vivwritescrappythings

[vivwritescrappythings]

King of the joust… where do i even begin describing this masterpiece. Thank you so much for writing such a beautiful piece of art i was giggling, kicking my feet and teary eyed while reading it. Would you write more knight fics with konig or any other COD characters please?

Thank you so much!!! And I would love to! I just am waiting for a good idea to hit me. I have been toying with a gladiator Ghost idea for a little while, but if there’s something you want to see please let me know :)

[vivwritescrappythings]

petrichor

logan howlett x reader

Logan finds himself in upstate New York post WW2, and he is renting out a room from a sweet widow--you.

a/n: this is my incredibly late second contribution to @princessanglophile's 22nd birthday challenge--I'm so sorry it took me forever! The rest of the stories can be found here. I received 2013 Logan and 1940s as my time period.

tw: fem reader, afab reader, reader contemplates her dead husband, storms, fluff, comfort, kissing, interrupted just before smut, not proofread, first time writing for Logan, soft!Logan

word count: 4.3k

masterlist

MDNI

--

The kitchen smelled like bitter coffee as you let it brew, stirring the pot of oatmeal on the stove within an inch of its life. Sweat gathered at your brow, your jaw set with tension that you were starting to become used to in the early mornings.

Running a boarding house was far from what you had expected to be doing after the war. 

But, you kept Henry’s wedding band on a chain around your neck, the weight of it reminding you that few things went according to plan. Your wedding ring was tucked away in your jewelry box upstairs, sparkling and painful to look at. 

It didn’t actually matter these days. You were on your own all the same.

You looked up from the breakfast on the stove, the crack of an axe on wood drawing your attention to the window over the sink. The floral curtains were drawn aside just enough to give you a view of Logan–one of your quieter tenants–outside despite the threat of rain. He swung an axe down from over his head, splitting a log in two clean pieces. Then he adjusted, two pieces became four before they were tossed in an impressive pile he was amassing.

He’d forgone a shirt, you could see the flannel hung up on a branch near him. Steam rose from his tanned skin, the cool autumn breeze drying his sweat there. He must have felt you looking, his hazel eyes flicking up to meet yours. 

It seemed that he always noticed when you were around, gaze lingering as he kept an eye on you. He wouldn’t speak unless spoken to, but he was the first to help you around the house when you asked. Sometimes you didn’t even have to ask him.

Logan showed up on your doorstep six months ago, dirty and disheveled. He seemed hunted and dangerous at the time—a wounded beast with dog tags around his neck that were similar to a pair in his pants pocket with a wedding band threaded on them. He knew your Henry, promised him that when he got back stateside from Japan he would keep an eye on you until you got back on your feet.

Either way, you watched him chop through a few more sections of wood. Your mouth was dry, lips parted slightly as you watched his muscles move beneath his skin like ropes. It was hard to pinpoint when you started feeling a pull toward him low in your gut. You tried to ignore it, treating him like the other people you rented rooms to, polite and distant. Attentive.

But it was becoming harder to pretend that your heart didn’t flutter or your cheeks didn’t warm when he entered the room.

The smell of the SPAM starting to burn brought you back to the present. You didn’t see the way Logan’s lip twitched when you spun back to the stove, looking flustered as you grabbed the pan off the heat.

—

Autumn brought evening storms with it.

It was raining something biblical outside that night, loud against the eaves and the shutters as you did the dishes after dinner. The boarders had returned to their respective rooms for the night, both of them laborers in the lumber yard that would need to be up early. 

You preferred it that way. They left you to your solitude as long as breakfast was on the table in the morning, dinner was on the table at night, the laundry was done, and there was still electricity and running water. At first you had tried to befriend the occupants of your two extra bedrooms, inviting them to listen to the radio with you or play cards. 

It fell flat, the men meeting you with little enthusiasm. You eventually left them alone.

But Logan helped you out around the house. 

The first time was after you’d complained about your leaking sink out on the porch with Lucy, the woman who lived across the street. You were both sipping lemonade, her darling toddler playing with toys on the slightly overgrown lawn. The sink had been leaking for weeks, you resorted to just changing out the bucket beneath it every morning. 

When you went inside to stave off the afternoon heat of July, Logan was already on his back beneath the sink. He had Henry’s old toolbox out, grunting as he grabbed blindly at the different wrenches before twisting the piping back into place.

He didn’t say anything, didn’t even ask for acknowledgement or a discount on the rent.

Soon enough he was doing all the odd jobs you had around the house, trimming tree branches and repairing holes in the walls and chopping wood. Logan eased some of the hardships that came from Henry’s absence.

You glanced outside, realizing he had stacked up all the wood on the porch where it wouldn’t be touched by the rain.  

The kettle you put on whistled, startling you for a moment before you poured yourself a cup of tea. There was a glass tumbler of whiskey on the counter, you grabbed it before heading upstairs.

A sliver of light was visible beneath Logan’s door, the quiet murmur of a radio playing just beyond. You bumped your elbow against the door to knock.

“Logan?” you called softly, taking a step back when you heard rustling on the other side. 

He pulled it open, still dressed in his work jeans and an undershirt. You felt your mouth go dry for a moment as you looked at him. His shoulders looked broad beneath his white tank top, the fabric sticking to him like a second skin and half tucked into his pants.

“Yeah?” he asked, voice low and rough. His hazel eyes ran over you once like he was checking to make sure you were still in one piece. One eyebrow arched like he was waiting.

You said nothing for a moment, just blinking at him before you came back to yourself. “Oh, um, I brought you this,” you said, holding out the rocks glass to him like an offering. Henry’s whiskey sloshed inside–you had poured a generous three fingers inside. Logan looked at it skeptically, like he couldn’t decide if you were trying to poison him or come on to him. “Consider it a thanks for chopping all that wood.” 

He let out a grunt, nodding once as he took the glass from you. His calloused fingertips brushed against yours.

You pulled your hand back like he was made of lightning, nodding once. “Well, have a good night, Logan,” you said, offering a tight-lipped smile. 

If he answered, you didn’t hear it. You were already headed down the hall to your own bedroom before he said anything. Steam curled off the mug of tea you carried as you shut off the hall light and closed your door behind you.

The storm was fierce as you settled into bed with that day’s newspaper in your hands. It was a habit you picked up while Henry was deployed, wanting to keep up with the most up-to-date information about the war. Now it was just a habit, bringing the newspaper to bed with you became a ritual you fell in with ease.

Thunder rattled the shutters, rain pelting the windows in big, fat drops. The house creaked and groaned, wind buffeting on the outside walls. It sounded like the house was going to blow away at any moment.

You were trying to ignore it, reading about town gossip by lamplight when lightning cracked across the sky outside your window. It illuminated the sky and your room through the space in the curtains. You jolted, crinkling the newspaper in your hands for a moment. 

Something close by popped, a boom that sounded far too close for comfort.

The lights flickered. Once. Twice. Then they died completely with a soft, electric sigh.

You huffed, still holding the paper in your hands as the house fell into silence aside from the rain. It was hard to notice the hum of electricity until it was gone, just the rain drumming against the roof filling the empty space. 

Heavy footsteps sounded down the hall between Logan’s bedroom and the upstairs bathroom. His steps were confident and certain, like the dark didn’t faze him at all.

You were suddenly restless in a way you weren’t before. The mug you brought with you sat empty on the nightstand–you needed more tea. Or water. Something to quench your suddenly parched throat. 

It was easy to feel around for your floral-patterned robe. The rayon satin was soft against your skin, covering your baby blue nightgown. It was long, cotton floating around your ankles as you groped for the taper shoved into a brass candlestick holder on your vanity, a box of matches lingering nearby. 

It took a few tries, but you managed to strike the match. The smell of burning sulfur filled your nose as you held the match to the wick, flicking orange light illuminating a portion of your bedroom.

It was easy to feel like Scrooge in A Christmas Carol as you picked up the candlestick, the brass cool beneath your fingers as you ventured out into the hall. The floorboards creaked beneath your bare feet, making you still for a moment before you took another careful step.

“Thought you turned in.” Logan’s voice carried from the stairwell. He had a glass of water in his hand, the amber light from your candle just barely reaching him. His eyes gleamed as they focused on you.

You shrugged. “I did,” you answered, a slight nod. You realized that you didn’t get up for water, you just didn’t want to be alone.

Henry used to sit with you through storms.

You bit your lip, uncertain. It wouldn’t be hard to turn back, to pretend like you had just come out to check on the noise and go back to bed. Or forge ahead to grab a glass of water like you had originally planned. 

“I… I didn’t want to be alone,” you breathed. The candle flame guttered in the draft of your whisper. You were embarrassed as soon as you said it out loud, warming from your chest to your forehead as your gaze strayed from Logan’s perceptive stare. Some days it felt like he was seeing straight through you.

He paused for a moment, both of you staring at one another as you blinked.

Logan didn’t laugh at you, though. He could have. You were already imagining it, a huff of air through his nose that would substitute for a chuckle if he were anyone else.

But instead he nodded.

“You don’t have to be,” he said softly, that same gravel tone you had grown used to after months of him renting your room washing over you.

He walked to his bedroom door, leaving you space to decide if you wanted to follow. You did, scampering after him like an imprinted duckling as he held the door to his room open for you.

You lit the candle on his nightstand, setting the one you held on his dresser as you looked around. His living quarters were almost Spartan–any personal touch in the room was some decoration you had before he rented it out. Embroidery was framed on the walls, frilly and lacy in a way that didn’t suit him. But he didn’t seem to mind, his own sparse belongings neatly organized and tucked away.

He gave you little reason to enter his room, always piling his laundry outside his door before he left for work at the lumber yard in the mornings, expecting you to leave it folded in the same place in the evenings. 

“So, how have you been liking the room?” you asked, struggling to think of something else to talk about. He pulled out the chair from the small desk, nodding for you to sit down as he sat on the edge of his bed. It was still made, the quilt crisply tucked in like a soldier’s. 

Spending more time in his room made it obvious to you that Logan had served.

“Room’s fine,” he muttered, drinking more water before he fixed his hazel eyes on you. It seemed like he didn’t know what to say, his gaze cutting down to his hands. He flexed them.

“You know, I’m not very good company,” Logan said, softly, as though he didn’t want to let you down. His head turned, lifting just enough so he could see your face still. “I’ve got a lot of shit, y’know? I’m usually by myself.”

You nodded understandingly. Sitting across from Logan reminded you of caged lions at the travelling circus rather than a man. It was in the way his muscles moved beneath his skin, his jaw tense and brows furrowed. Despite his haircut and trimmed beard, he didn’t quite seem like belonged between four walls and in a bed. 

“I am, too,” you said, hands clasped together as you spoke. Loneliness became your constant companion. You thought the extra bedrooms in your home would be filled with children by now, but instead you rented them out. “But if you want me to leave, I’ll go.”

He grunted, shaking his head. “No, that’s not what I want,” he told you, leaning forward to rest his forearms on his knees. “But you probably should go.”

Your brow furrowed, arms crossing over your chest as you leaned back against the seat. The candlelight illuminated the curve of your cheek and the curious gleam in your eye. “Why?” you asked, guileless as you spoke. Logan had lived with you for over six months, he never seemed like anything other than helpful, maybe too introverted.

There was another huff of air out of his nose–an exasperated chuckle. “Because, I’m not the type of man you should get close to. I’m not someone you let in after the lights go out,” he explained, voice low as he spoke. 

You rolled your eyes at the cliche. “You seem just fine to me, Logan,” you said, tapping your fingertips against the silky fabric that covered your arm. “If anything, your reputation precedes you in being too helpful in this town. You do things without people asking you to, you don’t ask for anything in return. Not really a monster.”

He let out a huff, one side of his mouth curling into an almost smile. It was the closest thing to a smile you had seen him make. 

“Consider me a wolf in sheep’s clothing, bub,” Logan countered. There was a lift to his tone, an attempt at humor that wasn’t there before. It made you smile, still closed-lipped as your gaze drifted to your lap. 

You snorted, a brighter smile on your face as you shook your head. “I’d hardly consider you a sheep, either.”

Logan looked at you for a long moment, mirth flickering in his eyes before he shifted back on the bed, pulling a pack of cards from his nightstand and nodding for you to sit down with him. “You know how to play poker?”

You eased yourself onto his mattress, legs half tucked beneath you as you watched him shuffle his army-issued playing cards. His motions were fluid, well-practiced like he had shuffled a million times before. “I have nothing to bet,” you murmured, hunching to rest your chin in the palm of your hand. You knew enough to be dangerous.

“Just for fun, for something to do,” he said, dealing out onto the quilt. 

“Well don’t be upset if I win,” you murmured with a smirk, organizing the cards as you picked them up.

He chuckled, hazel eyes flicking up to meet your gaze. There was a moment where he sized you up, his half-smile turning into a smirk. “Alright, bub,” he murmured, adjusting how he sat to better face you, “let’s see what you’ve got.”

–

Logan obliterated you so efficiently it couldn’t even be called cruel. It was obvious you didn’t know what you were doing, missing a full house and a three-of-a-kind because you thought you needed all four cards. He caught onto your tells, on the way you got a gleam in your eye when you got cards you wanted, the slight slump of your shoulders when you didn’t have anything good.

“Let me teach ya,” he murmured, leaning in as he pressed the top of your cards down enough to see over them. His forehead was nearly touching yours as you looked at the cards clutched in your hand, his warm fingers wrapped around your wrist.

He tipped his own cards into view. “See, right here you’d beat me,” he tapped your cards with his fingertip, the noise satisfying, “You’ve gotta full house–three of one kind and two of another. I’ve only got a two pair–full house always beats a two pair.”

You nodded solemnly like you were in church, hanging on to Logan’s every word. He dealt out the next hand, still keeping his close proximity as he talked in hushed tones about what you would do next. 

Despite nodding and humming in all the right places like you were taking it all in, you were distracted. The smell of cigar smoke and cologne and the laundry detergent you used filled your nose, a combination you found heady and enticing as you leaned in slightly to get a better smell of it. 

