours. His touch was cold, trembling, yet his grip was firm enough to anchor you. He lowered his head, searching for your gaze until you finally lifted your eyes to meet his.

“Can you not see it?” His voice cracked, raw and unguarded. “My heart has been yours since that night in the gardens. I know I’m not easy to read, that my temper gets the better of me, but this—” He pressed your hand to his chest, where his heart pounded beneath your palm. “This belongs to you and always will. That’s why I must ask: are you sure you want this? If there’s even a single moment where you think you’d be happier with him, then please—choose him. I want you to be happy, and I’m not sure I can give you everything you deserve.”

The words hung in the air between you, fragile and uncertain, yet filled with a sincerity that made your chest ache. For the first time, the formidable General seemed vulnerable—a man standing on the precipice of love and fear, willing to sacrifice everything for your happiness.

"Why didn’t you say all of this earlier?" Your voice trembles, soft and almost fragile, as if it might shatter under the weight of the question. “You left me thinking you hated me, that you were toying with my feelings, and that the idea of marrying me was as dreadful as death…”

Your words trail off, but the pain they carry lingers in the air like a storm cloud, heavy and unrelenting. His silence feels louder than anything, and for a moment, you fear he won’t answer at all.

“I’m sorry,” he finally says, his voice rough, each word deliberate. “I… I’m not very good at this. Expressing my feelings, I mean.” He pauses, the weight of his inadequacy evident in the way his shoulders slump slightly. “But I’ll do better—I promise you that.”

He lifts your hand, his grip both gentle and firm, and presses a kiss to the back of it. The warmth of his lips lingers on your skin, and for the first time, you see not the General, not the soldier hardened by years of war, but the man beneath.

A faint smile tugs at your lips, and you raise your eyes to meet his. “Well,” you say softly, “I suppose we’ll have to learn together then.”

Your smile grows, tentative but genuine, and in that moment, something unspoken passes between you. It’s a fragile understanding, a promise that neither of you could fully put into words but both feel with undeniable certainty.

Acacius watches you, his chest tightening with emotions he can barely comprehend. The vulnerability in your smile, the strength in your voice despite the hurt you’ve endured—it moves something deep within him. He makes a vow, silent and sacred, far greater than just learning to express his feelings.

He will become what you need, what you deserve. He will protect you with his very life if necessary, shield you from every storm, and make you the happiest woman alive. You deserve no less, and he will stop at nothing to ensure it.

The world outside the tent seems to fade, its demands and dangers momentarily forgotten. For now, there is only you and him, two souls caught in the uncertain but undeniable pull of something greater than either of you can name. And as he holds your hand, Acacius silently promises that, whatever trials await, you will face them together.

“Then I suppose... I shall see you at the altar.”

His words come softly, yet they carry a weight that lingers in the air between you. His lips curve into a gentle smile, one that feels uncharacteristically tender for the man you thought you knew. But it is not merely the smile that holds your attention; it is the way his eyes glisten, reflecting a light so unlike the fierce general you’ve come to recognize.

In that moment, the stoicism of his demeanor falters. There is something unguarded, vulnerable even, in his expression—a quiet joy that seems almost foreign to him, like a man stumbling upon a treasure he had long forgotten he desired.

And though the words are simple, their resonance stirs something deep within you. For the first time, the path ahead feels less like a sentence and more like a promise.

· · ───────── ·𖥸· ───────── · ·

Lena seemed to embody the excitement of a child at a festival, her energy contagious as she flitted about the tent with determined purpose. She meticulously examined each piece of fabric brought by the other women in the camp, lifting them against the faint light filtering through the canvas walls. Her movements were quick, but precise, her brow furrowed in concentration as she matched the vibrant hues and textures to the dress you were already wearing.

“I’ll make this as beautiful as it can be, darling,” she declared, her tone both reassuring and commanding. “We don’t have much, but what we do have will suffice. A princess cannot be wed in anything less than perfection, can she?” Her eyes lingered on a silken strip of fabric before dismissing it with a wave of her hand, the discarded piece falling to the floor without ceremony.

You stood silent, offering only a timid smile in response. Words felt unnecessary, or perhaps they simply escaped you in this moment. The nervousness coursing through your veins dulled your wit, leaving you unable to summon even the most mundane pleasantries.

Lena paused in her whirlwind, her gaze softening as she seemed to sense your unease. She stepped closer, her hands resting lightly on her hips as she regarded you with a kind, sisterly expression.

“You know,” she began, her voice quieter now, almost conspiratorial. “I grew up surrounded by men. Soldiers, generals, and war councils... it was a world of steel and strategy. But now that you are to marry my brother...” Her voice trailed off as her face brightened with a smile that could rival the sun. “It feels as though I’m finally gaining a sister, you know?”

Her confession took you by surprise, but it brought a warmth to your chest that you hadn’t expected. Taking her hand in yours, you gave it a gentle squeeze. “Of course. And as sisters, you must stop with all this ‘princess’ and ‘your majesty’ nonsense. We are family now.”

Lena’s smile grew impossibly larger, and with a playful tilt of her head, she returned to rifling through the collection of garments, humming softly to herself.

The silence that followed weighed heavily, and at last, you found yourself speaking, your voice hesitant and quiet. “It’s just... I feel so nervous. I’ve been preparing for this my whole life, but even though I don’t mind having a modest wedding, everything feels so strange, so foreign. And then, of course, there’s your brother...”

Lena froze mid-motion, her face clouding with concern as she turned to you sharply. “Did he mistreat you?”

“Oh, no!” you answered quickly, your cheeks coloring at the implication. “Quite the opposite. He’s... well, he’s quite a man.” Your voice faltered, your gaze falling as a shy smile played on your lips. Memories of your fleeting moments with Acacius flooded your mind, and you felt the heat rising to your face.

Lena’s sharp expression softened, her lips curving into a knowing grin. She took your hand and led you to the edge of the cot, sitting beside you with the air of someone eager for a tale. “Tell me everything!”

“There’s not much to tell,” you admitted, though the warmth in your voice betrayed the fluttering in your chest. “At first, I thought he liked me. We even... kissed, the very night we met. But then he began avoiding me, and I convinced myself that he merely tolerated my presence.”

Lena shook her head, her laughter light and musical. “My brother is as thick-headed as a stubborn mule. I’ve long given up trying to understand what goes on in that mind of his.”

“Well, I was certain he would despise the idea of marrying me. But now that I know... that our feelings are mutual...” You trailed off, your laughter nervous. “I don’t know what to do!”

Lena’s expression turned mischievous as she leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “You’re not... worried about the wedding night, are you?”

Your face burned at the mere suggestion, and the look of mortification you shot her made her giggle softly. Sensing your discomfort, she quickly reassured you.

“There’s nothing to fear,” she said warmly. “My brother may be brash and unpolished, but he cares for you. He will be gentle, and I dare say you’ll find the experience far more enjoyable than you might expect.” She stood abruptly, her hands on her lower back as she stretched, her pregnant belly shifting slightly with the motion. “Now come, they’ll be arriving shortly with a priest from the nearest village. You must look splendid.”

· · ───────── ·𖥸· ───────── · ·

You hadn’t expected his touch to feel this way, warm and steady, grounding you amidst the whirlwind of the evening. His hand enveloped yours, fingers lightly brushing against your skin as if unsure whether to hold tightly or let you slip away. For a fleeting moment, you dared to glance down, marveling at the contrast—the roughness of his calloused palm against the softness of your own.

The two of you sat together on the raised wooden dais, a place of honor reserved for newlyweds. The crude yet sturdy chairs bore wreaths of laurel and wildflowers, their fragrance mingling with the smoky aroma of the fire that roared in the heart of the encampment. Beyond the flickering flames, figures danced in jubilant abandon, their laughter and voices lifting to the heavens as a hymn to Jupiter.

The great fire commanded the center of the celebration, its crackling embers leaping skyward as if eager to carry the prayers of those gathered. Around it, offerings were laid with care—baskets brimming with fresh grains, clusters of vibrant blossoms, and small carved idols placed as tokens of devotion. Each gift was a plea for blessings, a promise of prosperity, and a hope that this union, like the fire itself, would burn bright and enduring.

The golden light of the late afternoon bathed the assembled crowd, casting long shadows over the neatly arranged rows of soldiers. The air buzzed softly with murmured prayers and the rustle of ceremonial garb. The priest, adorned in pristine white robes, stood beneath a canopy of crimson, his hands steady as he prepared for the ancient rite.

Before the him stood Aemilia and Acacius, their hands freshly cleansed and now clasped together in the sacred Dextrarum Iunctio, the joining of right hands—a gesture both symbolic and binding. Their gazes met briefly, a flicker of something unspoken passing between them, but Acacius quickly looked forward, his expression a stoic mask.

The priest began the invocation, calling upon Jupiter Optimus Maximus to witness the vows and bless this union forged for the stability of Rome. When it was Aemilia’s turn to speak, she inhaled deeply, her voice carrying across the crowd, steady but heavy with meaning.

"Before the gods and in the sight of this great assembly, I, Aemilia, pledge my hand and my heart to this union. For the good of Rome, I offer my loyalty, my strength, and my honor. In joining our destinies, we create something greater than ourselves, for together, we are stronger than apart."

Her words were measured, deliberate, and though the sentiment was laced with duty, the softness in her tone hinted at her resolve to see this bond through—not out of passion, but out of a deep-rooted sense of responsibility.

Acacius followed, his voice firm but slower, as if weighing every word. "Before Jupiter and all who bear witness, I, Acacius, accept this union with Aemilia. I vow to protect, to honor, and to uphold the promises made here today. For the strength of Rome and the legacy of our people, I take this bond as sacred, unyielding."

He hesitated for the briefest of moments, his hand tightening slightly around hers as if grounding himself. "Though our paths have converged not by chance, I will strive to be a partner worthy of this alliance and the trust it commands."

The priest raised his hands in blessing, intoning the ancient words that finalized the pact. A soldier stepped forward, carrying a thin strip of woven cloth, red and gold, which he carefully wrapped around their joined hands—a symbol of their intertwined fates.

As the vows ended, the murmurs of the crowd fell silent, the weight of the ceremony settling like a gentle shroud. Aemilia glanced at Acacius, whose face betrayed no emotion, yet his grip remained firm. For all the political undertones of this marriage, the act of clasping hands, the solemnity of the vows, and the blessings of the gods bound them together in a way no strategy could sever.

“You feel tired? Do you wish to retire?” His voice was a low whisper, a soft murmur that brushed against your ear. His face, illuminated only by the flickering moonlight and the warm glow of the fire, looked somehow different now. There was a hint of redness in his cheeks, a glow that spoke not of exhaustion but of the wine that had loosened the air around you both. It was just enough to make him seem more at ease, more human, yet not enough to dull his sharp gaze.

“I do wish for a little quiet, I’ll admit,” you replied, offering him a shy smile, the words escaping more from nervousness than desire. “But you can stay, enjoy the festivities."

“Oh, I will not,” he said, shaking his head, his voice light yet firm. “These festivities are for both of us. And if you are not here, then there is no reason for me to stay.” He pressed a kiss to the palm of your hand, and as he did, you noticed the gesture had become almost habitual. And strangely, you realized how much you had come to cherish it. “And a husband,” he added with quiet certainty, “I shall follow you wherever you are.”

“Well, if you say so...” you smiled, a little bashful beneath his teasing tone, yet it stirred something warm inside you.

He called to Valerian, murmuring something to him, and moments later, the crowd’s attention was drawn to the space before the fire, signaling the beginning of a special dance.

“This is our cue,” Acacius said, his tone playful, almost boyish, as he gave you a mischievous look, his eyes gleaming with a shared secret. “Let us flee before anyone notices.”

“Oh, so now I see how strategic the great General of Rome is!” you teased him, your voice carrying lighthearted mockery. “What a meticulous plan, indeed.”

He guided you, his hand firm in yours, leading the way as he walked ahead. “So you laugh at me?” he quipped, a playful grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I rescue you with a successful plan, and what I get in return is mockery?” His tone was far from angry. In fact, it was the opposite—his humor was infectious. Your teasing had managed to draw out a genuine laugh from him, a sound that, for some reason, filled you with ease.

“Does the soldier wish something different for rescuing a princess in distress, like me?” you asked, raising an eyebrow in playful defiance.

“Well, I do have some things in mind...” His voice dropped an octave, deepening with an unfamiliar edge. You had never heard him speak like this before. With a flick of his wrist, he opened the tent flap, gesturing for you to enter.

Inside, the space was breathtaking. The soft glow of candles cast dancing shadows on the walls, their light warm and inviting. The bed in the center was draped with white cushions, a serene haven in the midst of the night’s revelry. You looked at Acacius with a nervous glance, the anxiety stirring within you like a whirlwind.

“I asked Lena to make our chamber as comfortable as possible,” he said, his voice light, though you could hear the faint hesitation beneath. “I hope... I hope it suits you.” He stepped ahead, close to the bed, as though unsure of what to do next.

You stood frozen for a moment, unsure of how to proceed. Your mother had spoken of certain things, and Vera, in her own way, had offered her limited knowledge during those quiet late nights you shared. But now, in this moment, all that seemed distant, irrelevant. The air was thick with uncertainty.

Noticing your unease, Acacius reached out, his hand extended with gentleness. “Come,” he said softly, his tone laced with warmth. You hesitated but moved toward him, your fingers finding the comfort of his hand. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want tonight,” he continued, his voice steady but kind. “I will never, ever force myself upon you, I promise.”

You lowered your gaze, the nerves flooding your chest, your voice trembling slightly as you spoke. “I truly don’t know what to do... I don’t want to disappoint you, but I am, one hundred percent, nervous.”

He gently lifted your chin with his thumb, his touch both firm and tender. “What about we continue from that night in the palace garden?” His words, though simple, brought an unexpected calmness to your fluttering heart. His reassuring smile made the world seem just a little less daunting, and for a brief moment, you felt as though it was okay to be vulnerable, to be unsure.

With a shy nod, you closed the distance between you, your lips finding his in a soft kiss—a quiet promise, a tentative step toward something new, yet familiar.

His lips met yours with a tenderness that belied the strength of his embrace. His hands moved with deliberate care, one encircling your waist to draw you nearer, the other cradling the nape of your neck as though safeguarding a fragile treasure. A fire kindled within you, growing with every heartbeat, and the desire to be closer—to dissolve entirely into him—overwhelmed you.

When he pulled away, it was only just enough to speak, his lips brushing yours as his breath mingled with your own. “I say we do this…” His voice was slightly uneven, breathless in a way that made your pulse quicken. “I’ll lead, but if at any moment you wish me to stop, if anything feels wrong—just say so. Do you understand?”

Your throat felt dry, and the words caught there for a moment before you nodded.

His brow furrowed slightly, and he tipped your chin to meet his gaze, his tone soft but firm. “I need to hear it, mea formosa.”

You swallowed the nerves tightening your chest and managed to whisper, “I will say it… husband.”

The word seemed to ripple through him, his entire frame shivering with a desire so palpable it left you breathless. His forehead pressed lightly to yours as his voice dropped, almost a growl. “You have no idea what you do to me, do you?”

Before you could respond, his lips found the curve of your neck, tracing a slow, reverent path that left you gasping. A hum escaped you—whether in agreement, question, or sheer surrender, you could not tell. Words had deserted you, scattered like leaves in a tempest.

He chuckled softly against your skin, the vibration sending shivers down your spine. “Nothing to say now, hmm?” His voice carried a teasing lilt, playful yet intoxicatingly deep.

You couldn’t help the way your lips curved into a smile, though your breath came in shallow gasps. He always had this effect on you—the ability to coax laughter, longing, and love all at once, as if his very existence were a melody only you could hear.

The tension in the air shifted, transforming from anxious uncertainty into something tender and filled with trust. He leaned forward, capturing her lips once more in a kiss that was unhurried, as though they had all the time in the world. His hands moved with deliberate care, one cradling the back of her neck, the other tracing the curve of her waist. Each touch ignited a spark within her, building a warmth that spread through her entire being.

Aemilia let out a soft, involuntary sigh as his lips trailed from hers to her jaw, then to the sensitive skin of her neck. She tilted her head, granting him better access, her fingers curling into the fabric of his tunic. “Acacius,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, her hands trembling as they began to explore his broad shoulders and down his arms.