Logan had leaned in too, chasing the view as the cards in your fingers tilted back toward your chest on instinct.

His hair brushed your forehead, your gazes lifting. Logan’s nose nudged the side of yours, his hazel eyes shining like pools you could stumble into. 

It felt like gravity, both of you converging on a point. The progress was halting, breaths shared between you as you oscillated between hesitant and eager. Logan had always had a sort of weight to him, something that made him feel entirely inevitable. But he still moved like a man expecting to be turned away.

His mouth hovered over yours for a breath. For a second, all you felt was the heat rolling off him, taking in the way the flickering shadows of the candles moved over his face.

The kiss wasn’t rushed or hungry, not like you had expected it to be.

Logan’s lips were warm, if not a little chapped, melding with yours with a gentleness that you would think foreign for a man like him. He kissed you like it was his first and last time he’d get the chance to, slow and deliberate. If you had to guess, he was trying to learn the shape of your mouth by memory.

Your palm rose to his jaw, the scratch of his trimmed beard beneath your fingertips welcome as it cracked something wide open inside of you.

The last time you kissed a man was with Henry. You never realized how different it could be: Henry had always kissed you with purpose beyond just kissing. He was always clean shaven.

The press of your hand on his jaw unlocked something between you, Logan feeling for your waist over the silky fabric of your robe. The cards on the quilt were forgotten as he pulled you closer. Your knee pressed into his thigh, you could hear the stack of playing cards spill across the rug.

Logan cupped the nape of your neck, tilting you into him. You followed willingly, a lamb following a guardian dog’s steady guidance as you pressed yourself into the spaces he left for you.

You undid the tie of your robe with frantic fingers, the hand on your waist hesitant as it slipped beneath the open article to bunch in your soft nightgown. 

“Do you want this?” he asked against your lips, voice little more than a grunt.

You nodded frantically, pulling your robe off your shoulders and letting it drop to the floor. That was enough to convince Logan, his big hand splaying wide over your ribs as he dragged you across his lap and pressed you into the mattress beneath him. Your nightgown twisted around you, the robin egg blue fabric riding up on your thighs and the strap falling off your shoulder. 

He looked down at you like you were something marvelous. It had been years since someone looked at you like that.

“You ever let anyone touch you like they meant it?” he murmured, low and rough as his hands ran up the outsides of your thighs. It was like he was enchanted by each inch of skin he revealed, his eyes stuck at the lace-trimmed hem of your nightgown. 

You didn’t know what to say, warmth blooming on cheeks as you resisted the urge to cover your face with your hands under his gaze. 

He paused, like he wanted an answer from you before he was willing to continue. You let out a huff of air, a nervous smile twisting your lips. “Henry and I didn’t have a lot of time together to explore before…” You trailed off, not sure if bringing up your dead husband was the wrong thing to do. 

It probably was–you couldn’t imagine how that would really be exciting bedroom talk.

Henry’s wedding band was warm against your sternum, the gold glinting in the candlelight. Your fingertips drifted to it, wondering if you should take it off. 

Logan’s hands kept moving up, your nightgown bunching on his wrists. If he was bothered by you bringing up Henry he didn’t let it show. He bent, capturing you in a slow kiss as your thighs parted over his hips. His hand found the swell of your hip beneath your nightgown, his thumb tracing circles on your skin.

His forehead pressed against yours, your breaths slow and heavy.

There was weight behind his gaze, he was steady, strong above you. He was watching you–something cautious and unsure behind his eyes. Maybe protective, even.

“You sure you’re okay with this?” he asked, his finger hooking over the waistband of your panties. Goosebumps ran down your arms.

“I don’t wanna…” he swallowed hard, “I don’t wanna take something you’re not ready to give.”

It was easy to see that he expected you to pull away. His shoulders were tense, bracing for your rejection. His free hand squeezed the sheets beside your head, like he already thought he took too much.

Your hand slid to the back of his neck, your fingers threading in his hair. 

Surprisingly enough, you were comfortable. You leaned up, pressing a soft kiss to his lips, trying to pull him back in.

But Logan pulled away, trailing kisses down your cheek to your jaw. “Tell me. I need to hear it,” he said, his voice low and gravel-warm. You feel the blunt scrape of his teeth on your neck.

You whined, soft and a bit overwhelmed. It took a moment for you to find the words. “I want this,” you breathed into the quiet of his bedroom. “I want you.”

Logan nodded against your throat, hands moving again. “Okay,” he said, like a vow. “Then I got you.”

You sighed as your head tilted to give him more space. His palms slid beneath your nightgown, over the plane of your stomach. He felt you like a map beneath his touch, trying to memorize you without seeing. A hand dipped between your thighs, warm and sure as it pressed to the damp gusset of your panties.

Then–

CRACK.

The violent snap of wood echoed from outside Logan’s window. It was sharp and too close for comfort, followed by the wet thump of something falling to the dirt.

You both froze.

Logan lifted his head, eyes cutting to the window. The storm howled outside, rattling the glass. Wind buffeted against the outside wall.

“Tree came down,” he muttered as he pulled his hands away from you. They pressed into the mattress, his body tilting to get a better view of outside. “It was close.”

“Did it hit anything?” you asked, sitting up. Your heart was racing, but your lust was long forgotten. 

He listened for a moment, head still cocked to one side. “No,” he said definitively, looking back down at you. “But even if it crushed the fence, or the shed, I’ll fix it in the morning. Promise.”

You nodded, successfully talked down from the spiral of anxiety. But everything felt different now. Your skin felt warm from where he touched you, nightgown still rucked up haphazardly. The storm pressed in once more, the rose-colored haze gone from the room in an instant.

Logan leaned in and pressed a kiss to your forehead. His hands smoothed your nightgown back over your thighs, curling around the backs of your knees.

“We don’t have to rush this,” he said softly, hazel eyes soft and sincere as he looked over your face. 

You were touched by his sincerity, looking up at him through your lashes. He wasn’t trying to push through the pause, you would have let him if he asked.

“Can we just sleep?” you asked, sounding small. Logan nodded, shifting off the bed to take off his jeans. You looked away as he changed into blue, drawstring pajama pants and blew out the candle on the dresser. The one on his nightstand flickered as he lay down next to you, an arm open to invite you in without a word.

He blew out the other candle as you settled against him, cheek to his chest, heartbeat under your ear.

“Gotta warn you,” he murmured in the dark, arm curling around your back to hold you close, “I’m not very good at staying in one place.”

You didn’t know what to say, so you just placed your hand on his sternum. His dog tags made a metallic clinking sound beneath your fingertips. The rain was slowing outside, or at least you could convince yourself of it as your eyelids started to get heavy.

You were right on the edge of sleep when he spoke again, your lips parted, your breaths evening out and becoming soft sighs. It was so quiet you almost could convince yourself it was a dream. 

“If you asked me to… I might.”

[vivwritescrappythings]

the knight!könig series....BRAVOOOO 👏👏👏 u ate that

Thank you so much 🥲

[vivwritescrappythings]

[vivwritescrappythings]

the mercy of twilight

ezra (prospect) x fem!reader

You are a ladies-maid in Queen Elizabeth I's court and one day a mysterious stranger by the name of Ezra shows up, rumors swirling that he is a spy in the Queen's court.

a/n: this is the incredibly late contribution to @princessanglophile's 22nd birthday challenge--I'm so sorry it took me forever! The rest of the stories can be found here. The prompt I received was any Pedro Pascal man (Ezra) and any time period (Tudor Era)

tw: fem reader, afab reader, reader is shorter than Ezra, reader has hair long enough to put in a French hood, social norms of tudor era, not proofread, Ezra may be poorly written (especially the accent...yikes), SMUT, p in v sex, oral (f receiving), fingering, creampie, semi-public sex

word count: 6.6k

masterlist

MDNI!

--

Court was buzzing with gossip that morning. The whispering of servants woke you before the Queen stirring in her bed did, if that was any indication for how the rest of the castle was behaving. You were groggy as you came to, blinking in the dim light of the Queen’s chambers as servants stoked the fire to life, their murmurs near your cot were half-intelligible as you rolled to your side. Thankfully Queen Elizabeth was still sleeping peacefully in her bed, it was not yet time for her to wake for her morning prayer. 

She had kept you up most of the night. Her insomnia only worsened as more dignitaries arrived to court, her stress all-consuming. You had been given the honor of accompanying her in her chambers for the previous evening, talking with her until she finally tired enough to fall asleep and the moon was high in the sky. It was one of the more taxing roles as one of the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting, but you still were thankful she even thought to include you among them, lifting you from your station as a lesser noble to an integral part of the royal court. 

You wanted to yell at the servants to shut up, the glimmering hope that you could have slept through the Queen’s morning prayer until breakfast diminishing like a pinched candle wick. 

Instead you remained under the covers, your back to them as they heated water for her to bathe in and prepared a simple gown for her to don in the private chapel. You collected snippets of information as you watched the orange light of the fire flicker over the tapestry on the wall, the woven faces moving in and out of focus like secrets. 

He was called Ezra, but there was no indication of a family name in the stories. Apparently his accent was foreign, but not from a country either of the maids recognized. The Duke of Norfolk had brought him along as a mercenary. But the image of him was incomplete in your mind: dark hair and dark eyes, a tuft of blonde at his hairline. 

You wondered if he would attend court that day with the Duke. Just a few words about this man created a pocket of intrigue in your chest: the Duke had never brought a mercenary with him before, what was the occasion now?

The servants fell silent as Queen Elizabeth stirred, bringing a glass of water to her bedside as she roused herself. Your name was whispered in question by the maids as you listened to them help her into a simple frock, the potential of being forced to morning prayer making you stiffen on the cot. 

“No, let her sleep,” Queen Elizabeth said dismissively, prompting you to exhale a soft sigh of relief. The room quieted as she washed behind the silk screen across the room, letting you fall back asleep for the last moments of the morning.

–

“You look wonderful, Your Majesty,” you breathed as you watched Lady Ashely finish painting the Queen’s cheeks with rouge. Dressing for court took longer than it should have, cycling through various wigs and accessories until Queen Elizabeth finally settled on one. You wished she had drank at least a few sips of the ale offered with breakfast, if not just to soothe her nerves for the day.

Her dark eyes met yours in the mirror’s reflection, a glimmer of relief passing through her gaze. “Thank you,” she breathed, reaching back to squeeze your arm with her gloved hand. 

You produced a shimmering necklace from a velvet cushion on the vanity, stepping forward to clasp it around Queen Elizabeth’s neck. “Today will be fine, just as all the other days in court have been fine,” you assured, arranging the necklace so the large red ruby settled in the hollow between her collarbones. “There are just a few more people in attendance, that is all.”

She nodded, steeling herself before standing. 

You let the other ladies-in-waiting worry about primping her, stepping away to finish preparing yourself. Thankfully Lady Knollys was willing to help, tightening your corset within an inch of your life as you held onto a chair in an attempt to stay upright. 

“Sometimes I think you mean to watch me faint from lack of breath,” you said, wheezing dramatically as you secured your pearled and jeweled hair piece to the crown of your head. 

“We should only be so lucky,” Lady Knollys murmured, rolling her eyes as she situated the sheer, black fabric attached to your French hood over your hair. It hung heavy down your back, part of you already itching to rip it off.

Having your hair uncovered was one of the privileges of being a lesser noble that you missed.

“I expect you all to be in attendance today,” Queen Elizabeth said, picking up the small compact and prayer book she often carried with her at court. “I need you to pay attention to whispers, and to report back to me with anything you hear.”

You walked a number of paces behind the Queen as she finally exited with her small retinue in tow. Guards flanked her, never more than an arm’s length away. It was hard to imagine being surrounded by such fan fare and not resenting it. You would go crazy, the constant scrutiny enough to finish you.

Queen Elizabeth ascended the dais and assumed the throne as the ladies-in-waiting dispersed quickly into the room. You marveled at how tight the space was in the room as you edged past lords and religious figures and merchants alike. They did not entirely take note of you—another faceless woman at court. The anonymity of being a woman in attendance of the court proceedings was both a blessing and an irritation.

You found a column to stand near, Lady Ashley joining you as you waited for Queen Elizabeth to give her opening remarks. The day would be busy, hunting in Saint James park followed by a lavish banquet and likely dancing into the evening. Court was always a spectacle.

The courtiers quieted as Queen Elizabeth settled into her throne to speak. You had listened to her practice the speech a thousand times the evening before, her voice fading to background noise. 

The majority of men in the room were hardly of interest, dressed in embroidered jackets of various colors with ruffles around their necks. Swords were strapped at most hips, more decorative rather than useful. You doubted how many of those men could even lift the sword above their waists let alone use them. The thought made you smirk to yourself, you turned your head enough to tuck your lips into your shoulder to hide your expression.

Then a snicker accompanied yours, like someone was in on your private joke. Your brows furrowed before you could quite stop them, an unladylike frown finding its way onto your face.

Thank goodness Lady Ashley was actually paying attention to Queen Elizabeth or you would have been scolded for your scowl–she had taken a motherly role for the ladies-in-waiting. You had become a particular pet project for her, having heard far too many droning lectures about how each of Her Majesty’s ladies reflected on her as a ruler. 

Your gaze met warm brown eyes, crinkled at the corners in a secret grin. The rest of a face formed around it as you took in this stranger. You had finally started to recognize most of the courtiers that were not foreign dignitaries, but this man was not familiar. His aquiline nose and dark eyes were unknown to you in previous.  

He was out of fashion as well–essentially a crime in Queen Elizabeth’s court. His dark hair was short, his patchy beard trimmed close to his face. You could see a faint scar on his left cheek, a faint arc of white scar tissue just beneath his eye. The lack of embroidery or decoration told you that he was not a noble or a merchant, at the very least not a well-off one. 

It was only when you saw the Duke of Norfolk lurking nearby that you understood: this stranger was the mysterious Ezra everyone had been whispering about. 

You expected him to look more sinister.

For a startling moment you thought him attractive.

But then he looked at you like a co-conspirator, the familiarity of a perceived accomplice lingering in his gaze. 

“I can’t help but agree with you,” he murmured, lips close to your ear so he could speak without disturbing those around you. You shivered, able to feel the shape of his words. He spoke strangely, an accent you had never heard before lilting over each word. “This group is supposed to be the Queen’s best and brightest? I’ve seen scarier creatures out there in that garden.”

It was hard to understand if he was trying to impress you or provoke you. You decided it was the latter, eyes narrowing as you inspected him. A sword and dagger strapped to his hip, but you doubted that was all a man like him would carry.

“I have a hard time recalling saying anything to you,” you whispered, praying that Lady Ashley remained focused on Queen Elizabeth. Rebuking one of the courtiers would certainly earn you a scolding.

Rather than heeding your words, the man smiled, a soft chuckle behind his teeth. It looked like he wanted to say more, his shoulders sloping toward you as he leaned in toward your ear.

“We shall reconvene in Windsor Park for the hunt,” Queen Elizabeth announced, prompting the room to drop to a bow as she rose. The stranger at your side did so as well, smart enough to follow the social etiquette of court.

You rose before Ezra did, following Lady Ashley’s lead. The skirt of your dress brushed against his feet as you stepped around him, you could feel his fingertips give it a gentle tug just before you were out of reach. His chuckle crept after you like a shadow.

—

In most courts, ladies were not permitted to join the hunt, but Queen Elizabeth insisted that all of her ladies-in-waiting participate. The few bolts you loosed had gone into tree bark rather than flesh, be that on purpose or skill, no one would ever know. But you rode near the back of the group, crossbow across your lap as the rest of the hunters fanned out, following dogs in the underbrush. 

A flicker of movement in the corner of your eye caught your attention, something too large and too dark to be a deer weaving through the tree trunks. The man had his cloak drawn over his head, his steps slow through the underbrush as he trailed behind the group. No horse to avoid drawing attention to himself. You went unnoticed, he passed you by as he followed the sound of baying dogs. 

You recognized the curve of his nose in profile when an owl hooted in the distance. Ezra moved slowly, trailing behind a group of nobles, close enough to catch their voices on the wind. 

Spies were common in Queen Elizabeth’s court, but something about him piqued your interest.

Maybe it was the self-assured way he moved through the castle and the grounds that irritated you, jesting about the nobles as though he was already one of them. Any other spy would try to creep on the edges of the room, sticking to the shadows.

But Ezra was different, stalking the Queen herself through the forest like she was the prey. Smart enough to keep his distance, but with enough gall to stand where no one would expect him to be.

Then you heard a shout of your name, they had finally noticed your absence. Ezra spun around like a top, his dark eyes focused on you as you sat up in your saddle. There was no use in pretending he escaped your notice, your eyes finding him and your jaw set before you snapped your reins once. You spurred your horse forward.

“My apologies, I thought I saw something unusual!” you shouted, your head turning as you passed to keep Ezra pinned beneath your gaze. “It turned out to be a trick of the light!”

He smirked, head nodding in acknowledgement as you passed.

The nerve on that one.

–

It was dusk when you caught him stealing away from the Duke of Norfolk into the hedges of the Queen’s Gardens. The men had been lounging outside with their smoking pipes while Queen Elizabeth retired for a rest before the banquet.

“I am going to retire to my chambers for a moment,” you said to the other ladies-in-waiting, excusing yourself quickly.

You diverged from the typical direction to your chambers, heading out a servant’s door to the gardens. The sun was dipping toward the horizon, the sky turning pink and orange as you kept to the periphery of the main garden. Your head was bent and you kept your face turned away until you made it into the cover of the tall hedges of the Queen’s Gardens.

“Well damn, I knew I’d be seein’ you again soon.” 

Ezra emerged from an alcove of rose bushes like he had been waiting for you to turn up, his mouth turned up on one side. You wanted to wipe the smirk from his face, checking over your shoulder to make sure no one followed you before storming further into the shelter of the garden. 

He followed you dutifully, snickering as you went into twists and turns of the hedge maze in an attempt to keep hidden. The last thing you needed was a noble stumbling upon the two of you. The Queen would dismiss you immediately if you were found unchaperoned with a man like this, her reputation would come into question due to the company she kept.

So you walked, twisting between two neatly trimmed trees into a private alcove bordered by ivy-covered stone walls and a statue of Saint Agnes adorning the center.

“Well ain’t you a thistle?” he mused, his boots crunching the twigs and leaves into the dirt as he circled you. His accent was peculiar: stretched vowels with soft consonants, contractions that belonged with the lower echelons of society combined with the theatrics of a man performing for a crowd.

“A thistle?” you repeated, arms crossing over your chest. You stayed rooted as close to the gap between the trees as possible, ready to bolt at any moment.

He laughed as though you said something entertaining. “A spiked flower. A tough nut to crack, most women soften with a kind word–you bristle. I find that… profoundly invitin’.”

You rolled your eyes, jaw ticking. 

“I do not bristle,” you protested, practically digging your heels into the dirt. “As her lady-in-waiting, I am simply protective of the Queen and her interests.”

Your skirts rustled against the ground as you stepped forward, scrutinizing Ezra from his dark boots to the tuft of white hair at his hairline. He remained steady beneath your gaze, spine straight and shoulders squared. It was hard to say if he intended to intimidate you or entice you.

“And who’s to say I’m not workin’ in Queen Elizabeth’s best interests?” Ezra asked, a defiant glint in his dark eyes before his gaze dropped. “I have to admire any Queen who keeps such… invigoratin’ company.” 

You laughed, rolling your eyes. “Do you really believe that flattery will get you in my good graces?” you asked, tone lilting toward incredulous. 

“Ah, but you’re still here talkin’ with me, ain’t you?” His smile was fetching. 

He took a step toward the exit, making you move to block it with your body. It was foolish, cornering him, but if he were to strike you he already would have. 

“What were you following us for on the hunt?” you asked, tracking his steps toward you. The sunset was dappled by the trees and hedges, diffusing by the time it reached you two. “You could have gotten yourself killed if anyone had noticed you. Queen Elizabeth does not take kindly to spies.”

“And you didn’t call the guards over, did you, thistle?” Ezra asked with a smirk. He was standing close enough that he could reach out and grab you if he wanted. But he was right, you had even covered for him, pretended he was just a trick of the light. Heat traveled up the back of your neck, you hoped it was indiscernible on your face.

He was sure with his movements, stepping toward you with a grace that reminded you of a fox readying to snap a mouse up in its jaws. You twisted away from him, backing up to the stone base of the Saint Agnes statue. 

“You are reckless,” you hissed, pushing his sternum with your palm to make some space between you. He was getting too close, breaking too many rules of propriety. The heat was spreading to your cheeks, uncontrollable.

He let out a huff of air that could have been a chuckle, his dark eyes flicking down to where the crisp white partlet of your dress tucked into your bodice, a whisper of your cleavage visible beneath the fabric. “I am a man acquainted with ruin, true enough. But I reckon you ain't half so proper as your title suggests,” he murmured, voice low. 

Your whole face burned. “I am a lady,” you insisted through your clenched teeth, hands smoothing over your heavy skirts. “You are the one who followed me here.” 

You decided not to linger upon the fact that you had practically asked him to. The detail that you had followed him first after seeing him from the window remained firmly behind your lips, unsaid as you stared.

“Guilty as charged, darlin’. But when a man’s offered the chance to chase beauty into the green, well… some fates are worth the executioner’s axe,” Ezra said with a flourish, his drawl still strange to your ears. But the compliment was not lost on you, the way one of his hands snaked around your body to rest on the stone base of the statue behind you.

Your heart was pounding so loud you were sure he could hear it. It beat against your ribs like a caged animal trying to be freed, your breath hitching.

His other hand met stone on the other side, making your spine bend like a bow over the lip of the carved stone. 

“I could scream,” you whispered, but the words fell hollow. 

“I reckon you should,” Ezra murmured, pressing you firmly against the stone. Even through the layers of your skirts it was cold, the edge biting against the small of your back. You set a hand behind you to prop yourself up, your gloved fingers overlapping his bare ones on accident.

He leaned in, nose nearly brushing yours. You were stunned into stillness, breath locked in your throat. It should have been easy to scream, but you found yourself struggling to make a sound aside from a whimper.

“What’s keepin’ your voice so quiet, thistle?” Ezra asked, his voice low. You shook your head minutely, lips parted as your gaze darted over his face. He looked like a cat that had finally cornered a mouse, smirking as his dark eyes blazed with the success of his conquest.

His hand moved from the stone behind you to run over the whalebone stays of your bodice, almost reverent in his touch. “So many layers,” he mused, testing the ribbon lacing the center of your gown together, he untied the bow with a swift tug. “You English girls hide such tempting playthings under all this fabric.”

Then he was kissing you with greed rather than grace.

Your gasp was swallowed by him, the taste of tobacco and whiskey and sin overwhelming you. His tongue slid into your mouth as though he had the right, twisting in a way the footmen you tangled with had yet to master.

There were a few trysts in your past—your propriety mattered little when you had already pledged yourself to a life of being a spinster. Getting selected as one of Queen Elizabeth’s ladies-in-waiting gave you the freedom to avoid marriage out of necessity. If anything, it was easier to be unwed in your position, you could devote more time to the Queen rather than worry about your husband’s needs.

Your fingers found the crop of his dark hair, twisting in the strands to pull him closer. There was no point in pretending his advances were unwanted now, not when his touch was undoing the ladder of your corset laces like it was second nature as he pressed himself into the space between your thighs.

“Ezra-“ You were cut off by him peeling apart your bodice like it was made of paper. Both halves of the elegantly embroidered fabric hung loose, your skin illuminated by the mauve tones of dusk. 

If the Queen came out to the garden you would certainly be disgraced, but you were hard pressed to care. 

It felt like you were possessed, need burned through you like wildfire as Ezra bent to mouth at the curve of your breast. His tongue practically burned your skin, flattening over your nipple as his dark eyes flicked up to take in the wanton way your mouth fell open. 

His teeth bared against your skin in an indulgent smile. Mischief twinkled in his eyes, lighting up the ochre depths of them as his thick lashes fluttered. He teased the bud with the blunt edge of them, earning a gasp from you before he gave your opposite breast the same treatment. 

He hiked your skirts up high with his free hand, baring you to the night air as he hastily yanked your smallclothes aside just enough to slip his hand beneath them. The wet heat he found there made him groan. 

“God’s wounds,” he murmured against your skin. “You’re soaked. I ain’t even touched you proper… What would the Queen say if she knew her lady-in-waiting was so desperate to be had in the garden?”

Your face got hot at the mirth in his tone, the press of his fingertips over your clit making your eyes roll for a moment. “The Queen would hang you,” you breathed, your breath stuttering as your head dropped back. The footmen certainly had a lot to learn, considering the way Ezra’s calloused fingertips moved over your clit made you squirm.

Saint Agnes looked down upon you, her face serene. You would have to pray for years to earn forgiveness for desecrating her statue–it would be hard to look upon the saint and her lamb without remembering the way–

“Oh Christ,” you gasped, completely unprepared for the sensation of Ezra’s tongue lapping at your cunt. The muscles in your abdomen tightened, the heel of your boot pressing against Ezra’s spine and forcing him closer. He took his time. Tasting you like he was indulging in sacrament rather than sin, his hands gripping the thick of your thighs and skirts to hold you in place.

He tilted you to him with the confidence of a man who had spent an entire lifetime sinning, forcing your skirts back to your waist as his tongue stroked in languid passes. 

Your eyes were rolling back, a hand fisted in the thick fabric of your overskirt as your breath caught behind your ribs. There was an aspect of devotion that you would have never expected, his knees in the dirt and whatever information he had intended to search for was seemingly forgotten. 

Maybe if you had been in your right mind, you would have considered that defiling you had been his intention.

But instead you just whimpered his name, fingers twisting into his short locks as he sucked your clit into his mouth. Ezra earned himself a low moan, suction paired with the flick of his tongue underneath drew you nearer to a precipice of pleasure that you never knew existed. His thumbs spread you wider, holding you firmly as though he intended to stay there for the rest of the evening. 

The sound of it was filthy, wet slurps and sighs as he alternated between laving his tongue and sucking between puckered lips, a finger finally satiating the ache of emptiness that was starting to arise. The rhythm he found had you bucking your hips like a woman without self control.

“That’s it,” he murmured into the mess of your cunt, the words wet. “Grind yourself on me.”

Your legs began to tremble, the tension building in your belly snapping taught. He moaned against you, a man starved tasting food for the first time. Grateful. Satiated.

It started as a ripple, a stone dropped into a pond that built into a wave. You were gasping, spine arching as pleasure crashed over you without any indication of stopping. It ripped through you like lightning across a night sky, your toes curling in your boots as your fingers twisted in his hair for some semblance of control.

“Ezra,” you sighed into the twilight, your voice taking on a higher cadence than normal. “Oh, please–”

You cut yourself off, squeezing your eyes shut as your muscles spasmed, core tightening as you rocked your hips against the Ezra’s nose and chin. His finger crooked inside of you, your cunt clenching around it with needy pulses. It was impossible to keep quiet, a breathy moan pulling from your throat as your thighs squeezed his head.

He let out a wet chuckle, unrelenting with his ministrations until every tremor had completely run through your body. You were left empty as you sagged back against Saint Agnes’s legs.

Your head was spinning as Ezra stood, obscenely sucking his fingers clean. His dark eyes were partially-lidded as he looked down at you, stepping between your spread legs as he bent over your limp form.

“You taste like you were made just to be devoured,” he murmured as he tilted your chin up so he could kiss you. You melted into it, lips parting for his tongue. The taste of you coated his mouth, tangy and earthy and sweet. He pulled back just enough to speak, his breath warming your skin and his lips ghosting against yours. “Like summer peaches stewin’ in their own heat. I could live off of you.”