He guided her to the bed, his movements slow and deliberate, as though he were afraid to shatter the fragile intimacy that enveloped them. When they sat together, she felt the tremor in his hands as he gently brushed her hair away from her face. “You are so beautiful,” he murmured, his voice filled with awe. “Do you know that?”

Aemilia’s blush deepened, but a newfound confidence stirred within her. “You...” she said softly, her tone carrying a playful edge, “you are not so bad yourself.”

His laughter was quiet but genuine, and the sound eased the lingering tension in her chest. “Not so bad? Coming from you, I shall consider it as gesture of your kindness” he teased, leaning closer, his lips brushing the corner of her mouth.

As the layers of clothing fell away, the barriers between them dissolved as well. She could feel his hesitation mingling with her own, yet his touch never wavered. He moved as though she were something precious, his fingertips tracing patterns along her skin that sent shivers down her spine. And when his hands trembled, she placed hers over his, steadying him.

“Acacius,” she whispered, her voice more assured now, “I want this. I want you.”

Her boldness surprised them both, but it was the spark he needed to fully let go of his own reservations. “You have all of me, Aemilia,” he replied, his voice rough with emotion. “Now and always.”

As the night unfolded, the initial hesitance melted away, replaced by a growing confidence in each other’s embrace. She surprised herself with the way she responded to his touch, her hands exploring the contours of his body with an eagerness she hadn’t known she possessed. He, in turn, was captivated by her courage, her willingness to meet him halfway and then some.

In the dimly lit room, shadows danced along the tent, casting an air of quiet intimacy. The soft rustle of fabric was the only sound that accompanied the slow, tender movements between them. She, poised yet determined, gently guided him back, her touch sending a shiver through him. Her eyes, darkened with a depth of feeling, met his, and in that fleeting moment, she pushed him back gently, taking the lead in a way that left him breathless.

"Want you so badly, it almost aches," he whispered, his voice low and thick, laden with both admiration and an undeniable hunger. The words hung between them, as if the very air was charged with unspoken desire.

She allowed herself a small, knowing smile, her lips curling ever so slightly as a mischievous glint flickered in her eyes. "That bad?" she teased, her voice soft but laden with a certain playfulness. "Well, coming from you, I shall take that as a gesture of your kindness."

He laughed, a warm sound that filled the space, and his fingers brushed a stray lock of hair from her face, his touch lingering on her skin. "It's not kindness," he said with a sincerity that made his words feel almost like a vow. "It's the truth. I can't fathom a life where you're not in my arms every moment. How could I bear such a thing?"

She gazed at him, her expression softening, the playfulness in her eyes replaced by something deeper, something quieter. Her hand, still resting against his chest, gave a gentle press, as if urging him to quiet his thoughts.

“Let’s not think of that,” she murmured, her voice low, the words like a delicate sigh, almost a plea.

He looked at her, as if trying to decipher the meaning behind her words. She tilted her head slightly, her gaze holding his with an intensity that made him forget everything but the two of them, standing there in a world of their own making.

A breath caught in his chest, and for a moment, it seemed as though time itself had paused, leaving them suspended in that quiet space between what was said and what remained unspoken. His fingers grazed her cheek, the touch almost reverent, as if every part of him ached to hold onto this moment, to keep her here, with him, as the rest of the world faded away

· · ───────── ·𖥸· ───────── · ·

When their breaths finally slowed and they lay entwined beneath the soft glow of the candles, a comfortable silence settled over them. His fingers traced lazy circles on her bare shoulder, and she rested her head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.

She bit her lip, already feeling the warmth of embarrassment creeping up her neck. "I apologize if I’m going beyond some limit by asking," she began, her voice soft and hesitant, as though she were testing the waters of a delicate subject. "But… I feel like I should know, perhaps… Or I’m just curious, and I wish to know. I’m your wife, and I believe we should know some details of each other’s lives."

Her voice trailed off, and she realized she might have spoken more than she intended, her words almost mumbling now, as though retreating into herself. Her heart fluttered, uncertainty swelling in her chest.

"Out with it," he said, his tone light, yet there was a warmth there that softened the words. His hand found its way to her side, pinching her gently, the touch playful, even affectionate, easing some of the tension.

She hesitated, feeling her breath catch in her throat before she spoke again, lifting her gaze from his chest to meet his eyes. "Have you ever… done this before?" Her voice was barely above a whisper, and her heart raced as she sought the truth in his expression, wondering how he would answer, what that truth might be.

He froze for just a heartbeat, his brow furrowing as he searched for the right words, the right way to explain. The seconds seemed to stretch on forever, leaving her to wonder if perhaps he wouldn't answer at all. But then, his voice broke the silence, serious and steady. "I was raised differently, so yes," he replied, his gaze steady, his words deliberate. "I have done it before."

She could feel a ripple of discomfort pass through her, but before she could let the silence grow too thick, he reached for her hands, his fingers gentle against hers. He held them there for a moment, still, the weight of his touch grounding her. "But this..." he continued, his voice softer now, as if he were confessing a truth that had only just occurred to him. "This is new to me as much as it is new to you. It never felt like this."

The words lingered in the space between them, charged with something deeper than she had expected. She could feel the sincerity in his tone, the truth in his touch. For a moment, time seemed to pause, and in that pause, she realized that this, what they were sharing, was something entirely their own, something neither of them could quite put into words, yet both understood fully.

[thepascalparadox]

Chapter Seven: Princess of Nowhere

Word Count | 5.5k Pairing | General Marcus Acacius x F!Reader OC Chapter Warnings | none, more (a lot more) angst, switch pov an: I (unintentionally) am doing chapters bigger and bigger, I'm sorry! I'm loving to hear your thoughts, and for this one I'm even more excited! thank you to everyone reblogging and commenting, it makes me very happy and eager to keep telling this story!

It did not take long after leaving the General's lands for the red banner to appear on the horizon, its bold color cutting through the muted greens and browns of the countryside—a herald of the army camp that lay ahead. The sight filled you with a strange mixture of dread and resignation. The last three days with Acacius had been unexpectedly revealing, peeling back layers of the man whose presence once felt like an enigma. He had answered your endless questions, each reply tinged with a patience that surprised you. What once stirred a dangerous heat deep in your chest had softened into something steadier: admiration, perhaps even fondness.

He might not feel the same for you, and you had long stopped hoping for anything more. His friendship, for now, felt like enough. Yet, as the camp drew closer, the harsh reality of your situation loomed larger. Acacius had become the last familiar thread in a tapestry that was unraveling too quickly. Your home was gone. Your parents were gone. You were a princess of what? No land, no future, and no allies to call upon. The weight of it pressed heavily against your chest, stealing the air from your lungs.

What will become of me once we reach the camp?

The thought turned over and over in your mind, each repetition sharper than the last. You imagined your aunt, your mother’s sister, whose letters had been scarce and formal at best. She lived in the distant lands of North Africa, across vast seas you would have to cross alone—an impossible task for someone in your fragile position. The mere idea made your pulse quicken with unease.

The silence between you and Acacius felt tangible now, broken only by the steady rhythm of the horse’s hooves on the dusty ground and the faint rustle of the wind through the sparse trees. It was not an oppressive silence but one that carried a bittersweet weight. You glanced sideways at him, wondering if you should ask another question to break the quiet. Yet something held you back. This moment, this quiet farewell to the intimacy you had shared over the past days, felt strangely sacred.

I think I’ll miss him.

As the first signs of the camp came into view—soldiers moving purposefully, their forms growing sharper against the backdrop of tents and banners—the shift in atmosphere was palpable. The men recognized Acacius immediately. Their gazes snapped to attention, shoulders straightening as they acknowledged his presence with murmured respect. Some stopped their tasks entirely, their voices carrying hushed words you barely caught: “The Princess…” The tone was laced with something unfamiliar—sympathy, perhaps.

They pity me.

“They respected your father above all else,” Acacius murmured, his voice low and steady as if he had read your thoughts. His gaze remained fixed ahead, his jaw tight with purpose. “They will help us. You have no reason to worry.”

You nodded, though his words offered little comfort. As the two of you dismounted, Acacius moved with practiced ease, first offering you his hand, then bracing your waist as you slid from the saddle. His touch was brief but grounding, a subtle reminder of his presence. Together, you walked toward the largest tent, its fabric swaying gently in the afternoon breeze. A soldier stepped forward to take the reins of the horse, nodding in deference as he led it away.

The whispers followed you, and with each step closer to the tent, your unease deepened. At the entrance, Acacius gestured for you to go first. You hesitated, turning toward him in search of reassurance. His eyes softened, the hardness of the soldier momentarily replaced by something warmer, quieter. His hand found the small of your back, guiding you forward with a touch that spoke of unspoken promises.

Inside, the air was thick, the heavy canvas walls trapping the warmth of the day. The room was dimly lit, streaks of light filtering through seams in the fabric. A central table dominated the space, its surface strewn with maps and figurines—an unmistakable strategy table. Three men stood around it, their gazes lifting as you entered. One of them, clad in armor as elaborate as Acacius’s, straightened immediately, his face breaking into an expression of palpable relief.

“Finally, my friend…” The man’s voice carried a weight that matched his stature, a breath exhaled after what felt like years of tension.

Before you could fully take in the scene, a figure emerged from the shadowed corner of the tent—a woman. She moved swiftly, her voice ringing with unmistakable warmth as she called Acacius’s name.

“Lena,” Acacius said, clearly caught off guard by her approach. She reached him in moments, her hands cupping his face with an intimacy that made your chest tighten.

“You’re alive,” she breathed, her eyes glistening with relief. “I was so scared... I thought we had lost you.”

His hands found her waist instinctively, steadying her as though she might collapse from the weight of her emotions. “You’re not rid of me yet,” he said, his voice lighter now, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

The tenderness in her gaze was undeniable, her fingers lingering as if reassuring herself that he was truly there. You looked away, suddenly acutely aware of how small you felt in this space. The warmth between them was palpable, a bond forged long before you had ever entered his life.

The other man approached Acacius with the familiarity of an old friend, pulling him into a firm embrace that spoke of years spent side by side in battles unseen and victories hard-won.

“Missed you, brother,” he said, his voice carrying the easy warmth of someone who had long grown comfortable in Acacius’s presence. “Your men arrived days ago and said you were just behind them. What kept you?”

It was then that you were noticed. Slowly, deliberately, the attention in the room shifted, settling on you like a weight pressing against your chest. Their eyes, sharp and questioning, lingered a moment too long, and despite the heat of the tent, an icy shiver ran down your spine.

You wished you could meet their gaze with the boldness of a woman who belonged here—a princess unshaken by the sudden shift in her life. You wished you could hold your chin high, your shoulders square, like the noblewoman you had been raised to be. But confidence felt like a distant dream, slipping further from your grasp with each passing second.

Instead, your eyes faltered, dropping instinctively to the ground as if the canvas beneath your feet could offer refuge. The voice in your head whispered cruel truths: you were out of place here, a fragile shadow of who you once were. A princess of nothing, nowhere, standing in a room of men who carried the weight of empires on their shoulders.

Acacius, perhaps sensing your discomfort, shifted subtly beside you. His presence, solid and steady, anchored you in a way you could not explain. You took a slow breath, trying to gather the fragments of your courage, willing yourself not to shrink beneath their scrutiny.

Be strong, you thought, the words a soft plea within the silence of your mind. You’re still standing. That must count for something.

"Princess..." The man bowed his head respectfully. "I am General Valerius, Commander of the Iron Legions, Loyal to your father, Antoninus Justus. I am deeply sorry for your loss." He extended his hand to you, and you placed yours in it — as any lady should. He was a strong man, his stature almost equal to that of Acacius, though younger in years. His shoulders were broad, yet there was a weariness in his eyes, a quiet burden carried beneath the weight of his armor.

"I appreciate your loyalty, General. My father is—" You faltered, the truth of his absence settling heavy in your chest. "My father would be most grateful for your services to the empire."

"He will be missed dearly." General Valerius’s voice softened, his gaze lingering for a moment on Acacius. "Sit down, Marcus, Lena will fetch you wine and bread. You must be hungry."

"Thank you, brother, but first, I would ask something of you." Acacius’s tone was low, measured. "Could you prepare a tent for the princess? She is weary and not quite... accustomed to such a life." His words, though respectful, carried a certain delicacy, as if speaking of a world you no longer belonged to.

"I'll see to it," Lena replied quickly, her voice calm and assured, as she brought a cup for both of you. Your cup held water, while the General’s contained wine. A subtle distinction, one you pondered as she drew nearer, noting the curve of her belly—her child. Who is this woman? She offered you a smile, kind yet unsettling, and for reasons you could not place, doubt lingered in your heart.

"It will be arranged, Acacius," The General continued, his voice carrying a hint of finality, "but first... I’m afraid we have some political matters to discuss."

The words hung in the air like a shadow, and as you prepared to rise and leave—so accustomed to doing so with your father’s matters—you were met with the soldiers’ expectant gazes. You hesitated.

"Do you... wish for me to stay?" Your voice faltered, barely above a whisper.

"You must, Princess. It all revolves around you," came his reply, almost too obvious, as if the weight of your presence could not be denied.

"We have received a letter from Rome," General Valerius continued, his tone now somber. "From one of the Senate’s men, Macrelius."

The words struck you like a blow. Fury flared inside your chest, a fire burning bright and hot. If the man stood before you now, you were certain you would strangle him with your bare hands.

"I’m sorry for reading it, Princess, but we weren't certain of your... survival. We thought it might contain important information."

"What did he say?" you demanded, your voice trembling with a rage you had not yet realized resided within you.

"Well..." General Valerius hesitated, his face tightening as he recounted the words. "He spent a great deal of time apologizing, claiming that the plot was never intended to kill the emperor. Though it didn’t sound sincere. Then, he asked for your hand."

"He what?" Acacius’s voice cracked with the intensity of his anger, his posture stiffening in a way that made the air thick with tension.

"He said that the people are enraged," Valerius continued, his voice heavy with the weight of truth, "that the riots will soon bring the fall of Rome. The only way to quell their fury is for you to show your support for the Senate by marrying him."

The notion sickened you to your core. How could this man, the very one responsible for your father’s death, propose such a vile marriage? His treachery knew no bounds.

"He’s a madman, Valerius," Acacius whispered, the coldness of his tone betraying the fury that swirled beneath. "Minutes before the chaos at the castle, he was laughing with Antoninus. He is the greatest traitor of all."

"The problem is, Acacius," Valerius’s voice grew more contemplative, "he’s not entirely wrong. The people of Rome adored Antoninus, and his death has left them grieving. They mourn for him as they would for their own kin. And they adore the princess just as fiercely." His gaze softened as he turned to you, his tone almost comforting. "Where your loyalty lies, the people will follow, Your Grace."

"I cannot accept such an offer, General," you said, the weight of it sinking into your bones. "He is responsible for my father’s death."

"I know," Valerius sighed, his eyes dark with understanding. "But I’m afraid you must make a decision. The people believe you dead. A marriage would give them direction. It would show them who they should stand with."

"What do you have in mind, Valerius?" Acacius’s voice was tight, his usual calm replaced by a flicker of unease. His eyes locked onto his friend’s, searching for any sign, any hint of the true intentions behind the words.

"Well," Valerius hesitated, then his voice grew quiet as he paced the room, "if a marriage must happen to show the people where they stand... then she could also marry one of us."

The words hit you like a storm. Your heart seemed to sink, your blood ran cold, and the room around you blurred into fog. You had known, somewhere deep within, that one day you would be forced into such a union, but not like this. Not now.

You noticed how Acacius, too, seemed struck by the suggestion, his expression one of disbelief, and before either of you could voice your protest, the other General spoke, his tone measured but unyielding.

"By 'us,' I mean Acacius—thank the gods, I am happily married." He stood, placing a hand firmly on Acacius’s shoulder as he faced you, his expression somber as he laid out the harsh truth. "What I’m saying is this: such a marriage would serve as a declaration that the events of that night were an act of treason. It would show that neither you nor your father condoned the attack. However, it would also provoke war with Rome, even if those now in power are not rightfully in command. And we can’t predict if Macrelius would retaliate against the people for it."