Your face warmed at his praise, eyes rolling at his exaggerations. It seemed like everything he said was a performance. He was a man that belonged on a stage rather than as a spy. 

He leaned in for another kiss when you heard it: laughter, voices. Distant, but growing louder beyond the hedge. Gravel crunching beneath boots and the clink of a flask being opened and passed around. 

Ezra paused for a beat, dark eyes looking in the direction of the noise. A smirk found its way to his face, his expression becoming downright unholy as he leveled you with his stare. “Sounds like the party is stirrin’,” he murmured, voice low like the undercurrent of a stream. “Oughta be gettin’ back before anyone notices you’re missin’.”

You shifted, trying to close your legs and fix your skirts. Disappointment bloomed in your chest, need still coiling around your sternum as you gathered your rumpled petticoats in your trembling fingers. But he held fast. He pressed closer, wedging his hips between your thighs as he pulled the fabric from your hands. 

“You think I’d leave you wantin’ like this, thistle?” he asked, voice low and hungry. His hand slipped back to the apex of your legs, pressing two thick fingers inside of you. You groaned through your clenched teeth, squeezing around him as you grabbed at his coat. “Look at you, flutterin’ around my fingers. Hell, you’re drippin’ all the way down my wrist.”

He let out a huff of air that could have been a chuckle, his mouth lifting into an indulgent smile. “No, ma’am. I take thorough care of my ladies, I can promise you that.”

You rocked gently against his fingers as he fumbled his breeches open with his other hand. The sound of you panting covered the rustle of fabric, your desperation tightening in your gut. 

Ezra’s cock was already thick and hard as he grabbed your hips, the shine from your pussy smearing over the embroidered fabric as he pulled you to the edge of the pedestal. The stone was cool beneath your skin, errant pebbles scraping against you. 

You fisted a hand in his doublet, pulling him closer as your head tilted back. It was hard to not feel dizzy with want, only a small sliver of your consciousness worried about being caught as you shifted your hips for him.

“Let me finish what I started, thistle,” he murmured into your temple, smearing the wet between your thighs with a filthy reverence. “I’ll fill you while the court’s just steps away… gossipin’ about pheasants and dress colors and politics.”

The head of his cock was already nudging at your cunt, making you squeeze around nothing as you exhaled. You were so stupid for inviting the devil into your life like this. It still would be possible to call the guards, to act like he had forced himself upon you. They would take your word over his, a snake-tongued stranger.

But you whimpered, nodding. “Please, Ezra,” you sighed, brows knitting together as you rested on the edge of begging. 

You braced yourself against the statue of Saint Agnes, your hand flattening against her marble foot as the other fisted the thick black wool at his shoulder. He sank into you in one smooth, desperate thrust.

Tomorrow you would come and beg Saint Agnes for her forgiveness.

“Jesus Christ,” he hissed, biting down a groan as he stilled inside of you. His head bent toward your throat, teeth setting against the delicate skin in a threat of a bite. “You’re so damn tight, I might lose my mind right here.”

The stretch was otherworldly, satiating as you let out a breathy sigh. It had been a long time since a man filled you like this. Your legs curled around his waist, clutching him close as you tried to catch your breath.

Torchlight danced over the top of the hedges, the threat of being caught looming ever closer. 

Ezra paid it no mind, he was already fucking you. Each thrust of his hips was sure and steady, making you keen as your head tilted back. He pressed his palm over your mouth to muffle your cries, his hand calloused from what you assumed was years of fighting with swords. Your breath fluttered over the back of his hand with each knock of his pelvis against yours.

Your cunt fluttered around him with every rut of his hips, slick and hot. He grabbed the curve of your hip hard enough to bruise, anchoring you to the pedestal. The shame and thrill twisted into something unbearable in you, your moans muffled against his heated skin.

The rhythm he fell into was filthy–deep and fast, meant to finish both of you before anyone had the chance to stumble into your private alcove. He was grunting in your ear, sounding almost wounded as he bottomed out over and over, the consistency of his rhythm almost reminding you of a military march.

“That’s it, darlin’,” Ezra drawled into your ear, voice so low it was barely audible over the sound of your own heartbeat. “Takin’ me so good. This pussy’s fuckin’ heaven-sent just for me.”

The stone pedestal bit into your skin with each movement, the bite of rough stone only adding to the coil of tension in your stomach. The air was thick with roses, crushed ivy, hot breath. The wet slap of skin on skin echoed in your ears.

“You’ll walk in that banquet hall glowin’,” he growled against your ear, teeth scraping over the shell of it. You shivered. “Everyone will wonder why your head is so high, no one’s gonna guess it’s because this pretty cunt is so full.”

You made a broken sound against his hand, the filth he was spitting in your ear mixing with the ecstasy building within you. Then Ezra shifted his angle, his cock hitting that spot that made you see stars. He must have noticed the change in you, your thighs tightening and your muscles convulsing as he started to focus on drilling there mercilessly. Your jaw went slack under his palm, the scrape of the stone and the potential of voyeurs completely forgotten as everything built up… up… up…

It broke like a fever.

Your second orgasm hit all at once, spreading from the base of your spine in a rush of energy that was white-hot and shattering. The sunset and the dark green hedges blurred while your cunt clenched around Ezra in frenetic, helpless pulses. 

Every soft and high moan from your throat was drowned in Ezra’s hand, tears pricking in your eyes as you drowned in the holy fire of your pleasure. Each wave of it was long and rolling, sending you adrift in a tempest you could not navigate. He held you there, still driving into you–deeper now. He was chasing the feeling, wringing every last tremor from your body like he craved it.

“You came on my cock so pretty, thistle,” he growled, voice low and tight in your ear. He was on the edge, too. You could hear it in the way his words were clipped, like he lacked the control to get them out all in one piece. 

You were nothing but gasps and clenching heat, your fingers digging into his doublet like you meant to tear it apart.

Through the haze you felt him come.

His cock twitched deep inside you as he groaned, ragged and almost wounded, spilling into you with a shudder so fierce he had to let go of your hip to brace on the statue pedestal. He pressed his mouth to the collar of your dress, seemingly trying to drown out the sound. 

The laughter of courtiers faded away, the only sound in the alcove was your breaths and the soft rustle of fabric. 

Ezra ground his hips against yours for a few moments longer, weathering the aftershocks of his orgasm as his eyes fluttered closed. It was as though he did not want to part from you, the soft thatch of dark hair pressed snug against your clit. Your eyes rolled back, fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck.

Then he finally stilled, the two of you breathing the same air as his hand dropped from your mouth.Your lips were smeared with shiny saliva–you were drooling without even realizing it.

Your legs barely held you up when he finally let them down. 

The pedestal and Ezra’s hands steadied you as your knees knocked together like a newborn foal’s, blood rushing back to your toes after so long of being contorted. His breath ghosted on your throat and your jaw, lips pressing lightly to the skin–not quite a kiss. Still, more gentle than you expected from a man so willing to ruin you.

He was already tucking himself back into his breeches with the practiced motion of a man well-acquainted with sin. If she had any questions of how often he debauched ladies after that, the way he laced her back into her corset with ease answered them. There was no hesitation in his motions as he stitched the two halves of your bodice together like a surgeon, feeding the pink silk through the eyelets with steady fingers and fashioning a bow the other ladies-in-waiting would have been jealous of.

You felt a bit unmoored, heat of embarrassment rushing to your face as you stared at him, lips parted.

His come was dripping down your thighs, catching on your smallclothes and slip as you pushed your rumpled skirts back into place. You finally found your footing, righting yourself as you attempted to wipe the crushed twigs and leaves from the back of your skirts.

Saint Agnes looked down upon the two of you, serene as ever, as though she had no idea what blasphemy had just occurred at her feet. 

Ezra moved in once more, lips finding yours. There was no urgency in this kiss, the press of his lips almost earnest against yours. He kissed you as though he meant to stay. His dark eyes looked at you as though you were his, but that could never be so. You were promised to Queen Elizabeth long before he arrived, and you would do well to remember that.

Trumpets blasted in the distance, the brass instruments wringing true over the gardens. The banquet would be starting soon, the Queen surely would look for you. 

“I have to go,” you said, the words firm and decidedly final. 

But you were still. You realized leaving him was easier in words than in practice. It was foolish to think that he wanted you for more than information or at the very least, a decent fuck to get it out of his system, but still you stayed. 

He looked at you like you were holy. Touched you as though you were his last rites. 

It was hard to forget that in the silence that came after, no matter how much you hated him for that. 

Surely that was the feeling curling around your heart.

He nodded once. No argument or protest spilled from his lip. Just that slow smile like candle smoke in the fading light of day. “Then go,” he said, nodding his chin in the direction of the space between the hedges. His hair was tousled from your fingers, his wool coat tugged out of place. “Ain’t gonna stop you.”

You looked at him once, a breath leaving you as your brow furrowed. Then you turned and walked away.

–

The hall that evening glittered with candlelight. The air was heavy with roasted meats and crushed flowers, the murmur of nobility and courtiers carrying like a bubbling brook. Chuckles rippled across long tables running the length of the room, goblets were filled over and over again with wine.

You were at your seat, head high and spine straight. If anyone had noticed that you looked particularly satisfied, no one had mentioned it. You could still feel the remnants of it between your thighs, the sticky mess having ruined your slip and smallclothes by now.

It was easy to find Ezra in the crowd, seated to the right of the Duke of Norfolk. He had left his hair a tousled mess, but his doublet was fixed neatly. He was still dressed oddly for a courtier, but the way he spoke with the nobles surrounding him made it seem like he was a fish in water. To anyone observing he seemed harmless. Charming, even.

As though his knees had never touched the loam of the Queen’s garden.

Then his eyes lifted to yours, the smile on his face shifting.

It sharpened, eyes flashing as he leveled you with his dark gaze. For a moment your skin burned, you wanted him again. 

But you stayed still, your grip on your goblet tightening. He was something you could not have. You knew beneath all the platitudes and charm and ritual, he was a liar. He was a spy.

But he raised his goblet to you. Too slow, just subtle enough that you noticed.

Painfully private.

You lifted yours back.

[vivwritescrappythings]

stop earning advanced degrees i need you to finish your fanfiction

[vivwritescrappythings]

How it feel to finally accept and embrace the cringe of reading x reader fics

[vivwritescrappythings]

coming back to say a year later that "love me and eat" is still the best vamp eddie fic ever written and i think about it weekly! so if you ever think you're not good at writing, know that you literally wrote my favorite eddie fic ever.

🥲 thank you so much!!! It seriously warms my heart so much that something I wrote made such a lasting impression on you 💕

[vivwritescrappythings]

only a little crazy

miguel o'hara x f!reader

You get hurt working at the Spider-Society and your grumpy boss decides to come check on you.

a/n: thank you for such a fun request! writing Miguel has been a good stretch for my brain. Thinking about turning this into a series so let me know how y'all like it :)

tw: fem reader, reader is shorter than Miguel (everyone is), Miguel's perspective, potentially poorly written Spanish, broken bones, canon typical violence, not proofread, Miguel may be poorly written

word count: 4.8k

masterlist

--

Despite Miguel’s many attempts to assign rules and procedures to the Spider-Society, only a few had ever stuck: no messing with canon events and civilians weren’t allowed to go beyond the lobby. He couldn’t even remember how many times he’d yelled at Peter B. Parker about letting Mary Jane go wherever she wanted.

Everyone else listened well enough.

That is, until you came into Miguel’s life like a plague.

You were nothing more than a thorn in his side: the only civilian with nearly full access to the facility. He would have never hired someone who hacked into their whole system because they were bored one day, but Margo insisted that you were one of the best she’d ever seen. You had since apologized—you cited your curiosity about the large building’s purpose and had taken matters into your own hands to figure out what went on inside the society. 

In comparison to you, Peter B. Parker and Mary Jane were a cakewalk. 

It didn’t help that you were so goddamn chipper all the time. You always greeted Miguel with a bright smile and polite questions about his day, as though you had no idea just how insufferable he found you.

“Hey Miguel,” you said from behind your computer, the monitor illuminating you in tones of blue and pink. You clicked something before leaning your weight onto one elbow to look around the screen at him. “Margo left me in charge today, just so you know.”

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. 

“LYLA would be in charge before I picked you,” he said, not bothering to look up from his reports. You laughed like it was a joke. Everything was a joke to you.

“Mhm,” you hummed, typing something. Miguel couldn’t help but notice the way you poked your tongue out while you concentrated, your brows furrowed. He paused, waiting for you to continue as he watched you just over the edge of the monitor. Working with you for almost a year now had taught him that you rarely were so succinct with your words.

Then you spun the monitor around, a flurry of motion as you leaned over the table to point at something on the screen. “There’s a lot of weird activity on Earth-325,” you said, tapping the screen over the amalgamation of yellow and orange. “If I had to guess, I’d say it was an anomaly, but you’re the expert on that.”

He didn’t miss the way you looked up at him expectantly, like a puppy waiting for a treat or a pat on the head for doing a trick right.

Miguel rolled his eyes as he grabbed the screen. He could feel his face contorting into a scowl as activity lit the monitor up. Another terrible part of dealing with you—you had a knack for always being right. It drove him crazy.

“I’ll get a team together,” he said, noting your pleased smile with a subtle roll of his eyes.

He was already flicking through screens on his tablet, sending Jessica the information. A portal opened in front of him, colors and shapes swirling together in a view that would’ve been awe-inspiring if he hadn’t seen it a million times.

“LYLA’s in charge,” Miguel said just before jumping into the portal. Your immediate groan of dismay followed by LYLA’s cheer made his lip twitch into a smile. 

—

His ears were ringing. 

It was still hard to wrap his head around what happened, the Spider-Society having devolved into chaos faster than he could have stopped it.