The words hung in the air like an iron weight, and you could only blink, overwhelmed by the rush of information. How could you possibly make a decision now?

Lena entered the tent again, her hand resting lightly on her swollen belly. "I have prepared everything for you, Your Highness," she said respectfully, her voice soft.

"I shall leave you to rest, Princess," Valerius said, his tone gentle but filled with gravity. "You can make your decision tomorrow. Goodnight."

· · ───────── ·𖥸· ───────── · ·

You walk in silence beside Lena, your thoughts swirling like a storm that refuses to settle. Every step feels heavier than the last, burdened by the decisions looming over you, their shadows stretching far beyond the flickering light of the campfires. Lena's soft voice pulls you from the maze of your mind.

"My brother may seem a little... stern, but he's a good man, I assure you, Princess," she says, her tone gentle, though it does little to quiet the turmoil within you.

"General Valerius seemed very interested in deciding my life," you reply, your voice sharper than you intended. The words hang in the air like a blade unsheathed. Tired, drained, you’re in no mood for small talk, especially not with someone you barely know. Trust feels like a luxury you can’t afford, and as far as you can tell, this woman, with her kind smile and soft tone, could be hiding knives of her own.

"Well," Lena says, a light playfulness threading through her voice despite your tone, "my husband has a habit of deciding my life too." She glances at you with a smirk that feels too knowing, too practiced, before adding, "But I was talking about Acacius. I noticed the way he looks after you—even in that serious manner of his. I’ve told him countless times that his temper will only ever be matched, or tamed, by a woman as fierce as he is."

The words surprise you, slipping into your thoughts like a stone breaking the stillness of water. Your steps falter for just a moment as Lena reaches forward, pulling back the tent flap to reveal the space prepared for you. The realization hits you suddenly, as if the pieces of a puzzle have been snapped into place.

"You're his sister?" you ask, your voice soft and uncertain. A faint heat rises to your cheeks, embarrassment mingling with exhaustion. The doubt you’d clung to earlier now seems cruel.

Lena’s laugh is light, forgiving. "I am. Did you think otherwise?" she asks, though there’s no mockery in her tone—only quiet understanding.

"I’m sorry," you whisper, the words fumbling out before you can stop them. "I thought—"

"It’s all right, Your Highness," she interrupts gently, waving off your concern with a small, graceful motion. "Would you mind if I help you bathe?"

The question takes you by surprise, though the very thought of being clean again nearly undoes you. You swallow against the sudden tightness in your throat and nod, unable to form words. Lena steps into the space with practiced movements, wordlessly preparing the water as you begin to untangle yourself from the layers of dirt-streaked fabric that cling to your skin.

The quiet that follows feels heavier now, but not uncomfortable. Lena works in silence, her motions sure and precise as she tends to the water and brushes out your hair. When the warm water touches your skin, you feel yourself exhale—a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. The sweet, calming scent of lavender rises from the water, lingering in the air and weaving itself through your senses like a balm for every raw edge inside you. You close your eyes for just a moment, letting the warmth seep into your bones.

When you open them again, Lena’s hands are steady, her expression gentle as she tends to you. It’s only then that you notice the familiarity in her face—the shape of her eyes, the quiet resolve in them. The same eyes as Acacius.

"How far along are you?" you ask softly, your voice tentative.

Lena pauses, her hand lingering for a brief moment as she works. When she looks up at you, her smile is small, almost wistful. "Not long now," she says, her hand settling lightly over the curve of her belly. The glow in her face speaks of something deeper—hope, perhaps, or the quiet strength of someone who’s lived through storms and learned to steady herself in the aftermath.

You don’t say anything else, and neither does she. The silence between you shifts, no longer heavy but something softer, like a fragile thread of understanding weaving itself between two strangers—two women standing at the edge of worlds far larger than either of them.

Lena’s hand lingered over her belly as her gaze drifted somewhere far beyond the tent, beyond the present moment, as though she were reaching back into the folds of time. A faint smile curved her lips—soft, wistful—as she broke the silence.

"Valerius and Acacius... they’ve always been like brothers, even when they weren’t," she began, her voice carrying the weight of old memories wrapped in fondness. "When we were children, the three of us were inseparable. My father used to call them shadows, always following each other about. Where one went, the other was sure to be close behind."

You watched her as she spoke, the calm rhythm of her voice like the gentle ripple of water over stone. It was the kind of tone that made you feel like you were eavesdropping on something sacred, a glimpse into lives lived long before you became part of their world.

"Acacius was always the quiet one, though," Lena continued, carefully wringing out the cloth and dipping it into the warm lavender-scented water. "Stubborn, serious, even then. He carried more weight than a boy his age should have. I think he was always preparing for this life, even before it came for him." She looked up at you briefly, her gaze searching, as though measuring whether you understood the man whose loyalty had been given to you. "And Valerius... well, he was the storm to Acacius’s stone."

Her words painted a picture as vivid as any tapestry you’d seen in your father’s halls—a boyish Acacius with the same unwavering stare, his shadow matched step-for-step by a younger Valerius, wild and laughing.

"They balanced each other," Lena continued after a pause, her voice softening. "Valerius brought light and laughter where Acacius would have built walls. And Acacius... he steadied Valerius when the world felt too wild for him."

You felt a pang in your chest at her words, as though the truth of them weighed on you. It made sense now, the silent understanding between the two men, the trust so deep it didn’t need to be spoken aloud. It was a bond built in youth, forged through time and tested by the world’s cruelty.

"And you?" you asked, your voice quieter than you intended. "Where did you fit in?"

Lena laughed softly, a sound full of warmth and reminiscence. "Oh, I was the little tyrant, always trailing after them, determined to be part of their adventures. They hated it, of course—Valerius once tried to lose me in the fields, thinking I’d give up and go home. But Acacius, ever the protector, carried me back on his shoulders, scolding Valerius the whole way."

Her smile softened, her gaze drifting as if caught in some far-off memory. "Despite it all, I think Valerius and I were always bound to find each other. We fought like sworn enemies back then, but somewhere between those childhood battles, I think we realized we couldn’t live without one another. He grew into the man who wishes to decide every step of my life—much to my annoyance at times—but also the man who has held my heart ever since."

The tent fell into a moment of peaceful silence as Lena finished her work, carefully laying the damp cloth aside. The lavender still lingered in the air, a quiet comfort against the unknown weight pressing at the edges of your thoughts.

Lena smiled then, a small, knowing smile, before rising to her feet. "Rest, Your Highness," she said softly, smoothing her dress over her rounded belly. "Tomorrow will come soon enough, and you’ll need your strength."

She left you alone then, the flap of the tent swaying gently as it settled back into place. For a long moment, you remained still, staring at the basin of water where lavender petals floated in soft spirals, their scent lingering like a promise.

· · ───────── ·𖥸· ───────── · ·

The tent now was dimly lit, the shadows flickering against the fabric walls as the oil lamp sputtered. You sat at the edge of the small cot, fingers twisting the hem of your tunic, lost in thought. Outside, the camp was quiet, save for the distant hum of soldiers settling into the night.

Acacius hesitated before pulling back the flap to Aemilia’s tent. It was unlike him to linger, to question himself, but tonight he did. He told himself he was only checking on her, ensuring she was well after such a long and trying day. That’s all.

Steeling his resolve, he stepped inside. Aemilia sat at a small wooden table, her hands resting on an open scroll she hadn’t been reading. Her posture was slumped, and though her face was turned away, Acacius could see the weight of exhaustion in the curve of her shoulders.

"Your Grace," he said softly, breaking the silence.

Aemilia startled slightly, her head snapping up to meet his gaze. For a moment, she just stared at him, her expression unreadable, before masking it with cool detachment. "General Acacius," she said, her voice polite but distant. "To what do I owe the honor?"

Her words were measured, but he noticed the fatigue beneath them—an exhaustion not of body, but of spirit. She looked like someone who longed for the oblivion of sleep, yet her mind refused her rest.

I know the feeling.

“I came to see if you were comfortable. If...” He hesitated, the unusual uncertainty making him shift his weight. “Perhaps you need anything?”

He hated how the words faltered as they left him, stripped of the firm authority he was so used to. The days spent together had chipped away at his armor, leaving a vulnerability he hadn’t felt in years. She trusted him now—he believed it. And more importantly, he hoped she understood he wasn’t just a soldier in her service, but perhaps something more. A friend. Maybe the most loyal one she would ever know.

“Oh.” She gasped, genuinely surprised by his concern. “Thank you, General. Not just for this but... for everything you have done. For me, for my father, and for the empire.” She paused, looking down, her fingers nervously tracing the seam of her tunic. “Unfortunately, I can’t possibly repay you now, but I promise you, as soon as I—”

“Stop.” His voice was quiet, yet firm as he stepped closer, his shadow stretching across the floor. “There’s nothing to repay. I did it gladly, and I would do it a thousand times again if necessary. Not out of duty.” He hesitated, the next words slipping from his mouth before he could stop them. “But because I...”

He faltered, his eyes searching for hers, trying to measure how much of his heart he could expose without shattering completely. “We can be considered friends, can we not?”

Her gaze softened, the hardness in her expression melting ever so slightly. “Yes...” A small, almost timid smile touched her lips, though she quickly averted her eyes, unable to bear the intensity of his. “I suppose we can.”

Acacius remained still, restless in a way that felt unfamiliar. He wanted more from her—more words, more understanding, something—as if her voice alone could unravel the tension within him.

Finally, she broke the silence, her shoulders slumping as her mask crumbled. “I’m sorry, it’s just... I’m so confused.”

She rested her face in her hands, elbows propped on her knees, and he felt a pang deep in his chest at the sight of her. The proud, unshakable woman now seemed small, fragile. Mortal.

“I’ve spent my whole life preparing for this,” she said quietly, her voice muffled against her palms. “Learning, studying the best possibilities. And now that the time has come... everything feels out of place. No matter what I choose, I fell like I'll be doing something wrong.”

His brow furrowed, her words gnawing at him. What does she mean?

She lifted her head then, and he realized his thoughts had slipped aloud. Their eyes met, and for a fleeting moment, she looked like she might weep. “Marrying Macrelius would bring peace to the Roman people,” she whispered. “There would be no retaliation. Perhaps things could go back to normal.” She swallowed, as if the words physically hurt her. “But marrying you...”

Acacius stiffened, feeling a cold weight settle in his chest.

“Marrying you would mean war,” she continued. “And I can’t do that to them. It wouldn’t be fair.”

She can’t possibly be thinking to marry that man. The thought churned through him like a poison. Am I that repulsive?

His fists clenched at his sides, though he fought to keep his voice steady. “Peace is something the Roman people haven’t seen in a long time.” His tone was colder now, the softness gone, replaced by something harder—something she hadn’t heard from him before.

She nodded faintly, as if she understood. “I miss home,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “I miss my father. My friends. Marrying Macrelius would mean going back to everything I know. It feels... safer.”

The words stung him more than he cared to admit.

“I’m not sure I can handle everything here,” she added, glancing at him briefly, her gaze calculated. “Staying here would mean staying alone.”

You speak carefully, your words chosen like pieces on a chessboard, hoping—praying—that the General might reveal his true thoughts about the matter. Your heart is a tangle of confusion, but the weight pressing hardest is your uncertainty over him. Would he truly want this marriage? Would he stand beside you willingly, not out of duty or obligation but because he chooses to?

The very idea unsettles you. For all you know, Acacius may see this as nothing but strategy, a burden to shoulder for the good of the empire. He says he is loyal—fiercely so—but would that loyalty extend to your happiness? To you?

The alternative feels like swallowing stones. Marrying the man responsible for your father’s death—whether by intent or fate—twists your very soul. Yet what choice remains? If Acacius doesn’t want you, doesn’t choose you, then what else can you do but sacrifice yourself for your people’s safety?

If only he would say it—just once. "I’ll never leave you alone."

· · ───────── ·𖥸· ───────── · ·

Your words struck him in a way he wasn't expecting. You feel safer with Macrelius than with him. And this time the anger inside can't be tamed or discased. 

“Well then,” he said bitterly, his voice carrying an edge sharper than any blade, “perhaps it’s better for you to return to the palace and go back to the easy life you had. Perhaps what happened in the last days can be forgotten with a good wedding feast.”

Her head snapped up, her eyes wide with hurt. “How can you say that?” she whispered, her voice shaking. The sadness in it, however, was quickly swallowed by anger—an anger that blazed as fiercely as his own.

“How dare you say that to me when I’ve lost everything? Everyone I love? Everyone who could care for me?” She stood abruptly, brushing past him toward the tent’s exit, but she stopped short, hesitating. Her back was to him now, her voice low but seething.

“Maybe the truth is you have no idea what real loss is, do you, soldier?” She turned, her gaze burning into his. “How could you know anything about caring? About love?”

She took a step forward, giving him no chance to reply, tone sharp as a dagger, her voice mocking now, “I wonder if that night you kissed me... was it pity? Or did you simply want to send me away so I wouldn’t interrupt your precious lonely time?”

Acacius’s eyes darkened, the fire in them matching hers.

“You’re a brute,” she spat. “The worst kind of man.”

The words landed with precision, but instead of hurting him, they ignited something worse—his pride. He laughed, a low, bitter sound that sent a chill down her spine.

“So that’s your opinion of me? A brute?” He stepped toward her, his gaze unrelenting. “Perhaps I should truly show you my worst. Then the feelings you once said you felt would go away, wouldn’t they?”

“Stay away, soldier,” she warned, though her voice faltered at the end.

“But I can’t, can I?” His voice broke then, the frustration spilling out of him like water through cracked stone. “Because even you, being the most stubborn and spoiled woman I have ever met, I can’t stay away. When I’m not thinking of you, I’m thinking of ways to protect you. And when I’m not doing that...” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I’m thinking of ways to love you. And that—that—is the worst part.”

His chest rose and fell with the weight of his confession, and for a long moment, silence filled the space between them.

“Because even if I had a thousand ways to show my devotion to you, it wouldn’t be enough. Not in this life or the next.” His voice grew quieter now, the anger fading to something almost sorrowful. “It wouldn’t be enough because you deserve a prince. One on a white horse. Young. Perfect. Not a scarred, brute of a man like me.”

· · ───────── ·𖥸· ───────── · ·

You noticed how his eyes flickered from pure anger to something quite diferent, almost a little sad. Your lips parted slightly, as if to speak, but no words came.

Does he really think so low of himself?

“Marcus...” your tone soft, reaching out toward him.

He shook his head, his expression hardening again, the walls rebuilding before your very eyes. “You should rest,” he said abruptly, the emotion disappearing from his tone. “You have a decision to make tomorrow. And by the way this conversation has gone... I already know the answer.”

Before you could say another word, he turned and disappeared into the night, the tent flap swaying behind him.

You sat back down, the weight of the conversation pressing down on you like a stone. The silence he left behind was deafening, and though you knew you should rest, all you could do was replay his words—I’m thinking of ways to love you.

And yet he was gone, believing you felt nothing. Believing he was nothing to you at all.

[thepascalparadox]

Chapter Six: Away

Word Count | 3.1k Pairing | General Marcus Acacius x F!Reader OC Chapter Warnings | none, more angst

The night envelops you both, its silence broken only by the steady clatter of the horse's hooves upon the uneven ground. The moon hangs solemnly above, casting a pale silver glow over the forest path. The trees seem to lean in as if whispering secrets to the night, their presence both oppressive and protective. The air is warm, yet tinged with the cool dampness of the woods—a stark contrast to the controlled chill of your chambers.

You have ridden for hours. The sun that once bathed the palace walls in golden hues has long since surrendered to the dark, and now only the stars bear witness to your escape. You haven’t spoken since departing. The General said he needed silence, and though your lips obeyed, your thoughts were anything but quiet.

A thousand questions claw at your mind, each more insistent than the last. Where is my father? Why does this man, this soldier, insist on dragging me along like some burden he cannot cast aside? Yet, as you ponder, you notice the rhythm of the horse slowing, the General’s grip on the reins faltering.

Perhaps we are close to my father.

But then, you feel it—a shift in his weight. His body leans forward, pressing against you. At first, your mind foolishly clings to a romantic fantasy, a fleeting thought that his gesture might hold tenderness, some warmth amidst this harrowing night. But the illusion shatters as his weight becomes oppressive, his body slackening unnaturally.