The anomaly they caught had broken loose–he blamed Peter B. Parker for being so distracted with Mayday. He could hear the distant shouts of Spider-People springing into action in the distance as he pulled himself out of a pile of freshly displaced rubble. The wide cap of his shoulder ached, not even his accelerated healing was able to chase away the sting of rebar nearly ripping through the fabric of his suit.

A clear trail of destruction followed the Venom variant, ribbons of torn webs hanging from every surface and the furniture tossed wildly across the room. Chunks of the walls were crushed into debris where bodies had crashed through them in the fight.

He picked up his pace, sprinting through Spider-Society like a force of nature. Sometimes he noticed how different he was from the others: preferring not to swing around on his webs and needing his claws to really climb anything. Not to mention he didn’t have the same irritating sense of humor that seemed to permeate every variant of Spider-Man.

A stream of shouts from the direction of the Go Home Machine made him redirect, propelling himself up the wall in a mass of sinew and muscle. Pushing himself like this felt good, the demand of a fight on his body was one of the few things that made Miguel actually feel alive.

It was a mess when he got there, girders collapsed from the ceiling and the majority of computers and desks were half-crushed. 

“Hey Miguel, I hope you have a decent insurance policy on this place,” Peter B. quipped as he approached. Miguel just rolled his eyes beneath his mask, watching the rest of the Spiders web the Venom variant enough that the Go Home Machine actually had time to work. Normally anomalies were kept around for at least a while to figure out how they broke into a different universe, but he didn’t disagree with the change of plans.

Mierda. What a fucking mess. 

He let the mask over his face flicker away as he surveyed the damage. It was enough to give him a headache, the feeling radiating from his temple and over his skull.

Peter was still running his mouth, some idiotic joke about how many Spider-People does it take to change a lightbulb spilling from his lips. Miguel could feel his temple throbbing, red seeping into his eyes as he felt a rebuke building in his chest.

“Are you a—“

“Oi, was Bug here today?” Hobie interrupted, the genuine concern in his tone giving Miguel pause.

Hobie was the first to call you Bug—something about ‘if they were all Spiders than you were a bug’—and it stuck. Miguel wasn’t sure if anyone called you by your name anymore.

“Yeah,” Miguel said, trying to find a sign of you in the undulating groups of blue and red and black suits. Too many blank stares met his gaze, anxiety making itself apparent in a cold sweat down his spine.

“LYLA?” It was more of a yell than he meant it to be. She could scan the room faster than he could take it apart.

“On it,” she answered in the same beat, yellow cones of light scanning various corners of the room. He had a hard time breathing, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. Every empty scan ticked up his nerves, his jaw clenching so hard he wondered if it could crack.

It was hard not to spiral. He should have come up to protect you the moment the Venom got out. You were just a civilian, a human. How could he have been so irresponsible as to leave you on your own?

“Got something!” LYLA chirped, waving wildly to catch his attention.

Rushing to the pile of rubble was second nature, Hobie quickly falling into step to help. The sound of his own heart pounding was louder than the rubble they scrabbled through, pieces of concrete and duct piping falling away like they were made of paper beneath his hands.

“Dios mio,” Miguel sighed. You were caught beneath a girder, your leg twisted grotesquely beneath the metal. By some miracle you weren't crushed by the debris, just unconscious. You looked like a wounded baby bird, your chest rising and falling with each breath. Scrapes marred your skin, dark bruises blooming beneath the surface.

But you were alive, and mostly whole. His fingers twitched at his side as he just stared at you.

“Take her to the infirmary and then home,” Miguel said to Hobie, suddenly feeling the need to get as far away from you as breath returned to his body. He was nauseous, almost staggering under the weight of relief he had never expected to feel. 

He stepped back, head tilting up toward the ceiling for a moment as he took a breath. The girder slammed on the ground when Hobie moved it off you, lifting you with care.

Miguel nearly stepped in to take you out of Hobie’s arms. He had to physically turn away from you to resist it, surveying the extent of the damage. Thankfully no other anomalies managed to escape their confinement, most of the damage was just superficial. 

The sound of Hobie’s boots on the floor kept him composed, helped him time his breaths. He was still partially convinced that he would rip Peter B. apart if given the chance.

But instead he was just quiet, toeing a broken piece of a computer monitor on the floor. The weight of every eye in the room was on him, his skin crawling beneath his suit. He sighed, picking his head up to look at them.

“Well, start getting everything back together,” he said, voice loud enough to be an order. 

It wasn’t what everyone expected, any other day he would have at least lectured Peter B. about paying attention. No one moved, their blinking almost audible in the silence.

“Ay chingado,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head. “No one has anything to do? Start cleaning up!”

—

He found himself hanging on to every scrap of information about how you were doing. It had only been a week, but any mention of you in the hall or in meetings piqued his interest. It was becoming obvious that he was distracted, his thoughts preoccupied with you… if you were alright.

What did it matter to him if you were alright? You’d been nothing but a grade A pain in his ass from the moment you set foot in his life. 

But he realized he was putting together mental lists of exciting moments of his day just to tell you when you asked, he had been for months. He kept accidentally buying extra empanadas because you usually stole one from him. His step would falter at your desk, part of him expecting you to be there.

“So are you going to go visit Bug?” LYLA asked, catching Miguel off guard as she floated in front of his eyes, laying on her stomach with her feet kicking in the air.

He huffed, waving her away with a hand as he blinked at whatever he’d been trying to read on the computer monitor… just the home screen, apparently. The blue default photo mocked him before he turned away from the monitors altogether.

“Why would I do that?” Miguel asked, a feeble attempt to act casual. 

Once the idea was introduced, he couldn’t get it out of his head. He imagined himself in your space, tried to picture what your things would be like. Chaotic, no doubt. But comfortable. Colorful, certainly. He couldn’t imagine you living in a pristine beige apartment.

“Miguel, the worst part about having an AI personal assistant is that I see everything you do. Everything,” she said, walking up and down his arm. She looked up at him over her shoulder. “So don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about, okay?”

He kept a straight face for a few beats, crossing his arms over his chest. But LYLA was right, if anyone would know it was her.

“I need to be here,” he said, scrubbing his hand over his face. Normally he preferred to be at the Spider-Society, the distraction of work far better than his reality. But it suddenly became a chore.

LYLA huffed, rolling her eyes behind the heart-shaped glasses. Sometimes Miguel wondered why he programmed her to be so sassy. “You don’t need to actually be here,” she said, folding her arms and tapping her foot in mid air as she floated in front of him. “Jessica and I will call you if anything crazy happens.”

Handing over the reins for the day was an intriguing idea. He could let the stress go, even just until tomorrow, let someone else handle it. 

The bubble of hope rising in his chest was immediately popped by a sharp lance of anxiety. What if something happened? What if his absence got someone killed? Or worse, a universe destroyed?

LYLA must have noticed his expression shift, he could hear her sigh.

“If you don’t go, I’ll call Bug and tell her that you’ve been making googly eyes at her desk for the past week and have had to throw away like six empanadas that you bought for her,” LYLA said calmly, issuing her final threat.

“No me chingues,” Miguel hissed, his irritation on his face as he rolled his eyes. But his stomach was flipping, nerves he hadn’t felt since he was a teenager suddenly coming to life. “Fine, I’m going.”

LYLA looked pleased, blinking out of existence in front of him to appear at his computer monitors. She shifted through screens quickly, the colors flashing over her as she did. “I’ve already got the word out, so everyone knows not to bother you unless they are in dire need of assistance.”

“Great,” he breathed, getting a ping from LYLA with your address. She really spared no moment. 

“If anything happens–”

“Don’t worry! We’ll call,” LYLA interrupting him, assuring him as she waved him off. 

He sighed, still partially in disbelief that he let her strongarm him into this as he left the Spider-Society.

–

He would’ve guessed they paid you enough to have a better apartment. The underbelly of the city wasn’t somewhere he pictured you, the rest of Nueva York blocking you from the sun and the highway just outside your windows. There was a huge purple neon sign just outside your terrace–a remnant of the old New York that looked barely touched.

It hadn’t taken him long to find your building and even less time to find your apartment, the door to the terrace was left unlocked. He’d have to have a talk with you about that when you were feeling better.

The inside of your apartment was as he expected, a disorganized riot of color and trinkets and mementos that made the space so tooth-achingly cozy. He felt out of place, even in the simple civilian clothes he changed into. It was weird wearing them rather than his spidersuit, the soft fabric of the sweatpants and tee shirt had become unfamiliar.

You weren’t in the room he stood in, your bed, a couch and dining table shoved into a space smaller than his cubicle when he worked at Alchemax. He could see that you’d set up camp on your bed, pill bottles and dirty dishes piling up on your nightstand and the bed unmade. The TV was still playing some movie that had come out a few years ago, the remote tossed amongst your sheets.

He would have to clean up around here, the chaos already making him feel unmoored.

There was no time left for him to snoop, the sound of the sink in the bathroom reminding him why he was even in your apartment in the first place. The bathroom door swung open, the grumbles of you maneuvering with your crutches catching his attention.

You had a 3D-printed cast up to your mid-thigh, loose pajama pants stretched over the honeycombed plastic. He’d never seen you look so casual, an oversized, ratty shirt marked with stains and small holes covering your torso, your skin free of makeup and your hair unstyled. It took him a moment to realize he preferred you that way, a lump forming in his throat.

He was too caught up in his evaluation of you to note the way you stiffened when you realized there was another body in the room. Your eyes widened.

“What the fuck!” you shouted, your voice bringing Miguel back to reality just in time to catch the black stuffed bear flying at his face without dropping the bag of groceries he held in one hand. A throw pillow followed, bouncing harmlessly off his chest and falling to the rug.

Your mouth had dropped open, a crutch clattering to the ground as you pressed your hand to your heart. He could hear the rapid thrum of it beneath your ribs, a hummingbird caught in a cage.

“You were going to defend yourself from a burglar with a pillow and a teddy bear?” Miguel asked, looking down at the well-loved toy. One of the button eyes was missing entirely, just black bits of thread sticking out of the fabric. A red heart was stitched haphazardly into its chest.

Your mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. He swore he could almost hear your thoughts buffering. “You can’t just break into my apartment, Miguel! What if I was naked?”

He made an incredulous noise, something between a laugh and a sigh. Of course that’s what you would be worried about. “Well, you’re not naked,” he said, taking another step into the room. He slipped his shoes off and left them near the terrace door–force of habit from his childhood.

“I could’ve been!” you insisted, awkwardly navigating to your bed. Miguel watched with his hear in his throat, wanting to step in and carry you rather than watch you shuffle around.

He shook his head, stepping around your small coffee table. “What are you doing up, anyways?” he asked, taking over stacking pillows to prop your leg up, adding the throw pillow you threw at him to the pile. “The doctor said it would take twelve weeks for you to bear weight on it again.”

You clicked your tongue against the back of your teeth, letting him help you get situated in your bed. “Well the doctor didn’t give me a bedpan and a private chef, so I’m hobbling,” you informed him, looking up at Miguel with a bored expression. “But, what are you doing here, Miguel? Hobie and Peter B. have been checking on me.”

He looked around your studio apartment, taking in the disarray before focusing on you again. Your toenails were painted the same shade of navy that Hobie’s were. He sat down on the end of your bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight.

“Yeah well, considering the state of your apartment, it seems like you need me here more than you think,” he said. 

You snorted, a grin that made his stomach turn finding its way to your face. “Aw Miggy,” there was a teasing lilt to your tone, “are you a secret softie? If I didn’t know better, I’d guess you were worried about me.”

He let out a soft breath instead of a laugh, standing abruptly so you couldn’t see the blush on his cheeks. God, he felt like a bumbling idiot around you. He gathered dirty dishes to do something with his hands, sequestering them to the sink. 

“LYLA was asking about you,” he said, head bent over the sink as he started to clean. The water was warm enough to turn his hands red, the blue dish soap lathering quickly as he methodically washed each plate and set it in the rack to dry. They were charmingly mismatched, a few chipped at the edges.

“Oh, she was?” you asked, but your amused tone told Miguel that you weren’t exactly convinced. 

He nodded anyway. “She rearranged my whole day and made me come out to check on you,” he said, not entirely lying. 

The way you hummed felt like a warm finger running down each notch of his spine, a pleasant shiver radiating out to his fingertips and toes. “Well I guess I’ll have to thank her, sending the most neurotic person I know will at least get me a tidy apartment. Shocker that Peter B. and Hobie never offered to clean.”

The silence that lapsed between you was surprisingly comfortable. He made himself useful by performing menial tasks like collecting the trash and taking it out to the bins, sweeping the floors and throwing a load of clothes in the wash.

“Miguel O’Hara, Spider-Man by night, maid by day,” you murmured, sipping the ice water he’d gotten you. He watched the condensation coat your fingers, dripping to the bedspread. “Do you wear the little outfit, too? With the ruffles and the feather duster?”

“How many painkillers do they have you on?” he asked, picking up one of the little orange bottles on your nightstand. “You’re more irritating than usual.”

There was a hint of a smile, giving him away as he set the pills back where he got them from. 

You rolled your eyes at him, lounging back against the pillows he’d fluffed for you. “I must be incredibly irritating for you to want to spend your day off cleaning my apartment and making me soup,” you teased, one eyebrow lifting. He felt like he’d been caught, some color finding its way to his face as he turned away.

A pot of caldo de pollo was simmering on the stove, he had decided to bring the ingredients with him on a whim. He used to make it for Gabriella when she was feeling sick, he’d filled his basket before he even realized what he was doing, originally he was just going to get you soup from a can.

Your apartment was in a way better state than when he arrived: the small space cleaned and orderly, the smell of cleaning solution and the soup permeating the air. He felt better about it, his nerves soothed for the most part.

“Don’t mention it to anyone,” he said, fixing you with his gaze. “I don’t want anyone to think I’m getting complacent.”

You laughed, nodding. “Don’t worry, Miggy, your secret is safe with me,” you said, pantomiming zipping your lips shut and locking them with a key. He snorted, taking a step back from your bed to stir the pot on the stove.

The only sound for a few moments was a sitcom playing on the television and the caldo simmering. Miguel had sorted through your cabinet of mismatched tupperware to find a few containers. He packed it away in the fridge for you to eat later, you’d already finished a full bowl of it by the time he cleaned the rest of the dishes.

He rubbed his hands on his pants as he glanced around awkwardly. Until then it had been easy to distract himself with tasks, to pretend that he wasn’t there just to see you. Now the truth was staring him in the face, your content sigh warming him from the inside out as you settled back into your bed.

“Well, I guess I should be going,” Miguel said, taking a step toward the sliding door from which he came originally. 

Your brow furrowed as you sat up straighter, wincing a bit as you jostled your injured leg. “Already?” you asked, glancing at the clock on the stove–it was the early evening. If he was above ground the sun would still be out. “You just got to the part where we like… hang out.” 

He pretended not to notice the sheepish lilt to your voice. 

His eyebrows lifted, a chuckle getting caught in his throat. “You want to hang out?” Miguel asked, sounding incredulous. Such an innocuous request felt odd. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone asked to spend time with him. 

“Oh c’mon,” you huffed, your head tilting to one side. “It’s so lonely being cooped up in this apartment all day, and you hardly even talked to me.”

You pouted, your bottom lip jutting out and your eyes going wide like a puppy’s. It was enough to make him go still. He found himself considering it, settling in your cozy apartment and watching a movie with you. 

“Just one movie and then you’re free to go,” you offered, your request too hopeful for him to refuse. 

He sighed, his shoulders relaxing as he agreed. 

The TV was tilted to face your bed, making it hard to view from the couch even as he sat at the very edge of it. You had an orange lamp on your bedside table, the glow of it casting a glare across the screen that obscured the cheesy teen movie you put on.

He could feel you glancing at him on occasion, the two of you almost playing tag with your wandering eyes. Every time he tried to catch your gaze you were watching the movie. 

“What are you doing?” he finally asked, leaning to one side in an attempt to see around the glare on the screen. 

“You should just come sit on the bed, you can’t even see the screen.” You sounded sincere. But, you did just take another dose of painkillers. He wouldn’t be surprised if they were clouding your judgment.

There was plenty of space next to you. He could sit next to you.

It would be more comfortable at least.

“You’re crazy, you know,” Miguel said, picking himself up off the couch. LYLA would never let him live this down if she found out about it. 

Your mattress was so soft, squishing beneath him as he settled against the headboard next to you. It was like he was sixteen again, his palms clammy and his mouth dry as he tried to avoid looking at you like you were the sun. 

Had he always been this nervous around you?

You nudged him with your elbow, interrupting the horrible spiral of his thoughts. “Thanks for going through all the trouble,” you murmured, your voice soft and sincere. “I know I get on your nerves… I guess it’s just really nice that you came.” 

“Tch, you don’t get on my nerves,” he denied immediately, his eyes flickering away from yours.

He fought supervillians, stared down guns, and watched whole universes collapse. But he couldn’t quite look at you.

You laughed, yawning into your hand as you leaned even further back into the pillows. “Don’t lie,” you said with a smile, your eyes crinkling charmingly at the edges. “I know I drive you crazy, Miggy.”

It was his turn to snort, watching you out of the corner of your eye as you relaxed next to him. “Only a little,” he murmured, a genuine smile on his face.

You didn’t answer, just giggling as you yawned again. The movie you picked was horrible, the jokes painfully cheesy and outdated, but you laughed at them anyways. He found himself holding his breath after each one so he could hear your sleepy chuckle better, trying to memorize the sound of it. 

It was near the end of the movie that he heard your heartbeat slow, your cheek falling against his shoulder as your breaths evened out. Miguel stiffened for a moment, looking down to see your eyelids fluttering and your lips parted as you dreamed. 

The movie ran into the credits, autoplay putting on something he had never even heard of before. He didn’t bother reaching for the remote, scared he would wake you up by reaching across you to your nightstand. 

He let his head rest against the crown of yours, his eyelids starting to drift shut as the noise of the television faded to the background. Calmness washed over him, the tension he carried with him sloughing off his shoulders. It had been way too long since he relaxed like this.

The sound of his watch beeping startled him out of his half-sleep, a lance of panic going through him. 

LYLA formed into a hologram above the surface of it, orange and yellow beams of light fleshing her out as she stood with her arms crossed over her chest and all of her weight on one leg. “Jess and I haven’t heard from you all day, we were starting to worry that you died or som–” 

Her eyes widened behind her rose glasses, her hands clasping together in front of her. “No way! Jessica, you were right! You have to come see them cuddled together!” she shouted to Jessica. Miguel cringed, worried you’d wake from the commotion.

You didn’t seem to notice, your breathing steady.

“Cállate,” Miguel hissed, turning the volume down. “Is there even a problem?”

LYLA thought about it for a moment, tapping her finger against her chin before she shook her head no.

He rolled his eyes. Of course there wasn’t a problem. 

“Don’t bother me until tomorrow,” he said, turning off the call before she could answer. He yawned, rubbing his eyes with his hand as he let himself slump against you. 

He yawned again, finally drifting off to the rhythm of your soft breaths.

[vivwritescrappythings]

Could you do something for Miguel O’Hara ? Something hurt/comfort ,reader is recovering from an injury,not super serious maybe a broken leg or smth (whatever you want have fun with it !) but insists on doing stuff themself but Miguel or all protective and caring

The “what are you doing up “ kinda vibe if you know what I mean lol

Finally finished this request after a weird writing slump paired with working full time and going back to school! I hope you like it--it's my first time writing Miguel!

posted here

[vivwritescrappythings]

thank you so much for reading!!! and thank you for enjoying the impromptu attempted history lesson on ancient roman marriage customs 💕

ubi tu gaius, ego gaia

marcus acacius x fem!reader

part 1

The day of your wedding to Marcus Acacius finally has come. What kind of man is he behind closed doors?

a/n: this is part 2 to this lovely request! sorry it took me a while, i work full time and am getting a graduate degree

tw: fem reader, afab reader, reader is shorter than Marcus, reader has hair long enough to braid, social norms of ancient rome (my research may also be wrong, but i did my best), your imaginary dad is a misogynist, not proofread, Marcus may be poorly written, SMUT, p in v sex, riding, fingering, creampie

word count: 10k

masterlist

MDNI!

--

You were dizzy with anxiety. No matter how many times your aunt tried to soothe you, your thoughts were a boat that had strayed too close to Kharybdis–pulled into the watery depths of your inadequacy as you fussed with your hair and your dress and the flowered crown you weaved last night. It was hard not to burst into tears as you straightened it on your head, pinching leaves into place and pruning shriveled petals from the flowers. 

It settled nicely, the colors warm and inviting. You had gathered the flowers and greenery yourself, taking your time to pick the best blooms. A similar one was made for Marcus to wear, an errand boy having already taken it to his domus that morning. Crowns befitting a husband and wife—or at least you hoped as much. 

“You must calm down,” your aunt murmured, brushing her fingers over your brow to smooth the furrow. “You look beautiful, just as a bride should.”

You stared at the reflection of yourself, taking in the slope of your nose and the curve of your lower lip. The white stola was your mother’s, woven in one piece out of a linen so fine you knew she had spun it herself. You added a border the color of egg yolks to match your veil. A wool belt tied in the knot of Hercules pulled the loose fabric in at your waist. 

The belt was soft beneath your fingertips as you idly traced the shape of the knot. Marcus was the only person allowed to untie it–the knot of Hercules could only be undone by a groom on the eve of his wedding. 

It was hard to imagine. The wedding still felt elusive despite it being only a few hours away. 

Perhaps it was the notion that you would suddenly accomplish everything your father had ever intended that you found difficult to grasp. You would soon be a wife and you, much to your father’s delight, would be Marcus’s responsibility. It was the culmination of all your training.

What would be left of you then?

It had never occurred to you that there would be something after. An entire life left to live.

Would Marcus be as your father was: controlling and demanding with a clear image of what the matron of his house would look like? Or–perhaps the more frightening option–would he allow you to take your own shape? 

It was impossible to know.

“It is nearly time,” your aunt said as she stood behind you, affixing the veil to the flower crown and adjusting it to cover your intricately braided hair. The golden fabric hung down your back, just barely brushing the floor. “The omens were taken this morning, it seems you have chosen a favorable wedding day.”

“I am lucky, then,” you breathed, nodding as you met her gaze in the reflection.

She took stock of you, fiddling with the folds of your stola and the way your jewelry settled against your skin. “You look so much like your mother like this,” she murmured wistfully, the sincerity in her tone nearly making you choke. 

It was becoming hard to remember what your mother looked like–you were so young when she passed away. Your father refused to talk about her and your brothers followed his lead, claiming that it was too painful to discuss her. The only memories you had of her were hazy: a soft voice singing you to sleep, a gentle hand running a brush through your hair. Always faceless. 

You only knew about her from the things she left behind–jewelry, clothing, tapestries. She liked gold more than silver, preferred red to blue. Almost every tapestry was adorned with images of the rolling countryside. Maybe she would have liked to summer there. 

And now you knew of her from her wedding attire that had been carefully boxed away, the stola soft around you–it was simple, as was the woolen belt at your waist. Simple and elegant. 

“What was she like?” you asked, hoping your aunt would not rebuke you as so many others had before. 

She guided you to sit before the mirror, producing the leather sandals for you to wear. “She was lovely. Generous and kind and intelligent,” your aunt said as she buckled the straps around your feet and ankles. “She loved music and debates at the Forum. Far too good for your father, but he was a different man before she died.”

You listened intently, greedily taking in any scrap of information you were given.

“She loved you so much,” your aunt said as she stood, pinching your cheeks to bring color to them. “She would have loved to get you dressed this morning and–”

Your father burst into the room with little care, looking flustered as he set his gaze on both of you. “The procession has arrived and your bridesmaids are in place, you must go now,” he said, hardly even taking in your appearance. You wondered if he even noticed that you were wearing your mother’s wedding attire.

Ultimately, it did not matter. He had already left the room by the time you stood, your aunt ensuring that the stola and veil draped properly as you took slow steps out of your room. It was nearly empty now, your things having been packed away in trunks that would be transferred to Marcus’s domus during the feast.

Your father’s home had been decorated opulently–tree boughs and flowers hung along the walls and columns, elegant tapestries providing additional color. Bands of wool stretched in elegant swags lined the hallway to the atrium where Marcus would be waiting for you.

Marcus.

The thought of his name made you feel faint. 

Your bridesmaids met you near the entrance to the atrium–a few girls you grew up with dressed in their best pallas wrapped around them and flowers woven into their hair. They greeted you with wide smiles, reaching out to squeeze your hands and pull you into embraces.

Their compliments rained over you, coaxing a shy smile onto your face despite the suffocating feeling of your trepidation. You could hear the witnesses murmuring just around the corner, waiting for you to arrive. 

Then, your matron of honor took you by the arm and brought you into the atrium, the other two bridesmaids following.

Marcus stood next to the impluvium, a priest of Jupiter at his side. The toga he wore was beautifully crafted, the cream color of the fabric entirely unblemished with a border of gold thread running along the hem. The white and gold cloak marking him as a general was clasped just below his throat. 

His expression changed when he saw you, the corner of his mouth twitching into the smallest of smiles, umber eyes crinkling at the corners. A warm drip of pleasure ran down your spine–making him smile felt like a feat of great difficulty. 

You almost forgot yourself, your look of apprehension wavering to a true smile for a moment. Roman brides were expected to be nearly distraught on their wedding day: devastated to leave their fathers while also eager to join their new husband. If a woman only was excited to marry, it reflected poorly on her family.

So you schooled yourself into a carefully practiced expression of perturbation as you worried your lower lip with your teeth for a moment, your steps on the smooth stone floor faltering for a beat.

The witnesses had parted for you–a mix of your father’s and Marcus’s friends and their wives present to view the ceremony. Your father and brother’s were among them, you could see the impatient set of your father’s shoulders and the curious gazes of your brothers. They had not set eyes upon you since you were a girl, but in a matter of moments you would be married to their commanding general.

You stopped in front of Marcus, facing him. It was hard to know what to do with your hands, so you clasped them before you as you glanced up at him. You only held his gaze for a moment before looking away, your cheeks warming.

The priest began, his voice surprisingly commanding despite his withered appearance. “Evil spirits are not welcome here, the omens have been taken on this auspicious day in favor of this union,” he said, causing the whispers of the witnesses to die off into silence. 

“We ask the lararium and Vesta for their blessings,” the priest announced, gesturing with wide, sweeping motions. 

Fresh incense had been lit upon the lararium, the altar to the household spirits gleaming from the thorough polish it received that morning. All three were represented: the genius for the prosperity of the family, penates for the prosperity of the house, and lares for protection.  

“Finally, may Janus guide each of them through the transition from their individual lives to pursue a life together as husband and wife.”

The matron of honor moved forward, joining your right hand with Marcus’s. His grip was warm and firm, his calloused thumb rubbing up and down over the back of your palm in a soothing motion. The stretch of his fingers almost reached entirely across your hand, your own almost disappearing within his palm. Your forefinger rested over his pulse, his heartbeat steady and slow.

He did not seem nervous at all.

You were to begin, you had rehearsed. As you are Gaius, I am Gaia. It could not have been more simple.

“Ubi tu Gaius, ego Gaia,” you murmured, demurely looking up at your soon to be husband. He squeezed your hand gently as you spoke.

“Ubi tu Gaia, ego Gaius,” he responded, his voice deep and smooth like honey. 

You could hear your father’s sigh of relief from where you stood. A bright smile stretched across your face, delight warming you from the crown of your head to the tips of your toes. You had gotten the idea in your mind that Marcus would change his, that he would wake up and want to marry a Senator’s daughter.

The priest said something you could not quite hear, too wrapped up in your own thoughts.