“General?” you whisper, your voice quivering as you turn your head. The angle allows you only a glimpse of his legs and the ground below. Then, you see it—dark streaks of blood, thick and glistening, trailing down his vest.

A cold dread seizes you.

“Acacius!” Your voice rises, panic taking hold as you twist in your seat, shaking his shoulder in a desperate attempt to rouse him. The movement proves too much, and his body slips from the saddle, hitting the ground with a sickening thud.

For a moment, the world stands still.

I killed him. Oh gods, I killed him.

You leap from the horse, your dress catching on the stirrup in your haste. The earth beneath your feet feels unsteady as you scramble to his side. "Acacius!" you cry again, your voice a mix of desperation and guilt.

His lips part, a faint groan escaping. “Gods...” The word is barely audible, yet it pierces the silence like a blade.

Relief floods through you, though it’s fleeting. He’s alive—for now. But the blood staining his hands and pooling beneath him tells you his time is borrowed.

The horse. If it bolts, we’re as good as dead.

With trembling hands, you rise and stumble toward the animal. Your movements are frantic, yet your mother’s lessons echo faintly in your mind. Calm it, steady it, secure it. You tether the horse to a tree, offering it an apple from the General’s saddlebag before rushing back to his side.

He’s propped himself weakly against a tree, his face pale, his breaths shallow. “It’s... just a scratch,” he mutters, though the pain in his voice betrays the lie.

You kneel before him, hesitating only a moment before placing your hand over his, pressing against the wound. The warmth of his blood beneath your fingers sends a shiver down your spine. “How can I help?” you whisper, the words barely audible.

"Do you by... any chance... know how to light a fire?" Acacius asks, his voice faint and strained, each word a labor. “I would do it, but-" He pauses, drawing in a shallow breath before continuing, "I’m feeling dizzy. If I try anything more than talk, you’ll have to drag my old and heavy body all the way to the north.” Despite his weakened state, his attempt at humor is unmistakable, his tone light, as though trying to lessen the weight of the situation.

You can’t help but let out a nervous laugh, though your chest tightens at his words. "I must confess, I do not, but my mother always said I have a gift for learning fast."” you reply, trying to match his tone and mask your unease.

His lips twitch into the faintest smile, and he nods weakly. “Good. That’s the spirit.”

Following his instructions, you gather kindling from the surrounding area, your hands trembling as you arrange the dry twigs and leaves into a crude pile. He gestures toward the saddlebag, where flint and steel lie tucked away. Retrieving them, you kneel by the makeshift fire pit, your mind racing.

The first few attempts are futile, your strikes clumsy and hesitant. Each failure sends a rush of frustration and panic through you. The night feels colder now, the oppressive darkness pressing in as Acacius leans heavily against the tree, his breaths shallow and labored.

“Don’t rush,” his voice comes, a whisper carried by the night. “It’s just... practice. Take your time.”

The use of the endearment steadies you, and on the next attempt, a spark flares, catching the dry leaves. Your breath hitches as the tiny flame flickers, fragile but alive.

“I did it!” you exclaim, turning to him with wide, triumphant eyes.

His smile is faint but genuine. “Yes, you did, stella mea” he murmurs. But the relief in his voice is fleeting, replaced by a grim determination. “Now... this is the hard part.”

Your heart sinks.

“I need you to... cauterize the wound,” he continues, his voice dropping to a grave tone.

“Burn it?” you repeat, your voice trembling with disbelief.

“It’s not as bad as it sounds,” he lies, though his face betrays the truth. He tries to adjust his position, a sharp hiss escaping as he shifts. “And I need you to stay calm. If I pass out, don’t panic. As long as I’m breathing... I’ll be fine.”

The weight of his trust presses heavily on you, but you nod, swallowing your fear. “What do I do?”

He motions weakly toward the saddlebag again. Inside, you find a small blade, its edge sharp and clean. He instructs you to heat it in the fire until it glows red, then press it to the wound.

As you hold the blade over the flame, watching it darken and glow, your hands tremble. The heat radiates against your skin, a cruel reminder of what you’re about to do.

Acacius, now lying flat against the tree, bites down on a strip of fabric he’s placed between his teeth. His chest rises and falls rapidly, his body tense with anticipation. “When it’s ready, don’t hesitate,” he says through gritted teeth. “One motion. Quick and firm.”

You nod, your throat dry, your heart pounding so loudly you fear it will drown out his voice.

When the blade reaches a vivid red, you rise and move to his side. His abdomen is exposed, the wound a jagged gash that weeps blood. The sight turns your stomach, but his eyes—steady despite the pain—anchor you.

I trust you, as they seem to say, and that trust gives you the courage to act.

With one swift motion, you press the blade to the wound. The sizzle of flesh meeting searing metal fills the air, followed by a guttural, heart-wrenching cry from Acacius. The sound tears through you, raw and primal, a cry of agony that seems to echo through the forest.

Tears blur your vision as his body arches in pain, his breaths coming in shallow, rapid bursts. And against the voices in your head screaming to stay way from the General, you press your forehead to his, your voice breaking as you whisper, “I’m sorry... I’m so sorry. I’m here. It’s over. You’re safe”

Slowly, his breathing begins to even out, though his face remains pale and slick with sweat. As his eyes begin to close, you place a gentle kiss upon his cheek, brushing away a tear. “Sleep now, my soldier,” you murmur, cradling his head as exhaustion claims him.

· · ───────── ·𖥸· ───────── · ·

For the first hours, you sat there in silence, his head resting gently upon your lap. You wouldn’t dare admit it aloud, but your gaze lingered on his sleeping form far longer than it should have. The lines of worry and exhaustion that had etched themselves into his features were now softened by sleep, revealing a man transformed. He looked younger, almost serene, as though the burdens of war and duty had momentarily lifted. And though your feelings toward him were tangled in confusion, one truth remained undeniable: Marcus Acacius was breathtaking.

It struck you then—how rare it was for a man of his years to carry such beauty, unmarred by time. Perhaps the gods themselves had blessed him, a thought that should have stirred reverence. Yet, often, you cursed him instead—for his indifference, his guarded words, and the way he could one moment ignore you entirely, only to turn around and shield you with such tender devotion.

But as the hours dragged on, the weight of his head against your thighs began to ache, and the oppressive silence made rest impossible. Carefully, you lowered him onto the soft earth, your movements deliberate to avoid waking him. Rising, you sought some task to occupy your restless mind. Sleep was a luxury neither of you could afford.

The fire’s embers still glowed faintly, but its light felt like a beacon, dangerous and indiscreet. You knew it had to be extinguished, yet the absence of water nearby left you improvising. Venturing to the horse, your steps light so as not to disturb the General, you sought his bag. It hung heavily from the saddle, its contents unknown but promising some distraction.

Curiosity tugged at you as you unfastened it and reached inside. To your surprise, your fingers brushed against something soft and familiar—a cloak. Pulling it free, recognition struck you instantly. It was yours.

He was in my room.

The thought was startling, yet strangely not unwelcome. You delved further, your fingers curling around a smooth handle. When you withdrew it, a small laugh escaped your lips—a hairbrush. What was he thinking? Of all things to bring in an escape, a brush seemed so absurd. Yet, it brought with it a warmth you couldn’t deny. A simple, thoughtful gesture, a piece of home among the chaos.

Continuing your search, your hand found something else, something sticky and soft. Pulling it free, you gasped—a delicate sweet meant for the festivities. Its appearance felt like a miracle, a remnant of a world that now seemed so far away. Without hesitation, you bit into it, the taste flooding your senses with an almost childlike joy. For a fleeting moment, fear and grief faded, replaced by an overwhelming gratitude for this small indulgence.

You seated yourself near the extinguished fire, savoring the sweetness and the rare reprieve it brought. For the first time that night, your mind wandered beyond the shadows of dread. For that moment, you felt gratitude. If tragedy must be endured, you were grateful to endure it with him. Despite his stoic nature, his actions spoke of protection and care, a loyalty that steadied you even as you craved something more. Your gaze wandered to where he lay, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. Acacius was a good man. If love was beyond your reach, his steadfastness would have to suffice.

At the bottom of the bag, your hand found one last item—a small black pouch. Its weight was nearly imperceptible, but when you opened it, a chill spread through you. Inside was a ring. Lifting it into the moonlight, your breath caught. It was not just any ring; it was his ring. Your father’s. —the one he never removed, passed down from his father and the fathers before him.

He never took it off.

A shiver ran through you, not from the night’s chill but from the weight of the truth pressing against your chest. The rustling of leaves broke your thoughts. Acacius stirred, his eyes heavy with exhaustion but alert as they met yours. Before he could rise fully, your voice cut through the stillness.

“We’re not going to where my father is, are we?”

The silence that followed was deafening.

“I’m sorry, Aemilia,” he said softly, his voice laced with a sadness that made your heart clench. “We are not.”

The world seemed to fall away. His words hit you like a blow, the quiet finality of them unraveling you. Your body felt numb, unresponsive even as his hand rested gently on your shoulder. It was a gesture meant to comfort, but it did nothing to quell the storm within you.

Denial came first. “He’s not—he can’t be—” Your voice faltered as the weight of reality bore down upon you.

Then guilt. He was supposed to be here, not me.

And finally, anger. Pure, unrelenting rage.

“You should have saved him, not me!” you screamed, your fists pounding against his chest. “You were his General! It was your duty, and you failed him!” Each word was a strike, though your blows did little to move him.

Your fists struck his chest with each word, weak and desperate, as though trying to expel the anguish consuming you. He didn’t move, didn’t flinch, simply stood there, letting you pour out your fury until it crumbled into despair.

And then, as your strength waned, he pulled you into his arms, his embrace unyielding yet gentle. You fought it at first, your pride refusing to surrender, but the weight of grief was too much. Your body sagged against his, your sobs muffled against his chest.

“I’m here, vida mea,” he murmured, his voice low and steady. “I’m here. If I could take your pain as my own, I would carry it gladly.”

His words were a balm, soothing yet bittersweet, and for the first time that night, you allowed yourself to grieve. And though the world felt irrevocably broken, his arms felt, for a moment, like a shelter from the storm.

· · ───────── ·𖥸· ───────── · ·

Perhaps hours had passed, though you couldn't be certain. Time felt slippery, either rushing past in a blur or stretching endlessly. Your tears had dried, leaving behind swollen, stinging eyes as evidence of the storm that had raged within you. The silence around you seemed heavy, yet the soft hues of dawn breaking over the horizon brought a sense of fragile hope. The sun, hesitant in its rise, painted the sky with strokes of gold and crimson, signaling that the night’s rest had lingered longer than intended.

“When we left the castle,” you began, pulling yourself gently away from the warmth of the General's embrace. The motion felt mechanical, as did the way your fingers brushed your cheeks, attempting to erase the traces of sorrow. Your voice, steadying itself despite the weight of your emotions, carried a quiet resolve. “You said you would answer all the questions I had.”

His expression shifted, sadness giving way to something caught between surprise and faint amusement—though a flicker of concern lingered in his gaze. “Well, I did make that promise, but… there are limits, even for such a bold vow, my lady,” he replied lightly, his tone laced with a gentle attempt to draw out a smile from you.

You tilted your head, not entirely convinced by his deflection. “Very well then, to begin… where exactly are you taking me?” Your voice held an air of calm curiosity, while your hands busied themselves returning each item to his travel sack. The last thing you placed inside was your father’s ring, carefully tucked away, as if touching it was a sacred ritual you couldn’t rush.

“We’re heading north. There are troops loyal to your father there; we can seek shelter with them, at least for now.” His voice was measured as he turned toward the horse, his hands steady as he tightened the straps on the saddle.

“Will it take long?”

This time, you caught the faintest hint of a smile he tried to suppress, his lips curving slightly despite his efforts to maintain composure. “Two days, if we don’t make too many stops. Though I wonder… does your list of questions ever end?” His tone carried a teasing lilt, a playful attempt to shift the mood.

“No, General, it does not. I hope you’re prepared to keep your promise and answer them all.” Your voice mirrored his playfulness as you mounted the horse, sending him a look filled with quiet defiance and a spark of determination that seemed to have reignited with the first rays of sunlight. “Shall we?”

· · ───────── ·𖥸· ───────── · ·

Remember to always be careful to what you promise.

This is the cost to be a man of word. By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, marking the close of their first day’s journey, he had answered what felt like a thousand of your unrelenting questions. Though his endurance was formidable, it was he who suggested a pause, more out of concern for you than for himself. The General’s gaze lingered on you as you slept, your features softened by dreams and untouched by the chaos that had upended your life.

It was a cruel paradox—how peaceful you appeared, despite the storm that had claimed everything you knew. Yet, as he watched, his thoughts wandered to a quiet resolve that had taken root within him. His feelings for you transcended mere compassion—after all, you were the daughter of a dear friend. Now, thrust into the care of a stranger, without a home to return to or a family to console you, your world had unraveled in the span of a single, cruel night.

I hope she knows she has me. She will always have me.

Now, at the crest of a hill, the two of you stood side by side, the sprawling expanse of verdant fields stretching before you. The house in the distance, modest yet steadfast, marked the horizon like a sanctuary untouched by time.

“Why did we stop?” Your voice broke the silence, the first of what he knew would soon become an endless stream of questions. Yet there was no annoyance in his eyes—only a spark of amusement as he regarded you, your curiosity now a familiar companion.

Acacius tilted his head, a faint smile gracing his lips. “I thought you might need something if the night grew cold,” he admitted, his voice tinged with a trace of shyness. “And… I noticed how much you care for your appearance. I thought you’d appreciate the brush.” He hesitated, almost sheepish. “Though I must confess, I know little of women’s needs. If there was something more useful, I—”

“It’s fine, soldier,” you interjected, cutting through his nervous ramble. “More than fine, truly. I’m grateful you brought it. It’s… something to remind me of home.” Your voice softened, and your gaze turned to him, curious yet kind. “What about you? What do you miss about yours?”

The question caught him off guard, though he answered with the ease of someone who had carried homesickness in his heart for far too long. Yet even as he spoke, he wondered if your endless questions were more than idle chatter—perhaps this endless stream of inquiries was your way of grappling with grief, a fragile bridge to steady your shaken heart. If his responses could offer even the smallest solace, he would gladly continue, no matter how many questions came his way.

When at last his words led you here, his voice quieted, almost reverent. “You asked me earlier about home,” he said, gesturing to the house in the distance. “This is it.”

“Oh, it’s beautiful, Acacius,” you breathed, your voice filled with a genuine joy that made his chest tighten. “All this land, so far from everything... I see now why you miss it so much.”

His heart swelled with an ache he couldn’t name as he cleared his throat, his gaze fixed ahead. “You can stay here,” he offered, his tone steadier than the tumult within him. “While I deal with... everything. No one knows this place is mine—only your father ever did. It’s safe. Calm.”

There was no hesitation in his words, though the house was sacred to him, the last vestige of peace in his life. He’d give it up in an instant if it meant keeping you safe.

Your response came quietly, but the weight of it settled in his chest. “That is… very gracious of you, General. I’m not sure I deserve such kindness. I’m a princess of nothing now.” Your gaze fell to the ground, your voice faltering under the weight of truth. “But if I have a choice, I would prefer to stay with you.”

The confession struck him like lightning, and for a moment, Acacius was a man undone. Your words, spoken with such vulnerability, rendered him speechless.

“The truth is… I’m completely lost,” you continued, your voice trembling as tears threatened to spill. “I have nothing—no title, no one to turn to.” You drew a shaky breath, willing yourself to remain composed. “If you helped me escape only out of duty, then I understand. I won’t hold it against you. But if your actions that night in the garden reflected something more… then I would prefer to stay by your side. You’re the only one I know, and there’s nowhere else I feel safe.”

Your smile, shy yet filled with hope, was enough to undo any remaining resolve he had. He longed to fall to his knees, to vow his life to you, to worship you as the sun and moon of his world. Instead, he straightened, his expression composed, for what you needed now was protection, not passion.

“Well,” he said at last, nudging your shoulder in a playful gesture. “I won’t pretend I wouldn’t miss your endless questions. Perhaps, when all this is over, I could show you my lands under different circumstances.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them, and a silent prayer formed in his heart. I hope she understands what I mean. I want to bring her here as my wife. As the lady of these lands.