Marcus’s free hand cupped your cheek, tilting your head up toward his. The kiss he pressed to your lips was chaste, nothing more than a quick peck before he stepped back. It left you a bit giddy, your head full of air as he directed you to the two stools facing the makeshift altar to Jupiter that had been set up in the atrium.

The priest prattled on about respecting the gods in a marriage covenant and the duties of a husband and wife. You were impatient as you listened, wanting to lean into Marcus and hear the low tones of his murmur during the first of too many feasts.

“It is time for the couple to break bread together.” The priest presented a dish with spelt bread to you and Marcus, each of you taking one side in hand. 

You carefully broke off a corner with your fingers, tentatively presenting it to Marcus. His dark eyes were sparkling, a smile curving his lips as he parted them for you to feed the bread to him. Your breath hitched as his mouth just barely brushed your fingertips, your gaze stuck on the way his jaw moved as he chewed. He pressed a kiss to your palm before you pulled your hand away.

He was gentle as he moved through the same motions, feeding a portion of the bread to you. His thumb lingered for a moment on your bottom lip before pulling his hand away, watching as you slowly chewed the honey-sweetened bread. The way his dark eyes focused on you made you feel like you had been turned inside out. The weight of his gaze was inescapable, your eyes finding the marble floor. You heard him huff softly, the sound almost affectionate. 

Then he continued on his duties, breaking a larger portion to present on the altar for Jupiter. The rest was taken by a servant to be divided amongst the guests. He sucked the honey off his fingertips as he reached back to gently cup your elbow, bringing you forward to the altar with a gentle hand. 

He signed the marriage contract first, without hesitation. You looked down at his name with a wistful expression. 

Marcus Acacius. 

You wanted to trace the letters with your fingertips, but instead you simply took the reed pen in your hand. With a deep breath you placed the inked tip against the papyrus sheet, signing your name beneath Marcus’s. 

And that was all, you were a married woman.

Your father practically sounded giddy as he announced the feast in the inner gardens, taking up the new fashion of eating outdoors. Truthfully, there was not enough room in the trinclium to fit everyone without setting up a second. 

You preferred it, the smell of the lemon and orange trees perfuming the air and shading the long tables that had been set out. Marcus waited for you to take his arm, the muscle of his bicep warm and strong beneath your fingers. You entered the courtyard first, the corners of your veil draped over your arms so it did not drag on the ground.

“You are beautiful,” he murmured softly, head bent toward yours. You could feel his gaze travel over you, dragging from your feet to the crown of flowers and greenery holding your veil in place.

You smiled, your gaze dropping to your feet for a moment as he led you to the center seats at the high table across the courtyard. You were seated between Marcus and your father, your aunt and brothers to the right of your father and some of Marcus’s cousins to his left. 

“Are you pleased?” you asked as he sat down next to you, a huff of breath from you giving your nerves away.

Marcus leveled you with his dark eyes, twisting in his seat to face you properly. A big hand found yours, gently squeezing the delicate bones of your fingers for a moment. “Are you pleased, meum cor?” he asked, his deep voice curling over the term of endearment as though he had spoken it a thousand times before.

Your heart stuttered, the consideration of your opinion still catching you by surprise. But you found yourself nodding quickly–you were pleased. Even when you had imagined your wedding as a little girl, you never anticipated feeling so content. It had been hard to conjure the shape and character of your husband, but Marcus surpassed everything you had dreamed of by far.

“Then I am pleased as well,” he said, a hand curling around the nape of your neck and pulling you in to press a kiss upon your brow.

Your eyes fluttered shut as he did, the simple intimacy of the exchange warming you. There had been no model for how a couple acted in your life, your father had never sought out another wife after your mother passed. You never knew it could be that way.

“After all, I am married to a wonderful woman, how could I not be pleased?” 

You rolled your eyes good-naturedly, leaning against the straight back of your seat. “You know, we are already married–there is no need to be so generous in your compliments,” you murmured, settling in your seat as you prepared to speak with your approaching father and aunt.

Marcus’s gaze lingered on the side of your face, making it burn. “I do not compliment you just to charm you, my lady, I hope you will come to realize that,” he said, curling his fingers around your hand and letting the entangled unit rest on your thigh.

Then your father and aunt were upon you, the first in a long line of congratulations you would have to listen to that day.

–

You watched Marcus leave from the atrium, his deep laugh echoing through the evening as he walked with his cousins. The feast had gone on until sunset, food continuously filling platters and wine flowing freely. You felt warm from the few goblets you drank, and Marcus’s cheeks were flushed when he took off to meet with you at the first crossroads between your father’s domus and his.

The atrium was loud with activity as you prepared for the procession. Your bridesmaids helped you drape your veil out of the way as the torch was lit from the hearth. The boys walking with you were chatting amongst one another, fighting over who got to carry the torch while the other two had to guide you by each arm. A camillus had arrived specifically for the procession, ensuring that you followed all of the proper religious rites lest you doom your marriage before it even had the chance to truly begin. Your matron of honor carried your distaff and spindle to represent your domestic life. 

The evening was erring on the side of cold, the beginning of autumn rearing its head as you stepped out onto the street. You watched the torch flame flicker before you as you walked, more focused on keeping steady on the cobblestone due to your wine-induced tipsiness. The rest of the procession was giddy and loud behind you.

You let the boys on either side of you lead the way to Marcus’s domus, your heart rate increasing with every step. A shaky smile still found a home on your face–you were walking to your new home. 

People on the street stopped to offer you their best wishes, some joining the procession despite not knowing where you were headed. You welcomed the company all the same. Their voices joined those of your wedding guests, singing songs that you had heard from other wedding processions. 

Marcus waited for you at the first intersection, bags of nuts and sweetmeats and sesame cakes distributed between him and the two men who had accompanied him on his errand. His gaze remained only on you as the procession approached.

You dropped one of the three coins you carried at the crossroad, offering a silent prayer to Janus. The two groups mingled, Marcus and his companions spreading their treats through the crowd.

“Now what would my wife like?” he asked, walking backwards to keep up with you. He seemed almost boyish despite the way his hair was graying at the temples and lines marked the corners of his eyes. Even his steps seemed lighter than air.

“A sesame cake,” you decided. He arranged it for you, waving over the man who carried them over and selecting one for you. 

Instead of giving you the cake, Marcus leaned in to kiss you. Unlike each time that day, he parted his lips, the kiss messy and clumsy as you both walked. But you were melting into it, your steps quickening as you pressed forward, letting your mouth open beneath his. He was shooed off by your bridesmaids, the girls tittering as he separated from you with mirth shining in his expression. 

“You have to wait until we get her home, Marcus!” one of the men shouted, laughs echoing up from the procession behind you. Your cheeks warmed, the wolf-whistles making you bashful as Marcus waved them off with a hand.

“The sesame cake, Marcus,” you reminded him with a giggle. He made a soft noise of acknowledgement, breaking the cake in his hands in half before feeding you part of it. It was sweet on your tongue, making you hum as you chewed. He ate the other half, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek before going to mingle with the rest of the procession behind you.

You were still being pulled along by each arm, the procession eager to deliver you to Marcus’s estate and begin the next party of many. The sheer number of people that had joined in astounded you, strangers shoulder to shoulder with friends and family. They were all merry as they sang songs and shouted compliments and well wishes. Marcus distributed treats among them, some of the nuts getting tossed up toward you for good luck.

It was not much longer until you reached Marcus’s domus. Guards were at the entrance, only allowing wedding guests through. 

The boys had dropped your arms, lingering on the steps to the front door as your aunt wrapped her arms around you. “You are a very lucky bride,” she murmured into your ear, her chin hooking against your shoulder. The two of you swayed gently together.

“This house is grand,” you breathed, taking in the way the lit sconces and braziers shone through the windows. 

Your aunt hummed, her head barely shaking as she disagreed with you. “No… well, yes, General Acacius has a very lovely estate,” she amended, squeezing you gently, “but I mean the way he looks at you. You may as well actually be Gaia.”

Your hands covered hers where they linked above your navel. “I doubt it,” you breathed, turning to look at her for a moment. Her gaze was warm, kind.

“I believe you have my wife,” Marcus said, making both of you turn around. There was a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he leveled his stare upon you. He took a step forward, hands twitching at his sides. “It is due time that you give her to me.”

Your aunt denied him, as was custom. “You will have to rip her from my arms, General Acacius,” she said, her hold on you tightening marginally. You never understood it, the show of a husband pulling his wife from the arms of her mother. Perhaps if it was your mother holding you, you would understand.   

Marcus’s lip curled at the challenge. You pretended to desperately hold onto your aunt as he descended upon you, thick arms curling around your waist. Part of the game was pretending you were less than willing, that you could not imagine leaving the company of your family for this new life with your husband. You had seen other women tearfully clutch their mothers as their husbands wound their arms around them, earnest in their hesitance. 

You would have let go right away if it would not have reflected poorly on your father. Instead you yelped, one hand grabbing Marcus’s forearm as the other still clutched your aunt. It took him one, two more good tugs to free you from her hold, his shout of victory echoing as he held you close.

Marcus pressed a quick kiss to your brow before setting you on your feet. A big hand remained pressed against the small of your back, nudging you along to the front door. 

Bands of wool rested near each doorpost, a clay container of oil near the door. You had anguished over this portion of the ceremony, trying to practice smooth ways to unwind the wool before you had to do the real thing. You managed it smoothly, spiralling the red yarn over both columns to represent your domestic role in the home. The olive oil was warm on your fingers, the guests singing behind you as you rubbed the oil into the painted wood. You spread it across the edges of the door, the oil dripping down to your elbow until the door was relatively saturated to show the abundance you hoped for in your lives.

You wiped your hands off on a scrap of cloth looped through the handle of the jar, barely having time to properly set it down before Marcus lifted you into his arms. The screech you let out was unsightly for a woman of your station, but it only made him chuckle softly and he held you with an arm beneath your knees and the other behind your back.

“Are you ready to enter your home, meum cor?” he asked, maneuvering you just enough to be able to push the door open with one hand. 

You looped an arm around the back of his neck, buzzing with excitement. “Do not make me wait longer, Marcus,” you said, eager for him to put you down. All you could think about was the weight of your body in his arms.

He just nodded, crossing over the threshold into the atrium of his home–your home.

It had been decorated extravagantly, beautiful bouquets of fresh flowers perfuming the air along with colorful fabrics and tapestries hanging from the walls with fresh tree boughs laden with fruit. You could feel the pride exuding from him as he set you down.

“Marcus, this must have cost a fortune,” you murmured, your fingertips pressed to your lower lip as you tried to hide your delighted smile. No one had ever gone through this much trouble for you before.

He took both of your hands in his as the guests streamed in, admiring the decor. “And I would spend it a thousand times over to see your lovely smile,” he said, his head bending toward yours. “I am glad you find it suitable–I admit I left most of it to my cousin’s wives.”

“And they did a very good job,” you murmured, squeezing his hands for a moment before you reached out to take the torch.

The boy ran off as soon as he handed it to you, returning to his parents just as your other escorts had. You took the burning torch to the empty hearth, lowering the flame to the kindling. It took a few moments to light, the warmth washing over you as the fire crackled to life. You prayed to Jupiter, running over the words you had practiced a thousand times to ensure that your hearth and home would be warm and safe. 

You had no doubt that it would be. 

The torch was quickly extinguished, tossed amongst the guests to scramble over. The unburnt torch was said to be a sign of good fortune, blessing whomever was lucky enough to finally grab it. 

You paid the results no attention, hardly caring to find out who ended up capturing it as Marcus brought you to one of the one of the various tables laden with food, plucking a fig from the bunch. He turned the fruit over in his hand, scrutinizing it in the firelight.

“The first time you came to this place you were hardly able to stomach an entire fig,” he murmured, taking a bite of it. He turned to you as he chewed, leaning on the table with his hip. “And you are now my bride.”

 There was a honey cake nestled amongst the rest of the food, sticky on your fingers as you selected it. “The stories of you are very intimidating, General Acacius,” you said, smirking playfully. You had been petrified of him at first, expecting a hardened, difficult general. “I thought you would be much more… strict,” you said, savoring the sweetness of the honey on your tongue.

It was his turn to laugh, his hand capturing you by the waist and pulling you in. He gently tugged at the woolen belt around your midsection, eyes flashing as though he meant to untie it then and there. “Strict? I can be strict if you wish it so,” he teased.

You rolled your eyes, accepting the goblet of wine that he poured for you. “How about instead of that, we enjoy our party,” you suggested, tongue darting away to lick the droplets that clung to your lips. 

The motion seemed to catch his attention, his mouth dropping open for a moment before he caught himself, swallowing thickly. You lifted a brow, unsure what to make of his expression before he cleared his throat, umber eyes looking almost like obsidian as he met your gaze. “I think that is an excellent thought,” he said softly, taking up his own goblet.

You lifted your cup to his for a moment, taking a long drink of it before your matron of honor emerged to pull you into a conversation, separating you from Marcus once more.

–

It was late when you finally found one another again, your breath smelling like wine and Marcus’s cheeks flushed as he secured both hands around your waist. 

Midnight had long passed, the evening climbing toward the early hours of the morning as he dipped his nose into the curve of your throat. The strong bridge of his nose was a touch cold against your skin, making you squeak and shiver. But you remained in his hold.

“I think it is high time that I get my wife alone,” he said lowly, his voice more of a rasp than you had ever heard it. All of the talking and laughing was catching up to him, but you did not mind it.

You hummed, a smile finding its way to your face as you grasped his toga. “Alone? Then you should lead the way,” you breathed, anticipation starting to roil in your gut. You had received plenty of unsolicited advice on being alone with your husband, drunk matrons in attendance providing their opinions to you each time they spoke. Each conversation made your anxiety climb higher and higher as you became aware of your lack of experience.

It was expected of a bride to be less experienced than her husband, but you still found it intimidating.

Marcus guided you to his cubiculum, ignoring the good-natured jeers from some of your guests as he cut a straight line through the crowd. The sound of lyres and talking diffused as you ascended the stairwell to the second floor. A guard was posted at the door, stepping aside as you approached. 