Your smile, gentle yet knowing, was sweeter than anything he could have imagined.

“Perhaps, soldier,” you replied, your tone light, yet laced with a warmth that lingered long after the words had faded into the wind.

· · ───────── ·𖥸· ───────── · ·

AN: I'm loving every comment you guys leave! Thank you so much, and if you haven't done it yet, know that I would appreciate it very much! Bye

[thepascalparadox]

WHAT????? I’M IN THIS LIST??? I literally LOVE your fics and your writing so much, loss count of how many nights I’ve spend reading them😭 thank you!

A list of all my favourite MARCUS ACACIUS Fic Recs, with the writer's tagged. Includes fics I'm currently reading/want to read on my TBR.

PART 2

Please show some love to the writers by re-blogging and commenting on their work. 🖤

⚠️ Please ensure you check the triggers/warnings etc... on the stories themselves as some of them may not be suitable to your own particular tastes. I will list Reader types and some warnings for ease of navigation.

JETT'S PEDRO PASCAL CHARACTER FIC REC LIST

Acacius's Rose Garden F!Reader - @morallyinept

Mutual Agreement F!Reader - @thanyatargaryen

The Fallen Fruit F!Reader, Featuring Lucius, MMF - @kiss-me-muchoo

Starve F!Reader, Featuring Lucius, MMF - @pascaloverx

If There's Nothing Left Series F!Reader - @theetherealbloom

In The General's Shadow F!Reader - @bonelessghoul

In Vino Veritas M!Reader @hellsburners

Thirst Series F!Reader - @slimybeth69

Echoes Between Us Series OFC - @thepascalparadox

A New Life Series OFC - @musings-of-a-rose

The Heart Of Rome Series OC/Princess - @missadangel

Deliciae Imperii Hanno's Sister F!Reader - @lola-writes

The Lion's Chain Series F!Reader - @justsleepybeans

Solace GN!Reader - @heavenlytouches

Dulcissima Series Vestal Virgin Reader - @softpascalito

Propositio AFAB!Reader - @gracieheartspedro

Blood & Fury Series F!Reader - @whereiivygrows

Slow Burning Desire F!Reader - @intoanotherworld23

The Lesser Of Two Evils F!Reader - @orcasoul

Hands In The Hair Of Someone Named Marcus & Part 2 F!Reader - @stylesispunk

Morbus F!Reader, Featuring Emperor Geta, MMF & Blood Favor F!Reader - @pedgito

Fit For A Goddess F!Reader - @ozarkthedog

Heart & Hand F!Reader - @jobean12-blog

Guilty As Sin Series Fem Virgin!Reader - @ovaryacted

Foxglove Downs Series F!Reader, Featuring Lucius Versus, MMF, AU - @whocaresstillthelouvre

Per Aspera Ad Astra Series Emperor's Daughter Reader - @myownwholewildworld

Wedding Night Part 1 & Part 2, & Bloodlust F!Reader - @rainy-day-gracie

Meant To Be, A Husband's Duties, Praying For A Man & His Love F!Reader - @multific

War Dog F!Reader - @studioghibelli

At Your Immediate Discretion F!Reader - @space-cowboys-and-aliens

The Farmer's Daughter F!Reader - @punkshort

Fathoms Below F!Reader - @mybworlds

Touch Of A Lover F!Reader - @spidermiguell

Religion Series F!Reader - @oceandolores

Love Across Lifetimes F!Reader - @absurdthirst

Holy Grail Series F!Reader, Featuring Emperor Geta, MMF - @lovebugism

Veneration F!Reader & Sun Drenched F!Reader - @frannyzooey

Bloodline F!Reader, DDDNE/Dark - @gutsby

Cosmic Love F!Reader, Featuring Marcus Pike, MMF - @kedsandtubesocks

Home F!Reader - @milla-frenchy

Felicitas & Her General F!Reader - @coquettepascal

Battlefront F!Reader - @lokischocolatefountain

[thepascalparadox]

Her life just turned upside down… thank you so much for always commenting 🤎🥰

Chapter Five: Everything Changes

Word Count | 4.1k Pairing | General Marcus Acacius x OC F!Reader Chapter Warnings | Switch pov, some minor violence, there will be mentioning of death

The grand hall was alive with splendor, but tonight, none of it reached you. The towering marble columns and golden drapes, the laughter that rippled through the air, and the lilting melodies of lyres and flutes—all of it felt distant. The wine tasted bitter, the music grated on your nerves, and the thought of dancing with anyone seemed unbearable. Even Vera, who used to entertain you in such events is not here.

Where is she?

Seated just below your father’s throne, you watched the room with detached eyes. Senators gathered in small, murmuring groups, their wives whispering behind jeweled fans. The celebration swirled around you, yet your thoughts were locked on a single, suffocating question: who would you name as your husband by the end of the night?

Yesterday, the answer had been so clear. General Marcus Acacius. But after the cold disdain he had shown you, his indifference after all his words and that fleeting kiss, the thought of him now churned your stomach. Anger flared within you—sharp, consuming. If he cared so little, if he had not fought for you, then he did not deserve you.

Your gaze drifted, almost unwillingly, to where Marcus stood behind your father, steadfast and composed. Even with the wine he had consumed, he remained vigilant, every inch the soldier. The sight of his calm demeanor only deepened your frustration. Was it arrogance? Or duty? Either way, it ignited a storm within you.

“More wine,” you murmured to a maid, and as the cup refilled, boldness surged within you, fueled by indignation and despair. Draining the goblet in one resolute motion, you turned abruptly and interrupted the Emperor's conversation with Macrelius, the senator who had been commanding your father’s laughter.

“Senator,” you said, your voice unwavering, “would you honor me with a dance?”

His expression flickered with surprise before morphing into a sly grin. “Of course, mia cara,” he drawled, taking your hand and pressing a kiss to it—a touch that lingered too long, too close.

For the briefest moment, your gaze darted toward Marcus, not out of provocation but instinct. His eyes met yours, dark and unreadable, yet there was something there—a flicker of hurt, or was it anger? It vanished almost as quickly as it appeared.

You let him guide you onto the dance floor, but as his hand rested on your waist, unease began to creep in. You told yourself to give him a chance—perhaps the man wasn’t as insufferable as his reputation suggested.

“Are you enjoying the evening, carissima?” he asked, his voice as polished as his appearance.

“Not particularly, Senator” you admitted, preparing yourself for the usual hollow pleasantries.

“There’s no need for such formality,” he said, stepping closer than was proper. His voice dropped to a whisper. “After all, we are to be husband and wife.”

Your steps faltered and the blood in your veins turned to ice. Surely, your father hadn’t spoken to him already?

“That has not yet been decided,” you replied, your tone sharp.

He ignored your protest, tightening his grip and steering you away from the other dancers in an erratic spin. “Oh, but it has, my dear,” he whispered, his lips far too close to your ear. “And you should be grateful. Your father’s time grows short, and when the Senate rises against him, you’ll need me. A match between us secures your survival.”

“That is enough,” you hissed, trying to pull away, but his grip tightened, his smile twisting into something sinister.

Macrelius only laughed, his breath reeking of wine. “I do enjoy a spirited bride,” he said, pulling you even closer.

Panic clawed at your throat, but before you could act, a shadow loomed behind him. A hand clamped down on Macrelius’s shoulder, making him stiffen..

“May I have this dance, Princess?” The voice was deep, measured, and unmistakable. Marcus.

You felt weak and could only nod. Macrelius hesitated, but Marcus’s hand tightened, his tone dropping into something colder. “Move,” he commanded "Now."

The senator relinquished you with a scowl, muttering under his breath as he retreated into the crowd. You felt your knees tremble, but Marcus caught you. His touch, so unlike Macrelius’s, was steady, grounding.

“You’re safe now,” he said softly, guiding you into the next dance. His tone was firm, but his eyes betrayed concern as they darted to your wrist. One hand rested at your waist, while the other gently cradled your wrist, his thumb brushing over the reddened skin where Macrelius’s grip had bruised you.

The soft strains of flutes and strings filled the grand hall, weaving a melody both somber and elegant. Around you, couples moved in perfect synchrony, their steps following the prescribed rhythm of the court.

“I came as quickly as I could, did he-” he murmured, his voice low enough that only you could hear. “Are you hurt?”

“I—he spoke of treason,” you stammered, your voice barely above a whisper. “He said—my father—he implied—”

His eyes darted across the room, scanning the crowd like a hawk observing its prey. You noticed the subtle way he turned his head, as if following an invisible trail, his jaw set and his brows furrowed in concentration. It was as though the dance was a mere pretense for something far more important.

"General," you whispered, your voice barely audible over the music, "are you even paying attention?"

His gaze flickered to you for the briefest of moments, a flicker of warmth in his otherwise steely expression. "I am," he murmured, though his tone betrayed that his attention was divided.

"To me, or to the room?" you pressed, unable to hide the frustration creeping into your voice.

"Shh," he interrupted softly, his fingers grazing your wrist briefly as he adjusted your hold. "Keep dancing. Smile, if you can. We don’t want to draw unnecessary attention."

"The General seems... indifferent to love. He’s spoken of how he would never make a woman a wife..."

Your father's voice echoed in your mind, each word reverberating like the distant rumble of thunder, striking you with an intensity that left you breathless.

How could you have expected anything different from him?

His actions—those rigid gestures and steely glances—now made perfect sense. He, the General, the man of war, the one who had seen the cruel faces of the world, could never be one to understand love. He seemed to know only duty, honor, and respect. And, perhaps, for that very reason, his approach to you was not borne of affection or the fire of jealousy—no, it was the cold, unyielding instinct of a soldier.

He had come not as a man, but as a sworn protector, bound by oath to safeguard the daughter of the Emperor, a duty he had sworn before the gods themselves. That was all he knew, that was all he could offer. The warmth of care, the tenderness of a heart exposed—these were foreign to him, unreachable, like a distant shore shrouded in fog.

“You're a brute,” you muttered under your breath, pulling away.

This time, he let you go, his gaze finally meeting yours. The hardness in his eyes softened, and for a moment, it felt like the entire hall faded away. The music, the laughter, the lights—all of it seemed distant. It was just the two of you, caught in a fragile, unspoken understanding.

"Please, just-" he murmured, his voice dropping even lower "Stay close"

"What is it?" you asked, trying to follow his gaze.

You scanned the great hall, the dimming light casting long shadows over the vast space, yet your mind couldn’t settle. Every movement, every laughter, every clink of the wine cups—everything felt distant, out of place, as if the evening itself were somehow holding its breath. The couples danced with a feverish joy, their forms spinning and swaying in perfect harmony with the music, the air thick with the scent of perfume and roasted meats. Yet amidst all the merriment, something felt amiss, though you could not name it.

A fluttering unease settled in your chest, and your gaze drifted over the crowd. They seemed so content—lost in their revelry, yet something tugged at the edge of your thoughts. There it was, elusive yet undeniable.

Where were the men of the Senate?

You hadn’t taken much notice before—these faces were unfamiliar, yet they all seemed accustomed to the grandeur of the castle. But now that the thought had crossed your mind, it gnawed at you, drawing your attention back to the men dancing. Their absence was so subtle, so unnoticed by the others, but it felt as though a puzzle piece had gone missing. The people around you, the strangers laughing and dancing, seemed… different. Stronger, perhaps.

They did not belong to the court.

Before you could dwell further on your thoughts, a sudden sharp noise shattered the atmosphere. The heavy door to the hall swung open with a force that made you startle, and you heard the deep, commanding voice of General Acacius cut through the rising din.

"Guards, the Emperor!"

His voice was a roar, urgent and filled with authority. Your heart skipped a beat as he surged forward, his body colliding with yours, pushing you downward with a force that stole your breath.

The world erupted around you. Arrows hissed through the air, their deadly path lighting up the room with flashes of silver. The laughter stopped. The music came to an abrupt halt. Chaos erupted in every corner. Screams filled the air, mingling with the sharp clash of metal against metal, the cries of pain and the groans of men wounded in the frenzy. A fear, darker than anything you had ever known, gripped you, suffocating.

Amid the frenzy, you searched the room frantically for Marcus. Your eyes finally met his. But his gaze was different now. His focus wasn’t on you. His eyes were sharp, calculating, taking in every movement, every shifting shadow. He wasn’t the man you had seen earlier—this was the soldier. This was the General in battle.

“Listen to me,” his voice was low but firm, laced with authority. His eyes locked onto yours, unyielding. “We need to get to that column,” he pointed to a distant pillar in the corner, hidden in the shadows of the hall. “No matter what happens, stay close to me. Do you understand?”

You nodded, your voice caught in your throat, too choked with fear to speak. His grip on your hand was firm, and in that moment, you knew that you were no longer a princess at a feast—now, you were just another soul caught in the storm of battle.

His hand found yours, strong and unrelenting as he helped you to your feet. The General moved through the chaos with purpose, his sword cutting through anyone who dared approach. Men fell around you, blood pooling beneath their lifeless bodies. The clash of steel against steel, the cries of the wounded, the sounds of death—it was all too much to comprehend. The room that had once been filled with joy now seemed like a hellscape, where even the air itself had grown heavy with the scent of blood.

You stumbled, your legs unsteady, but he never let go. His hand remained wrapped around yours, pulling you forward, guiding you through the carnage. His gaze never faltered; he was constantly scanning, constantly aware of the danger that threatened you both. He never let go of your hand—never once relinquishing his grip—except when he was forced to fight. When that happened, he sought you out again with an almost frantic urgency. There was no hesitation.

You reached the column, and the General pushed you behind it, hiding you in the shadowed corner. You felt the cool stone against your back, and for a moment, you dared to catch your breath.

“My father…” you started, but the words faltered. Your entire body shook as the terror and uncertainty gripped you, stealing away what little calm you had managed to hold onto. “We have to—”

The General didn’t look at you. His eyes were scanning the room, every part of him alert, calculating. He moved to the wall and began patting it, his hands feeling for something.

Great. He’s gone mad.

But before you could voice it, the wall shifted. A brick clicked loose, and with a quiet grunt, Marcus pulled it free. Behind it, a dark, narrow passage yawned open. The sight sent a chill through your spine.

He grabbed a torch from the wall and handed it to you, his hands briefly brushing against yours. His gaze softened just for a moment, but there was no time for sentiment.

“Go down,” he commanded. His voice was low but insistent. “Walk straight to the end. There’s a room with supplies and weapons. Wait for me there. I’ll be right behind you.”

You opened your mouth to protest, to ask what he meant—but the urgency in his eyes silenced you before the words could leave your lips. He pushed you gently but firmly toward the hole, and just as the door began to close, he leaned down and whispered, the words just for you.

“I will come back to you, Lumina Mea. I promise.”

And with that, the world went dark. The only light was the flickering torch in your hand, casting eerie shadows against the walls as you descended into the unknown.

· · ───────── ·𖥸· ───────── · ·

This was not how things were supposed to unfold.

He had imagined himself elsewhere, perhaps at home, nestled in the quiet peace of the night, free from the chaos of the world. But here he was again, sword in hand, striking down enemies with a cold precision, every breath he took weighed down by the burden of survival.

This was not how things were supposed to unfold at all.

All the anger that had accumulated within him, all the fury he had kept bottled up, was now channeled into his every movement. His sword cut through the air with a force borne not of skill alone but of sheer will to stand firm, to outlast the storm that raged around him. But even as he fought, The General knew that his efforts were futile.

Before the battle erupted, his instincts had already screamed at him that something was terribly wrong. The number of strangers among the guests far outnumbered those he could trust. And then, the wine, the laughter, the loud music—it was all a carefully crafted distraction. A trap had been set, and even the sharpest minds, like his, could have never predicted its cunning precision. The festivities had been nothing but a veil, a ruse for the treason that had been plotted in the shadows.

Finally, he reached the Emperor, who had sought refuge behind the great throne, surrounded only by a few loyal soldiers. But the sight of him—pale, breathing heavily, his face drawn in despair—shook him to his core. He could feel it in the air: if they did not leave this place soon, death would claim them all.

"Your grace, we must move," The General’s voice was steady, though his heart beat with urgency.

The Emperor’s gaze was distant, filled with confusion and helplessness. "No... No, Marcus, I can’t, son..." Antoninus murmured, his voice weak, strained with pain. He slowly pulled his hand away from the wound that he had only now fully acknowledged. The blood soaked through his tunic, staining the fabric a dark red. The wound, perhaps from an arrow, was grievous, and Marcus could see the life slipping away from his old friend.

"I need you to listen," the Emperor continued, his voice trembling as he struggled to speak through his pain. "You are the one who must take the imperium. Do you hear me?"

Marcus knelt beside him, pressing his hand to the wound in a futile attempt to staunch the flow of blood. The Emperor’s breathing was labored, each breath coming in shallow, pained gasps.

"The Senate," Antoninus managed to say, his eyes clouded with exhaustion. "They are corrupted beyond repair... Take the troops in the north. Regain control of Rome." His hand, trembling, reached out and grasped Marcus’s, pressing his ring into the younger man’s palm. "I trust you like a son, Marcus."

The General felt the weight of the ring, its cold metal heavy with the responsibility it carried. He nodded, though the world around him seemed to blur, his thoughts swirling in a haze of confusion and dread.

“I am going to my lover’s arms, Acacius,” the Emperor whispered, his voice barely audible now. “Don’t leave Aemilia alone... She’s...”

With those final words, the Emperor’s breath faltered, his eyes closing, and Marcus knew that the soul of his friend—his ruler—had left this plane. The silence that followed was deafening, a cold, final stillness that settled over the room, as if the very air had been stolen from their lungs.

And in that moment, The General felt his heart break, feeling as if the weight of the world now rested solely on his shoulders.

"The Emperor is dead," Marcus whispers, his voice barely audible, like a breath of cold air cutting through the heavy silence that has overtaken the chamber. The words hang in the air like a weight too heavy to bear, their finality settling deep in his chest. He turns away, his eyes hard as iron, yet they betray a flicker of grief—swift and fleeting—before he masters it again.

The few soldiers that have huddled in the shadows, their faces grim and strained from the chaos, exchange solemn looks. One, bolder than the rest, steps forward, his hand clutching his sword as though it might anchor him in the sea of uncertainty.

"We stand with you, Dominus," the soldier declares, his voice unwavering, though the tremor beneath it speaks volumes. "Rome is to be yours, as the late emperor wished."

Marcus does not reply immediately. The words of loyalty, meant to reassure, only serve to deepen the chasm of unease in his heart. He knows the weight of what is being asked of him, the legacy he is expected to carry. But in this moment, the future of Rome feels like a distant horizon, unreachable amidst the bloodshed that has consumed the present.

"This is not the time to think of it," his voice cracks, betraying him more than he would like. His mind is spinning, but his body feels rooted in place, numb from the exhaustion of battle and the shock of losing his oldest ally. He tightens his grip on the sword, the cold steel a bitter reminder of what he must do next. "Take your horses and ride north," he commands, his tone gaining strength despite the fatigue weighing him down. "I'll catch up with you. Go in separate routes—don’t allow yourselves to be followed."

The soldiers nod, a mixture of respect and fear flashing in their eyes. As they begin to disperse, Marcus watches them go, his chest tightening with the weight of responsibility.

And yet, in this desolate hall, amidst the carnage and the fading light, Marcus steels himself.

I have to get to Aemilia, she's alone.

He exhales sharply, the breath a silent surrender to the numbness that has settled in his bones. What was once a future filled with certainty now seems like a distant memory, slipping away with the shadows of those who have fallen.

· · ───────── ·𖥸· ───────── · ·

The torchlight cast flickering shadows against the damp, stone walls, each shift in the flame’s dance pulling your attention to the room's oppressive stillness. The floor beneath your feet felt slick, a dampness clinging to the air that made every breath heavy with the scent of earth and moisture. You couldn’t be sure how long you’d been walking—it felt like hours, though logic insisted it had only been minutes—when at last you reached the room the General had spoken of.

It was spartan in its contents: a single bag containing a modest loaf of bread, an empty flask, and garments so light they seemed a cruel mockery of protection. The weapons, however, were another matter—blades, bows, and arrows arranged with a purpose that spoke of preparation for moments like this. An escape route for emergencies. For betrayals.

Your thoughts churned as you stood in the dim light, fingers trembling slightly as they gripped the bow now in your hands. Your mind raced through the events that led you here: the senators' whispers, the unnerving absence of familiar faces, the chaos of bloodshed, and above all, the uncertainty surrounding your father and Vera. The dread in your chest felt like a stone dragging you down into darkness.

"If anything happens to me, I want you to be ready, vida mea," your father's voice echoed in your memory. You saw yourself as a little girl, perched on his lap, staring up at him with wide, frightened eyes. That was not a conversation for a child, you had thought then. He had smiled at your alarm, trying to soften the weight of his words. "As emperor, I am always in danger, but do not fear, Aemilia. I will always watch over you and protect you—in this life, and the next, and the next." His voice had grown lighter as he tickled you, laughter replacing the foreboding shadows in his tone.

Now, in this moment, that laughter felt a lifetime away.

You waited as the General had commanded, the bowstring taut under your fingers, an arrow notched and ready to fly. The door loomed in front of you, a silent sentinel guarding against the unknown. He had promised to return. You repeated that to yourself like a mantra. Acacius was a man of his word, a soldier bound by duty and honor. Whatever your feelings toward him, you could not deny that truth.

But why did he calling me by those names? Vida mea. Lumina mea.

They unsettled you, those tender words from a man whose exterior seemed carved from stone. Could they be sincere? Could his feelings from that night—that night—have been real? Or had you misjudged him entirely, blinded by your own pride and your father's warnings?

Your spiraling thoughts were interrupted by the faint scrape of stone against stone. You snapped your head toward the far side of the room, where a hidden door creaked open, revealing a narrow passage to the outside.

"It's me," came a low voice, rough with exhaustion. A shadowed figure stepped into the light, pulling back his hood to reveal Acacius. Relief washed over you, though it was quickly tempered by the sight before you.

His hair was unkempt, dark strands clinging to his damp brow. A faint smear of blood streaked across his cheek, and his eyes—those piercing eyes—were heavy with weariness and something deeper. Sadness, perhaps, or regret. He looked like a man who had faced death and walked away, but only just.

"What took you so long?!" The words tumbled from your lips before you could stop them, your voice sharper than intended. It wasn’t anger, not really—it was fear, frustration, the unbearable weight of the unknown.

He raised a hand, silencing you with a tired but steady gaze. "Listen," he began, his voice low, almost a growl. "I'm tired, Aemilia, and I need silence." He gestured toward the passage. "We need to leave. I will answer your questions later. For now, get on the horse—and be careful with that arrow. I’d rather not have you wound yourself or anyone else."

The admonishment stung, but you complied, mounting the horse with a stubborn huff. "I know what I’m doing, General," you muttered, your tone defiant.

You sat atop the horse, waiting for him to guide the reins, your thoughts spinning as you noticed there was only one mount.

Surely, this meant the destination was close. He wouldn’t ride with me on the same horse, would he?

Without a word, Acacius swung up behind you, his large frame effortlessly closing the space between your back and his chest. The sudden closeness left you breathless, the warmth of his presence impossible to ignore. You stiffened as his chest pressed against your back, the reins held firmly in his hands just in front of you. The proximity was unnerving, though he seemed completely unfazed, his focus fixed straight ahead.

The horse began to move, its hooves pounding against the earth in a steady rhythm. Your heart raced, though not from the ride. His nearness was suffocating, every breath you took mingling with the scent of leather, sweat, and faintly, blood.

You dared a glance at him, his profile sharp and unyielding in the faint light. His gaze was fixed forward, unrelenting, as if he could see through the darkness to the path ahead.

The bulge in his vest does not go unnoticed.

--------------------------------------------- AN: I was actually so anxious to post this one! I think we are officialy entering a diferent phase in the story and we'll be able to see a diferent Acacius and a diferent Aemilia, both burdened with their new role after all that's happened. There'll be a couple of more characters that I also want to develop, and maybe I'll make these two finally work out their feelings together. Please leave a comment, tell me what you're expecting to see, what you've been missing... Hope you're all enjoying!

[thepascalparadox]

Thank you so much for you comment and reblog 🥹 it means a lot 🤎

Chapter Five: Everything Changes

Word Count | 4.1k Pairing | General Marcus Acacius x OC F!Reader Chapter Warnings | Switch pov, some minor violence, there will be mentioning of death

The grand hall was alive with splendor, but tonight, none of it reached you. The towering marble columns and golden drapes, the laughter that rippled through the air, and the lilting melodies of lyres and flutes—all of it felt distant. The wine tasted bitter, the music grated on your nerves, and the thought of dancing with anyone seemed unbearable. Even Vera, who used to entertain you in such events is not here.

Where is she?

Seated just below your father’s throne, you watched the room with detached eyes. Senators gathered in small, murmuring groups, their wives whispering behind jeweled fans. The celebration swirled around you, yet your thoughts were locked on a single, suffocating question: who would you name as your husband by the end of the night?

Yesterday, the answer had been so clear. General Marcus Acacius. But after the cold disdain he had shown you, his indifference after all his words and that fleeting kiss, the thought of him now churned your stomach. Anger flared within you—sharp, consuming. If he cared so little, if he had not fought for you, then he did not deserve you.

Your gaze drifted, almost unwillingly, to where Marcus stood behind your father, steadfast and composed. Even with the wine he had consumed, he remained vigilant, every inch the soldier. The sight of his calm demeanor only deepened your frustration. Was it arrogance? Or duty? Either way, it ignited a storm within you.

“More wine,” you murmured to a maid, and as the cup refilled, boldness surged within you, fueled by indignation and despair. Draining the goblet in one resolute motion, you turned abruptly and interrupted the Emperor's conversation with Macrelius, the senator who had been commanding your father’s laughter.

“Senator,” you said, your voice unwavering, “would you honor me with a dance?”

His expression flickered with surprise before morphing into a sly grin. “Of course, mia cara,” he drawled, taking your hand and pressing a kiss to it—a touch that lingered too long, too close.

For the briefest moment, your gaze darted toward Marcus, not out of provocation but instinct. His eyes met yours, dark and unreadable, yet there was something there—a flicker of hurt, or was it anger? It vanished almost as quickly as it appeared.

You let him guide you onto the dance floor, but as his hand rested on your waist, unease began to creep in. You told yourself to give him a chance—perhaps the man wasn’t as insufferable as his reputation suggested.

“Are you enjoying the evening, carissima?” he asked, his voice as polished as his appearance.

“Not particularly, Senator” you admitted, preparing yourself for the usual hollow pleasantries.

“There’s no need for such formality,” he said, stepping closer than was proper. His voice dropped to a whisper. “After all, we are to be husband and wife.”

Your steps faltered and the blood in your veins turned to ice. Surely, your father hadn’t spoken to him already?

“That has not yet been decided,” you replied, your tone sharp.

He ignored your protest, tightening his grip and steering you away from the other dancers in an erratic spin. “Oh, but it has, my dear,” he whispered, his lips far too close to your ear. “And you should be grateful. Your father’s time grows short, and when the Senate rises against him, you’ll need me. A match between us secures your survival.”

“That is enough,” you hissed, trying to pull away, but his grip tightened, his smile twisting into something sinister.

Macrelius only laughed, his breath reeking of wine. “I do enjoy a spirited bride,” he said, pulling you even closer.

Panic clawed at your throat, but before you could act, a shadow loomed behind him. A hand clamped down on Macrelius’s shoulder, making him stiffen..

“May I have this dance, Princess?” The voice was deep, measured, and unmistakable. Marcus.

You felt weak and could only nod. Macrelius hesitated, but Marcus’s hand tightened, his tone dropping into something colder. “Move,” he commanded "Now."

The senator relinquished you with a scowl, muttering under his breath as he retreated into the crowd. You felt your knees tremble, but Marcus caught you. His touch, so unlike Macrelius’s, was steady, grounding.

“You’re safe now,” he said softly, guiding you into the next dance. His tone was firm, but his eyes betrayed concern as they darted to your wrist. One hand rested at your waist, while the other gently cradled your wrist, his thumb brushing over the reddened skin where Macrelius’s grip had bruised you.

The soft strains of flutes and strings filled the grand hall, weaving a melody both somber and elegant. Around you, couples moved in perfect synchrony, their steps following the prescribed rhythm of the court.

“I came as quickly as I could, did he-” he murmured, his voice low enough that only you could hear. “Are you hurt?”

“I—he spoke of treason,” you stammered, your voice barely above a whisper. “He said—my father—he implied—”

His eyes darted across the room, scanning the crowd like a hawk observing its prey. You noticed the subtle way he turned his head, as if following an invisible trail, his jaw set and his brows furrowed in concentration. It was as though the dance was a mere pretense for something far more important.

"General," you whispered, your voice barely audible over the music, "are you even paying attention?"

His gaze flickered to you for the briefest of moments, a flicker of warmth in his otherwise steely expression. "I am," he murmured, though his tone betrayed that his attention was divided.

"To me, or to the room?" you pressed, unable to hide the frustration creeping into your voice.

"Shh," he interrupted softly, his fingers grazing your wrist briefly as he adjusted your hold. "Keep dancing. Smile, if you can. We don’t want to draw unnecessary attention."

"The General seems... indifferent to love. He’s spoken of how he would never make a woman a wife..."

Your father's voice echoed in your mind, each word reverberating like the distant rumble of thunder, striking you with an intensity that left you breathless.

How could you have expected anything different from him?

His actions—those rigid gestures and steely glances—now made perfect sense. He, the General, the man of war, the one who had seen the cruel faces of the world, could never be one to understand love. He seemed to know only duty, honor, and respect. And, perhaps, for that very reason, his approach to you was not borne of affection or the fire of jealousy—no, it was the cold, unyielding instinct of a soldier.

He had come not as a man, but as a sworn protector, bound by oath to safeguard the daughter of the Emperor, a duty he had sworn before the gods themselves. That was all he knew, that was all he could offer. The warmth of care, the tenderness of a heart exposed—these were foreign to him, unreachable, like a distant shore shrouded in fog.

“You're a brute,” you muttered under your breath, pulling away.

This time, he let you go, his gaze finally meeting yours. The hardness in his eyes softened, and for a moment, it felt like the entire hall faded away. The music, the laughter, the lights—all of it seemed distant. It was just the two of you, caught in a fragile, unspoken understanding.

"Please, just-" he murmured, his voice dropping even lower "Stay close"

"What is it?" you asked, trying to follow his gaze.

You scanned the great hall, the dimming light casting long shadows over the vast space, yet your mind couldn’t settle. Every movement, every laughter, every clink of the wine cups—everything felt distant, out of place, as if the evening itself were somehow holding its breath. The couples danced with a feverish joy, their forms spinning and swaying in perfect harmony with the music, the air thick with the scent of perfume and roasted meats. Yet amidst all the merriment, something felt amiss, though you could not name it.

A fluttering unease settled in your chest, and your gaze drifted over the crowd. They seemed so content—lost in their revelry, yet something tugged at the edge of your thoughts. There it was, elusive yet undeniable.

Where were the men of the Senate?

You hadn’t taken much notice before—these faces were unfamiliar, yet they all seemed accustomed to the grandeur of the castle. But now that the thought had crossed your mind, it gnawed at you, drawing your attention back to the men dancing. Their absence was so subtle, so unnoticed by the others, but it felt as though a puzzle piece had gone missing. The people around you, the strangers laughing and dancing, seemed… different. Stronger, perhaps.

They did not belong to the court.

Before you could dwell further on your thoughts, a sudden sharp noise shattered the atmosphere. The heavy door to the hall swung open with a force that made you startle, and you heard the deep, commanding voice of General Acacius cut through the rising din.

"Guards, the Emperor!"

His voice was a roar, urgent and filled with authority. Your heart skipped a beat as he surged forward, his body colliding with yours, pushing you downward with a force that stole your breath.

The world erupted around you. Arrows hissed through the air, their deadly path lighting up the room with flashes of silver. The laughter stopped. The music came to an abrupt halt. Chaos erupted in every corner. Screams filled the air, mingling with the sharp clash of metal against metal, the cries of pain and the groans of men wounded in the frenzy. A fear, darker than anything you had ever known, gripped you, suffocating.

Amid the frenzy, you searched the room frantically for Marcus. Your eyes finally met his. But his gaze was different now. His focus wasn’t on you. His eyes were sharp, calculating, taking in every movement, every shifting shadow. He wasn’t the man you had seen earlier—this was the soldier. This was the General in battle.

“Listen to me,” his voice was low but firm, laced with authority. His eyes locked onto yours, unyielding. “We need to get to that column,” he pointed to a distant pillar in the corner, hidden in the shadows of the hall. “No matter what happens, stay close to me. Do you understand?”

You nodded, your voice caught in your throat, too choked with fear to speak. His grip on your hand was firm, and in that moment, you knew that you were no longer a princess at a feast—now, you were just another soul caught in the storm of battle.

His hand found yours, strong and unrelenting as he helped you to your feet. The General moved through the chaos with purpose, his sword cutting through anyone who dared approach. Men fell around you, blood pooling beneath their lifeless bodies. The clash of steel against steel, the cries of the wounded, the sounds of death—it was all too much to comprehend. The room that had once been filled with joy now seemed like a hellscape, where even the air itself had grown heavy with the scent of blood.

You stumbled, your legs unsteady, but he never let go. His hand remained wrapped around yours, pulling you forward, guiding you through the carnage. His gaze never faltered; he was constantly scanning, constantly aware of the danger that threatened you both. He never let go of your hand—never once relinquishing his grip—except when he was forced to fight. When that happened, he sought you out again with an almost frantic urgency. There was no hesitation.

You reached the column, and the General pushed you behind it, hiding you in the shadowed corner. You felt the cool stone against your back, and for a moment, you dared to catch your breath.

“My father…” you started, but the words faltered. Your entire body shook as the terror and uncertainty gripped you, stealing away what little calm you had managed to hold onto. “We have to—”

The General didn’t look at you. His eyes were scanning the room, every part of him alert, calculating. He moved to the wall and began patting it, his hands feeling for something.

Great. He’s gone mad.

But before you could voice it, the wall shifted. A brick clicked loose, and with a quiet grunt, Marcus pulled it free. Behind it, a dark, narrow passage yawned open. The sight sent a chill through your spine.

He grabbed a torch from the wall and handed it to you, his hands briefly brushing against yours. His gaze softened just for a moment, but there was no time for sentiment.

“Go down,” he commanded. His voice was low but insistent. “Walk straight to the end. There’s a room with supplies and weapons. Wait for me there. I’ll be right behind you.”

You opened your mouth to protest, to ask what he meant—but the urgency in his eyes silenced you before the words could leave your lips. He pushed you gently but firmly toward the hole, and just as the door began to close, he leaned down and whispered, the words just for you.

“I will come back to you, Lumina Mea. I promise.”

And with that, the world went dark. The only light was the flickering torch in your hand, casting eerie shadows against the walls as you descended into the unknown.

· · ───────── ·𖥸· ───────── · ·

This was not how things were supposed to unfold.

He had imagined himself elsewhere, perhaps at home, nestled in the quiet peace of the night, free from the chaos of the world. But here he was again, sword in hand, striking down enemies with a cold precision, every breath he took weighed down by the burden of survival.

This was not how things were supposed to unfold at all.

All the anger that had accumulated within him, all the fury he had kept bottled up, was now channeled into his every movement. His sword cut through the air with a force borne not of skill alone but of sheer will to stand firm, to outlast the storm that raged around him. But even as he fought, The General knew that his efforts were futile.

Before the battle erupted, his instincts had already screamed at him that something was terribly wrong. The number of strangers among the guests far outnumbered those he could trust. And then, the wine, the laughter, the loud music—it was all a carefully crafted distraction. A trap had been set, and even the sharpest minds, like his, could have never predicted its cunning precision. The festivities had been nothing but a veil, a ruse for the treason that had been plotted in the shadows.

Finally, he reached the Emperor, who had sought refuge behind the great throne, surrounded only by a few loyal soldiers. But the sight of him—pale, breathing heavily, his face drawn in despair—shook him to his core. He could feel it in the air: if they did not leave this place soon, death would claim them all.

"Your grace, we must move," The General’s voice was steady, though his heart beat with urgency.

The Emperor’s gaze was distant, filled with confusion and helplessness. "No... No, Marcus, I can’t, son..." Antoninus murmured, his voice weak, strained with pain. He slowly pulled his hand away from the wound that he had only now fully acknowledged. The blood soaked through his tunic, staining the fabric a dark red. The wound, perhaps from an arrow, was grievous, and Marcus could see the life slipping away from his old friend.

"I need you to listen," the Emperor continued, his voice trembling as he struggled to speak through his pain. "You are the one who must take the imperium. Do you hear me?"

Marcus knelt beside him, pressing his hand to the wound in a futile attempt to staunch the flow of blood. The Emperor’s breathing was labored, each breath coming in shallow, pained gasps.

"The Senate," Antoninus managed to say, his eyes clouded with exhaustion. "They are corrupted beyond repair... Take the troops in the north. Regain control of Rome." His hand, trembling, reached out and grasped Marcus’s, pressing his ring into the younger man’s palm. "I trust you like a son, Marcus."

The General felt the weight of the ring, its cold metal heavy with the responsibility it carried. He nodded, though the world around him seemed to blur, his thoughts swirling in a haze of confusion and dread.

“I am going to my lover’s arms, Acacius,” the Emperor whispered, his voice barely audible now. “Don’t leave Aemilia alone... She’s...”

With those final words, the Emperor’s breath faltered, his eyes closing, and Marcus knew that the soul of his friend—his ruler—had left this plane. The silence that followed was deafening, a cold, final stillness that settled over the room, as if the very air had been stolen from their lungs.

And in that moment, The General felt his heart break, feeling as if the weight of the world now rested solely on his shoulders.

"The Emperor is dead," Marcus whispers, his voice barely audible, like a breath of cold air cutting through the heavy silence that has overtaken the chamber. The words hang in the air like a weight too heavy to bear, their finality settling deep in his chest. He turns away, his eyes hard as iron, yet they betray a flicker of grief—swift and fleeting—before he masters it again.

The few soldiers that have huddled in the shadows, their faces grim and strained from the chaos, exchange solemn looks. One, bolder than the rest, steps forward, his hand clutching his sword as though it might anchor him in the sea of uncertainty.

"We stand with you, Dominus," the soldier declares, his voice unwavering, though the tremor beneath it speaks volumes. "Rome is to be yours, as the late emperor wished."

Marcus does not reply immediately. The words of loyalty, meant to reassure, only serve to deepen the chasm of unease in his heart. He knows the weight of what is being asked of him, the legacy he is expected to carry. But in this moment, the future of Rome feels like a distant horizon, unreachable amidst the bloodshed that has consumed the present.

"This is not the time to think of it," his voice cracks, betraying him more than he would like. His mind is spinning, but his body feels rooted in place, numb from the exhaustion of battle and the shock of losing his oldest ally. He tightens his grip on the sword, the cold steel a bitter reminder of what he must do next. "Take your horses and ride north," he commands, his tone gaining strength despite the fatigue weighing him down. "I'll catch up with you. Go in separate routes—don’t allow yourselves to be followed."

The soldiers nod, a mixture of respect and fear flashing in their eyes. As they begin to disperse, Marcus watches them go, his chest tightening with the weight of responsibility.

And yet, in this desolate hall, amidst the carnage and the fading light, Marcus steels himself.

I have to get to Aemilia, she's alone.

He exhales sharply, the breath a silent surrender to the numbness that has settled in his bones. What was once a future filled with certainty now seems like a distant memory, slipping away with the shadows of those who have fallen.

· · ───────── ·𖥸· ───────── · ·

The torchlight cast flickering shadows against the damp, stone walls, each shift in the flame’s dance pulling your attention to the room's oppressive stillness. The floor beneath your feet felt slick, a dampness clinging to the air that made every breath heavy with the scent of earth and moisture. You couldn’t be sure how long you’d been walking—it felt like hours, though logic insisted it had only been minutes—when at last you reached the room the General had spoken of.

It was spartan in its contents: a single bag containing a modest loaf of bread, an empty flask, and garments so light they seemed a cruel mockery of protection. The weapons, however, were another matter—blades, bows, and arrows arranged with a purpose that spoke of preparation for moments like this. An escape route for emergencies. For betrayals.

Your thoughts churned as you stood in the dim light, fingers trembling slightly as they gripped the bow now in your hands. Your mind raced through the events that led you here: the senators' whispers, the unnerving absence of familiar faces, the chaos of bloodshed, and above all, the uncertainty surrounding your father and Vera. The dread in your chest felt like a stone dragging you down into darkness.

"If anything happens to me, I want you to be ready, vida mea," your father's voice echoed in your memory. You saw yourself as a little girl, perched on his lap, staring up at him with wide, frightened eyes. That was not a conversation for a child, you had thought then. He had smiled at your alarm, trying to soften the weight of his words. "As emperor, I am always in danger, but do not fear, Aemilia. I will always watch over you and protect you—in this life, and the next, and the next." His voice had grown lighter as he tickled you, laughter replacing the foreboding shadows in his tone.

Now, in this moment, that laughter felt a lifetime away.

You waited as the General had commanded, the bowstring taut under your fingers, an arrow notched and ready to fly. The door loomed in front of you, a silent sentinel guarding against the unknown. He had promised to return. You repeated that to yourself like a mantra. Acacius was a man of his word, a soldier bound by duty and honor. Whatever your feelings toward him, you could not deny that truth.

But why did he calling me by those names? Vida mea. Lumina mea.

They unsettled you, those tender words from a man whose exterior seemed carved from stone. Could they be sincere? Could his feelings from that night—that night—have been real? Or had you misjudged him entirely, blinded by your own pride and your father's warnings?

Your spiraling thoughts were interrupted by the faint scrape of stone against stone. You snapped your head toward the far side of the room, where a hidden door creaked open, revealing a narrow passage to the outside.

"It's me," came a low voice, rough with exhaustion. A shadowed figure stepped into the light, pulling back his hood to reveal Acacius. Relief washed over you, though it was quickly tempered by the sight before you.

His hair was unkempt, dark strands clinging to his damp brow. A faint smear of blood streaked across his cheek, and his eyes—those piercing eyes—were heavy with weariness and something deeper. Sadness, perhaps, or regret. He looked like a man who had faced death and walked away, but only just.

"What took you so long?!" The words tumbled from your lips before you could stop them, your voice sharper than intended. It wasn’t anger, not really—it was fear, frustration, the unbearable weight of the unknown.

He raised a hand, silencing you with a tired but steady gaze. "Listen," he began, his voice low, almost a growl. "I'm tired, Aemilia, and I need silence." He gestured toward the passage. "We need to leave. I will answer your questions later. For now, get on the horse—and be careful with that arrow. I’d rather not have you wound yourself or anyone else."

The admonishment stung, but you complied, mounting the horse with a stubborn huff. "I know what I’m doing, General," you muttered, your tone defiant.

You sat atop the horse, waiting for him to guide the reins, your thoughts spinning as you noticed there was only one mount.

Surely, this meant the destination was close. He wouldn’t ride with me on the same horse, would he?

Without a word, Acacius swung up behind you, his large frame effortlessly closing the space between your back and his chest. The sudden closeness left you breathless, the warmth of his presence impossible to ignore. You stiffened as his chest pressed against your back, the reins held firmly in his hands just in front of you. The proximity was unnerving, though he seemed completely unfazed, his focus fixed straight ahead.

The horse began to move, its hooves pounding against the earth in a steady rhythm. Your heart raced, though not from the ride. His nearness was suffocating, every breath you took mingling with the scent of leather, sweat, and faintly, blood.

You dared a glance at him, his profile sharp and unyielding in the faint light. His gaze was fixed forward, unrelenting, as if he could see through the darkness to the path ahead.

The bulge in his vest does not go unnoticed.

--------------------------------------------- AN: I was actually so anxious to post this one! I think we are officialy entering a diferent phase in the story and we'll be able to see a diferent Acacius and a diferent Aemilia, both burdened with their new role after all that's happened. There'll be a couple of more characters that I also want to develop, and maybe I'll make these two finally work out their feelings together. Please leave a comment, tell me what you're expecting to see, what you've been missing... Hope you're all enjoying!

[thepascalparadox]

Chapter Five: Everything Changes

Word Count | 4.1k Pairing | General Marcus Acacius x OC F!Reader Chapter Warnings | Switch pov, some minor violence, there will be mentioning of death

The grand hall was alive with splendor, but tonight, none of it reached you. The towering marble columns and golden drapes, the laughter that rippled through the air, and the lilting melodies of lyres and flutes—all of it felt distant. The wine tasted bitter, the music grated on your nerves, and the thought of dancing with anyone seemed unbearable. Even Vera, who used to entertain you in such events is not here.

Where is she?

Seated just below your father’s throne, you watched the room with detached eyes. Senators gathered in small, murmuring groups, their wives whispering behind jeweled fans. The celebration swirled around you, yet your thoughts were locked on a single, suffocating question: who would you name as your husband by the end of the night?

Yesterday, the answer had been so clear. General Marcus Acacius. But after the cold disdain he had shown you, his indifference after all his words and that fleeting kiss, the thought of him now churned your stomach. Anger flared within you—sharp, consuming. If he cared so little, if he had not fought for you, then he did not deserve you.

Your gaze drifted, almost unwillingly, to where Marcus stood behind your father, steadfast and composed. Even with the wine he had consumed, he remained vigilant, every inch the soldier. The sight of his calm demeanor only deepened your frustration. Was it arrogance? Or duty? Either way, it ignited a storm within you.

“More wine,” you murmured to a maid, and as the cup refilled, boldness surged within you, fueled by indignation and despair. Draining the goblet in one resolute motion, you turned abruptly and interrupted the Emperor's conversation with Macrelius, the senator who had been commanding your father’s laughter.

“Senator,” you said, your voice unwavering, “would you honor me with a dance?”

His expression flickered with surprise before morphing into a sly grin. “Of course, mia cara,” he drawled, taking your hand and pressing a kiss to it—a touch that lingered too long, too close.

For the briefest moment, your gaze darted toward Marcus, not out of provocation but instinct. His eyes met yours, dark and unreadable, yet there was something there—a flicker of hurt, or was it anger? It vanished almost as quickly as it appeared.

You let him guide you onto the dance floor, but as his hand rested on your waist, unease began to creep in. You told yourself to give him a chance—perhaps the man wasn’t as insufferable as his reputation suggested.

“Are you enjoying the evening, carissima?” he asked, his voice as polished as his appearance.

“Not particularly, Senator” you admitted, preparing yourself for the usual hollow pleasantries.

“There’s no need for such formality,” he said, stepping closer than was proper. His voice dropped to a whisper. “After all, we are to be husband and wife.”

Your steps faltered and the blood in your veins turned to ice. Surely, your father hadn’t spoken to him already?

“That has not yet been decided,” you replied, your tone sharp.

He ignored your protest, tightening his grip and steering you away from the other dancers in an erratic spin. “Oh, but it has, my dear,” he whispered, his lips far too close to your ear. “And you should be grateful. Your father’s time grows short, and when the Senate rises against him, you’ll need me. A match between us secures your survival.”

“That is enough,” you hissed, trying to pull away, but his grip tightened, his smile twisting into something sinister.

Macrelius only laughed, his breath reeking of wine. “I do enjoy a spirited bride,” he said, pulling you even closer.

Panic clawed at your throat, but before you could act, a shadow loomed behind him. A hand clamped down on Macrelius’s shoulder, making him stiffen..

“May I have this dance, Princess?” The voice was deep, measured, and unmistakable. Marcus.

You felt weak and could only nod. Macrelius hesitated, but Marcus’s hand tightened, his tone dropping into something colder. “Move,” he commanded "Now."

The senator relinquished you with a scowl, muttering under his breath as he retreated into the crowd. You felt your knees tremble, but Marcus caught you. His touch, so unlike Macrelius’s, was steady, grounding.

“You’re safe now,” he said softly, guiding you into the next dance. His tone was firm, but his eyes betrayed concern as they darted to your wrist. One hand rested at your waist, while the other gently cradled your wrist, his thumb brushing over the reddened skin where Macrelius’s grip had bruised you.

The soft strains of flutes and strings filled the grand hall, weaving a melody both somber and elegant. Around you, couples moved in perfect synchrony, their steps following the prescribed rhythm of the court.

“I came as quickly as I could, did he-” he murmured, his voice low enough that only you could hear. “Are you hurt?”

“I—he spoke of treason,” you stammered, your voice barely above a whisper. “He said—my father—he implied—”

His eyes darted across the room, scanning the crowd like a hawk observing its prey. You noticed the subtle way he turned his head, as if following an invisible trail, his jaw set and his brows furrowed in concentration. It was as though the dance was a mere pretense for something far more important.

"General," you whispered, your voice barely audible over the music, "are you even paying attention?"

His gaze flickered to you for the briefest of moments, a flicker of warmth in his otherwise steely expression. "I am," he murmured, though his tone betrayed that his attention was divided.

"To me, or to the room?" you pressed, unable to hide the frustration creeping into your voice.

"Shh," he interrupted softly, his fingers grazing your wrist briefly as he adjusted your hold. "Keep dancing. Smile, if you can. We don’t want to draw unnecessary attention."

"The General seems... indifferent to love. He’s spoken of how he would never make a woman a wife..."

Your father's voice echoed in your mind, each word reverberating like the distant rumble of thunder, striking you with an intensity that left you breathless.

How could you have expected anything different from him?

His actions—those rigid gestures and steely glances—now made perfect sense. He, the General, the man of war, the one who had seen the cruel faces of the world, could never be one to understand love. He seemed to know only duty, honor, and respect. And, perhaps, for that very reason, his approach to you was not borne of affection or the fire of jealousy—no, it was the cold, unyielding instinct of a soldier.

He had come not as a man, but as a sworn protector, bound by oath to safeguard the daughter of the Emperor, a duty he had sworn before the gods themselves. That was all he knew, that was all he could offer. The warmth of care, the tenderness of a heart exposed—these were foreign to him, unreachable, like a distant shore shrouded in fog.

“You're a brute,” you muttered under your breath, pulling away.

This time, he let you go, his gaze finally meeting yours. The hardness in his eyes softened, and for a moment, it felt like the entire hall faded away. The music, the laughter, the lights—all of it seemed distant. It was just the two of you, caught in a fragile, unspoken understanding.

"Please, just-" he murmured, his voice dropping even lower "Stay close"

"What is it?" you asked, trying to follow his gaze.

You scanned the great hall, the dimming light casting long shadows over the vast space, yet your mind couldn’t settle. Every movement, every laughter, every clink of the wine cups—everything felt distant, out of place, as if the evening itself were somehow holding its breath. The couples danced with a feverish joy, their forms spinning and swaying in perfect harmony with the music, the air thick with the scent of perfume and roasted meats. Yet amidst all the merriment, something felt amiss, though you could not name it.

A fluttering unease settled in your chest, and your gaze drifted over the crowd. They seemed so content—lost in their revelry, yet something tugged at the edge of your thoughts. There it was, elusive yet undeniable.

Where were the men of the Senate?

You hadn’t taken much notice before—these faces were unfamiliar, yet they all seemed accustomed to the grandeur of the castle. But now that the thought had crossed your mind, it gnawed at you, drawing your attention back to the men dancing. Their absence was so subtle, so unnoticed by the others, but it felt as though a puzzle piece had gone missing. The people around you, the strangers laughing and dancing, seemed… different. Stronger, perhaps.

They did not belong to the court.

Before you could dwell further on your thoughts, a sudden sharp noise shattered the atmosphere. The heavy door to the hall swung open with a force that made you startle, and you heard the deep, commanding voice of General Acacius cut through the rising din.

"Guards, the Emperor!"

His voice was a roar, urgent and filled with authority. Your heart skipped a beat as he surged forward, his body colliding with yours, pushing you downward with a force that stole your breath.

The world erupted around you. Arrows hissed through the air, their deadly path lighting up the room with flashes of silver. The laughter stopped. The music came to an abrupt halt. Chaos erupted in every corner. Screams filled the air, mingling with the sharp clash of metal against metal, the cries of pain and the groans of men wounded in the frenzy. A fear, darker than anything you had ever known, gripped you, suffocating.

Amid the frenzy, you searched the room frantically for Marcus. Your eyes finally met his. But his gaze was different now. His focus wasn’t on you. His eyes were sharp, calculating, taking in every movement, every shifting shadow. He wasn’t the man you had seen earlier—this was the soldier. This was the General in battle.

“Listen to me,” his voice was low but firm, laced with authority. His eyes locked onto yours, unyielding. “We need to get to that column,” he pointed to a distant pillar in the corner, hidden in the shadows of the hall. “No matter what happens, stay close to me. Do you understand?”

You nodded, your voice caught in your throat, too choked with fear to speak. His grip on your hand was firm, and in that moment, you knew that you were no longer a princess at a feast—now, you were just another soul caught in the storm of battle.

His hand found yours, strong and unrelenting as he helped you to your feet. The General moved through the chaos with purpose, his sword cutting through anyone who dared approach. Men fell around you, blood pooling beneath their lifeless bodies. The clash of steel against steel, the cries of the wounded, the sounds of death—it was all too much to comprehend. The room that had once been filled with joy now seemed like a hellscape, where even the air itself had grown heavy with the scent of blood.

You stumbled, your legs unsteady, but he never let go. His hand remained wrapped around yours, pulling you forward, guiding you through the carnage. His gaze never faltered; he was constantly scanning, constantly aware of the danger that threatened you both. He never let go of your hand—never once relinquishing his grip—except when he was forced to fight. When that happened, he sought you out again with an almost frantic urgency. There was no hesitation.

You reached the column, and the General pushed you behind it, hiding you in the shadowed corner. You felt the cool stone against your back, and for a moment, you dared to catch your breath.

“My father…” you started, but the words faltered. Your entire body shook as the terror and uncertainty gripped you, stealing away what little calm you had managed to hold onto. “We have to—”

The General didn’t look at you. His eyes were scanning the room, every part of him alert, calculating. He moved to the wall and began patting it, his hands feeling for something.

Great. He’s gone mad.

But before you could voice it, the wall shifted. A brick clicked loose, and with a quiet grunt, Marcus pulled it free. Behind it, a dark, narrow passage yawned open. The sight sent a chill through your spine.

He grabbed a torch from the wall and handed it to you, his hands briefly brushing against yours. His gaze softened just for a moment, but there was no time for sentiment.

“Go down,” he commanded. His voice was low but insistent. “Walk straight to the end. There’s a room with supplies and weapons. Wait for me there. I’ll be right behind you.”

You opened your mouth to protest, to ask what he meant—but the urgency in his eyes silenced you before the words could leave your lips. He pushed you gently but firmly toward the hole, and just as the door began to close, he leaned down and whispered, the words just for you.

“I will come back to you, Lumina Mea. I promise.”

And with that, the world went dark. The only light was the flickering torch in your hand, casting eerie shadows against the walls as you descended into the unknown.

· · ───────── ·𖥸· ───────── · ·

This was not how things were supposed to unfold.

He had imagined himself elsewhere, perhaps at home, nestled in the quiet peace of the night, free from the chaos of the world. But here he was again, sword in hand, striking down enemies with a cold precision, every breath he took weighed down by the burden of survival.

This was not how things were supposed to unfold at all.

All the anger that had accumulated within him, all the fury he had kept bottled up, was now channeled into his every movement. His sword cut through the air with a force borne not of skill alone but of sheer will to stand firm, to outlast the storm that raged around him. But even as he fought, The General knew that his efforts were futile.

Before the battle erupted, his instincts had already screamed at him that something was terribly wrong. The number of strangers among the guests far outnumbered those he could trust. And then, the wine, the laughter, the loud music—it was all a carefully crafted distraction. A trap had been set, and even the sharpest minds, like his, could have never predicted its cunning precision. The festivities had been nothing but a veil, a ruse for the treason that had been plotted in the shadows.

Finally, he reached the Emperor, who had sought refuge behind the great throne, surrounded only by a few loyal soldiers. But the sight of him—pale, breathing heavily, his face drawn in despair—shook him to his core. He could feel it in the air: if they did not leave this place soon, death would claim them all.

"Your grace, we must move," The General’s voice was steady, though his heart beat with urgency.

The Emperor’s gaze was distant, filled with confusion and helplessness. "No... No, Marcus, I can’t, son..." Antoninus murmured, his voice weak, strained with pain. He slowly pulled his hand away from the wound that he had only now fully acknowledged. The blood soaked through his tunic, staining the fabric a dark red. The wound, perhaps from an arrow, was grievous, and Marcus could see the life slipping away from his old friend.

"I need you to listen," the Emperor continued, his voice trembling as he struggled to speak through his pain. "You are the one who must take the imperium. Do you hear me?"

Marcus knelt beside him, pressing his hand to the wound in a futile attempt to staunch the flow of blood. The Emperor’s breathing was labored, each breath coming in shallow, pained gasps.

"The Senate," Antoninus managed to say, his eyes clouded with exhaustion. "They are corrupted beyond repair... Take the troops in the north. Regain control of Rome." His hand, trembling, reached out and grasped Marcus’s, pressing his ring into the younger man’s palm. "I trust you like a son, Marcus."

The General felt the weight of the ring, its cold metal heavy with the responsibility it carried. He nodded, though the world around him seemed to blur, his thoughts swirling in a haze of confusion and dread.

“I am going to my lover’s arms, Acacius,” the Emperor whispered, his voice barely audible now. “Don’t leave Aemilia alone... She’s...”

With those final words, the Emperor’s breath faltered, his eyes closing, and Marcus knew that the soul of his friend—his ruler—had left this plane. The silence that followed was deafening, a cold, final stillness that settled over the room, as if the very air had been stolen from their lungs.

And in that moment, The General felt his heart break, feeling as if the weight of the world now rested solely on his shoulders.

"The Emperor is dead," Marcus whispers, his voice barely audible, like a breath of cold air cutting through the heavy silence that has overtaken the chamber. The words hang in the air like a weight too heavy to bear, their finality settling deep in his chest. He turns away, his eyes hard as iron, yet they betray a flicker of grief—swift and fleeting—before he masters it again.

The few soldiers that have huddled in the shadows, their faces grim and strained from the chaos, exchange solemn looks. One, bolder than the rest, steps forward, his hand clutching his sword as though it might anchor him in the sea of uncertainty.

"We stand with you, Dominus," the soldier declares, his voice unwavering, though the tremor beneath it speaks volumes. "Rome is to be yours, as the late emperor wished."

Marcus does not reply immediately. The words of loyalty, meant to reassure, only serve to deepen the chasm of unease in his heart. He knows the weight of what is being asked of him, the legacy he is expected to carry. But in this moment, the future of Rome feels like a distant horizon, unreachable amidst the bloodshed that has consumed the present.

"This is not the time to think of it," his voice cracks, betraying him more than he would like. His mind is spinning, but his body feels rooted in place, numb from the exhaustion of battle and the shock of losing his oldest ally. He tightens his grip on the sword, the cold steel a bitter reminder of what he must do next. "Take your horses and ride north," he commands, his tone gaining strength despite the fatigue weighing him down. "I'll catch up with you. Go in separate routes—don’t allow yourselves to be followed."

The soldiers nod, a mixture of respect and fear flashing in their eyes. As they begin to disperse, Marcus watches them go, his chest tightening with the weight of responsibility.

And yet, in this desolate hall, amidst the carnage and the fading light, Marcus steels himself.

I have to get to Aemilia, she's alone.

He exhales sharply, the breath a silent surrender to the numbness that has settled in his bones. What was once a future filled with certainty now seems like a distant memory, slipping away with the shadows of those who have fallen.

· · ───────── ·𖥸· ───────── · ·

The torchlight cast flickering shadows against the damp, stone walls, each shift in the flame’s dance pulling your attention to the room's oppressive stillness. The floor beneath your feet felt slick, a dampness clinging to the air that made every breath heavy with the scent of earth and moisture. You couldn’t be sure how long you’d been walking—it felt like hours, though logic insisted it had only been minutes—when at last you reached the room the General had spoken of.

It was spartan in its contents: a single bag containing a modest loaf of bread, an empty flask, and garments so light they seemed a cruel mockery of protection. The weapons, however, were another matter—blades, bows, and arrows arranged with a purpose that spoke of preparation for moments like this. An escape route for emergencies. For betrayals.

Your thoughts churned as you stood in the dim light, fingers trembling slightly as they gripped the bow now in your hands. Your mind raced through the events that led you here: the senators' whispers, the unnerving absence of familiar faces, the chaos of bloodshed, and above all, the uncertainty surrounding your father and Vera. The dread in your chest felt like a stone dragging you down into darkness.

"If anything happens to me, I want you to be ready, vida mea," your father's voice echoed in your memory. You saw yourself as a little girl, perched on his lap, staring up at him with wide, frightened eyes. That was not a conversation for a child, you had thought then. He had smiled at your alarm, trying to soften the weight of his words. "As emperor, I am always in danger, but do not fear, Aemilia. I will always watch over you and protect you—in this life, and the next, and the next." His voice had grown lighter as he tickled you, laughter replacing the foreboding shadows in his tone.

Now, in this moment, that laughter felt a lifetime away.

You waited as the General had commanded, the bowstring taut under your fingers, an arrow notched and ready to fly. The door loomed in front of you, a silent sentinel guarding against the unknown. He had promised to return. You repeated that to yourself like a mantra. Acacius was a man of his word, a soldier bound by duty and honor. Whatever your feelings toward him, you could not deny that truth.

But why did he calling me by those names? Vida mea. Lumina mea.

They unsettled you, those tender words from a man whose exterior seemed carved from stone. Could they be sincere? Could his feelings from that night—that night—have been real? Or had you misjudged him entirely, blinded by your own pride and your father's warnings?

Your spiraling thoughts were interrupted by the faint scrape of stone against stone. You snapped your head toward the far side of the room, where a hidden door creaked open, revealing a narrow passage to the outside.

"It's me," came a low voice, rough with exhaustion. A shadowed figure stepped into the light, pulling back his hood to reveal Acacius. Relief washed over you, though it was quickly tempered by the sight before you.

His hair was unkempt, dark strands clinging to his damp brow. A faint smear of blood streaked across his cheek, and his eyes—those piercing eyes—were heavy with weariness and something deeper. Sadness, perhaps, or regret. He looked like a man who had faced death and walked away, but only just.

"What took you so long?!" The words tumbled from your lips before you could stop them, your voice sharper than intended. It wasn’t anger, not really—it was fear, frustration, the unbearable weight of the unknown.

He raised a hand, silencing you with a tired but steady gaze. "Listen," he began, his voice low, almost a growl. "I'm tired, Aemilia, and I need silence." He gestured toward the passage. "We need to leave. I will answer your questions later. For now, get on the horse—and be careful with that arrow. I’d rather not have you wound yourself or anyone else."

The admonishment stung, but you complied, mounting the horse with a stubborn huff. "I know what I’m doing, General," you muttered, your tone defiant.

You sat atop the horse, waiting for him to guide the reins, your thoughts spinning as you noticed there was only one mount.

Surely, this meant the destination was close. He wouldn’t ride with me on the same horse, would he?

Without a word, Acacius swung up behind you, his large frame effortlessly closing the space between your back and his chest. The sudden closeness left you breathless, the warmth of his presence impossible to ignore. You stiffened as his chest pressed against your back, the reins held firmly in his hands just in front of you. The proximity was unnerving, though he seemed completely unfazed, his focus fixed straight ahead.

The horse began to move, its hooves pounding against the earth in a steady rhythm. Your heart raced, though not from the ride. His nearness was suffocating, every breath you took mingling with the scent of leather, sweat, and faintly, blood.

You dared a glance at him, his profile sharp and unyielding in the faint light. His gaze was fixed forward, unrelenting, as if he could see through the darkness to the path ahead.

The bulge in his vest does not go unnoticed.

--------------------------------------------- AN: I was actually so anxious to post this one! I think we are officialy entering a diferent phase in the story and we'll be able to see a diferent Acacius and a diferent Aemilia, both burdened with their new role after all that's happened. There'll be a couple of more characters that I also want to develop, and maybe I'll make these two finally work out their feelings together. Please leave a comment, tell me what you're expecting to see, what you've been missing... Hope you're all enjoying!