“Do not let anyone disturb us,” Marcus instructed, prompting the guard to nod silently before Marcus opened the door and ushered you into the room.

It was larger than you expected, the bed the dominant piece of furniture in the room as you looked around. There was a tree partially obscuring your view of the moon outside the window. The walls were elegantly painted, murals of cities you did not recognize adorning each panel. 

Marcus pressed himself against your back, his fingers looping around the wool belt as he bent toward your neck. “I have been eager to get you here all day,” he mumbled against your throat, goosebumps running down your arms.

“You have?” you asked softly. He removed the flower crown and veil from your head, setting it on a nearby table. The weight off your neck was a relief. You sighed, letting your head roll back to rest against his shoulder as your eyes fluttered shut. The comfort of his presence was a shock, you expected to feel uncomfortable around him.

He made a sound of agreement, pressing his lips to your neck. “Of course I have, meum cor,” he said softly. 

You bit your lip, trying to breathe through the bubble of anxiety in your chest. The past few hours had been spent agonizing how your first moments alone together would go–you had gathered vague information about what you were supposed to do, what he expected. It seemed that all of the women at the party had advice to give, informing you about what their husbands enjoyed.

With a deep breath, you turned in his arms. Marcus’s deep brown eyes looked practically molten in the flickering light from the hearth. He cupped your jaw in the scoop of his palm, thumb rubbing over your cheekbone. Your fingers twisted into the curls at the nape of his neck, pulling him in for a kiss.

He let out a groan, a hand finding the small of your back as he pressed your body firmly against his. His trimmed facial hair tickled your skin as you clumsily followed his lead. You parted your lips when he did, letting out a soft noise of surprise as he licked into your mouth. His tongue tasted like wine and figs, twisting around yours and running along the inside of your teeth. 

You pulled back, looking up at Marcus through your lashes for a moment.

Everything those women said kept running through your mind. You had to please him, to show that you were able to be the perfect wife.

You took a deep breath, teeth digging into your lower lip for a moment as you steeled your nerves. If you had anything less to drink you would have been frozen in place, but instead you sank to your knees, your fingers already having found the edge of his toga.

It seemed easy enough when they told you: take it into your mouth and suck until… until what? That part had been left out of your conversations, but you were sure you could figure it out.

Marcus’s hand found the back of your head, fingertips pressing into your hair. The stone was harsh against your knees, but you remained at his feet dutifully as you began to pull the folds of the crisp white toga out of the way. His legs were tanned and scarred, the wide muscle of his quads sporting a smattering of dark, curly hairs. You tentatively ran your hands over his skin, your palms smooth as your fingers curled over his knee and around the back of it.

Then he laughed. You felt your entire face get warm as you looked up at him through your eyelashes. “What are you doing?” he asked, a smile on his face. He cradled the back of your head in his hand, tipping it further back so he could get a better look at you.

All of the air had been sucked out of the room, embarrassment winding around your chest. “Well, some of the women…” you said, trailing off as you pressed your fingers to your lower lip–a nervous habit.

He snorted, the sound making your face practically catch on fire. “Some of the women?” he prompted, crouching down in front of you. His other hand nudged your chin, keeping eye contact despite the fact that you wished the floor beneath you would open up and swallow you whole.

“Well, uh, they gave me advice,” you admitted, chewing on the inside of your cheek. It was mortifying to admit, the words sounding ridiculous out loud. You wrung your hands in your lap. The silence that hung between you forced you to babble. “I just… I wanted to be able to please you. You have much more experience than I do and I was worried that my naivety would disappoint you.”

Marcus smiled, his thumb gently touching the corner of your lip for a moment. “There is no chance that you would disappoint me, meum cor,” he breathed, so sincere that you could burst into tears. 

“That…what you were just doing, there will be time for that later,” he said, winding his arms beneath yours as he lifted you to your feet. He half carried you across the room, your toes brushing against the floor before you were deposited on the bed. “This night I want to be for both of us, alright?”

You gulped, nodding as you looked up at him. The nod was enough for him, Marcus’s hands unbuckling your sandals and dropping them to the floor. He gestured for you to move further back onto the bed, the wool soft beneath you as you did as he said.

Your wide eyes followed his movements as he removed the ornamental parts of his attire, his cape tossed haphazardly over an upholstered chair along with his sandals and the laurel wreath you had weaved for him. It was hard to breathe as you watched him remove his toga, left solely in his cream-colored tunic

He stalked toward you like a wolf hunting its prey, grabbing you by the ankles and yanking you toward him. You let out a yelp that turned into a giggle as you landed on your back, your wedding gown riding up around your thighs. 

“Tell me, my lady, what do you know of pleasure?” he asked, letting your legs fall to either side of his hips. He reached for the knotted belt at your waist–he was the only one allowed to untie it. 

To your surprise, your bashfulness turned into mortification. You wanted to lie, to tell him that you knew absolutely nothing–that was what any good bride would have done. What you knew was inconsequential, your information was only self-centered rather than knowing anything about a man and woman…together. 

“Do not be afraid, tell me the truth,” he breathed, the belt falling open. Your dress lost all semblance of shape and structure, the woven fabric falling loosely around your form as he began to pull it apart.

Goosebumps pricked over your skin, following the trails that Marcus’s calloused fingers left behind. “I, um, have… explored myself,” you admitted, looking up at the vaulted ceiling. There was a mosaic of the sun inlaid there, the tiles shining orange in the firelight. It was easier to study the colors they used rather than wait for his reaction.

He only chuckled, bending over you as he began to press kisses to your clavicle. “I am glad to hear that,” he said into your skin, the wiry hairs of his mustache forming to each word as he spoke. His lips trailed toward your sternum, the neckline of your dress splitting as he pulled away the fabric. “I worried you would be a bride that did not know up from down–it is a relief that you will be able to tell me what you enjoy.”

You tried to keep your breaths even, briefly squeezing your eyes shut as he pulled your dress down your arms. Your chest was bare, the press of his lips to the soft swell of your breast almost making you jolt. “Whatever you enjoy will be more than sufficient,” you said, tentatively threading your fingers in his thick hair.

His displeasure was hummed against the silken underside of your breast, dark eyes focused over the swell of it at you. You were pinned in place by the weight of his stare, gasping softly as his fingers brushed over one of your nipples. “I have been paying attention,” he said, wet presses of his lips finding the valley between your breasts once more, “and, while you have allowed everyone in your life to make your decisions for you, I will no longer allow that.”

“That is not true,” you protested, combing your fingers through his hair. His teeth nipped at the side of your throat, making you tilt your head to bare it to him.

“It is certainly true.” The words tickled, making you squirm. You could feel his smile against your throat. “Meum cor, if you want to do more than sleep in our marital bed this evening, you must tell me what to do.”

“Marcus,” you murmured, brow furrowing, “I cannot do that.”

It was hard to imagine asking for anything, let alone telling him what you wanted. No man had ever asked you what your needs were. No one had ever bothered wanting to know.

He placed a hand flat on the bed next to your shoulder, propping himself up slightly so he could look down his nose at you. “Then we will have a lovely night of sleep together,” he said, pressing a gentle kiss upon your brow before lying down next to you. 

Your brow furrowed as his arm curled around your waist, reeling you in against him. He was warm against your side with his chin pressing against your shoulder. Despite enjoying the closeness, you could not stop the feeling of disappointment as you considered what your wedding night should have entailed.

You took a deep breath, swallowing thickly before you spoke. “I…I liked when you touched my breasts,” you admitted with a whisper. You covered your face out of embarrassment, your cheeks warm from the wine.

“Is that so?” Marcus asked, his smirk clear in his tone. You nodded sheepishly, glancing at him with wide, hesitant eyes. He captured your lips, voracious and hungry as he opened his mouth to yours. You were so distracted that you hardly noticed his hand ghosting over your naked chest until his fingertips closed over your nipple. 

You whimpered as he tweaked the bud–it never felt as good when you tried touching yourself that way. One circle of his fingers had you keening against his mouth. 

“Like this?” he asked, pinching it softly between his forefinger and thumb. You moaned softly, your thighs squeezing together beneath the remaining fabric of your wedding gown. The other breast earned the same attention.

“And this?” The touch of his tongue to your skin made your eyes roll, his mouth sucking at the bud making your breath hitch. It was all you could do to nod, his curls soft as your fingers tangled in them.

He had you whining and whimpering pathetically as he rolled to hover on top of you, lapping and rolling his tongue over your nipples. The sensation made your sex pulse between your legs, aching like a wound as he made a space for himself between your spread thighs. 

“Marcus,” you mewled, squeezing his sides with your legs. “Please…” You trailed off before you could ask for what you really wanted, your hips tentatively rocking up toward his.

He chuckled, the sound muffled by the mark he was sucking into the side of your breast. “My lady, what do you need?” he asked, voice so sweet it almost made it seem like he was going to take pity on you. “You are asking me so nicely.”

Despite his pretend ignorance he started to pull away the rest of your wedding dress, sitting back on his knees as he yanked it down your legs and tossed it aside. There was not enough time for you to be embarrassed, his body pressing back down upon yours as the tip of his nose dragged in a line from your jaw to your collarbone.

“Marcus,” you huffed, petulant and needy. Your brows knit together, everything about you finding it near impossible to just ask.

He snickered, scraping his blunt teeth over your sternum. “You must ask, meum cor,” he reminded you, one of his hands grabbing the outside of your thigh and squeezing. The contact was enough to send shivers through you, your legs spreading in an attempt to coax his hand between them. “I will give you whatever you wish, lest you tell me that you want it.”

“I thought a husband was supposed to take what he wished on his wedding night,” you muttered, a bit frustrated. You tugged on the roots of his hair, just enough to earn a soft groan from Marcus. “Be the conqueror of the bedroom and all of those things.”

Another laugh, a slight shake of his head. “I have conquered plenty, my lady. Distant lands, foreign armies… I have conquered enough to last an entire lifetime,” his warm tongue laved over your nipple, “Now I wish to see you take in your own right. I am yours just as you are mine, there is nothing you could want that would frighten me.”

You wished his encouragement actually worked, but the words were still shackled behind your teeth. Instead you grabbed Marcus’s hand, fighting through your embarrassment as you brought it to your sex. You pressed his fingertips through the soft thatch of curls there to feel how wet you were.

Something dangerous made his expression light up. “You wanted me to touch you here?” he asked, already rubbing tight circles over the bud of your clit without prompting.

You keened beneath him, nodding through your light-headedness. His touch already felt drastically different than your own, an element of anticipation added to the mix. Each movement was a mystery, a divergence from the routine you had carefully crafted for yourself over many years of exploration. His calloused fingertips applied less pressure than you would have, moving in slow circles to tease you.

His other hand held your hips to the mattress, not letting you buck into his touch for added friction. Each time you tried his grip tightened. It took you a few moments to realize he was doing it on purpose, wanting you to tell him you needed more.

“I need more,” you breathed, your lashes fluttering. 

He immediately acquiesced to your request, the increase in friction was enough to make you dizzy. “You are so beautiful,” he cooed. You were too distracted by sensation to even shy beneath his stare, letting him observe the way your brow bunched and mouth fell open. Your whines were breathy, your knees falling away and toward the mattress. 

The only way you could describe how you felt was madness. Any semblance of control over yourself was quickly lost, or abandoned–you had no way to be sure. 

Your sex clenched around nothing, the emptiness almost painful as you twisted the rough weave of his tunic in your hands. His grip on your hip relaxed, letting your hips stutter up toward his hand–a pitiful attempt to get him to slide one in you without having to vocalize the need. You should have known better.

“Do you wish for me to simply play with your clit all night, meum cor?” he teased. You wanted to wipe the grin off his face.

It was so hard to set aside the lessons you had been taught throughout your life: women were supposed to be meek and soft spoken and subservient. Your father had demanded your supplication, had taught you that your husband would require much of the same. 

But Marcus was not what either of you expected.

He watched you sink to your knees in submission and lifted you back to your feet. You thought he would give you orders with ease, spell out exactly what he wanted from you without a detail spared. Instead he was asking what you wanted from him, begging you to make demands of him.

“I need…please, I need you inside,” you whimpered, the request making your cheeks burn. It was grating on your ears, your desperation unseemly.

If Marcus noticed, he kept it to himself. “We will get there, I assure you of that,” he soothed, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. It was shorter than you wanted, just a momentary peck. There was not enough time to whine for more before a finger teased at your entrance before pressing deep.

“Marcus!” you gasped, eyes widening as you felt him reach deeper inside you than you had ever been able to reach.

He shushed you softly, head bending to press his lips to your jaw. His blunt teeth scraped over the hinge of it as you let out another harsh breath. Your toes curled, spine starting to arch away from the mattress as he found a rhythm that elicited a moan he liked the sound of. 

There was a spot you had no idea existed, the pleasure making your eyes roll each time the pad of his finger rubbed against it. Your breath hitched as his thumb stroked the swollen bump of your clit with the same dizzying pace. It was reminiscent of how you touched yourself, but his capable hands brought you to heights previously undiscovered.

One finger became two, the stretch a discomfort you welcomed. It was only for a few moments, your muscles relaxing into feeling full. 

You were soaking his fingers, the obscene squelch of them inside of you was loud enough to make your cheeks burn.  

But he was looking at you as though you were of the gods themselves, sent down from the heavens and into his bed. The thin rim of color around his blown pupils matched toasted hazelnuts, warm as they took in every detail of you. His stare was almost greedy as it dragged over every part of you he could see. It was caught on the way his fingers disappeared inside your cunt, wetness dripping onto the mattress.

Your voice broke as a third finger entered you, filling you up tight. Three was almost too much, your brows knitting together as your hips rocked, trying to accommodate to the size. The moan that came from you was pathetic.

“I know,” Marcus murmured, his free hand rubbing circles on the indent of your waist as he tried to soothe you. “You need to take three or I will not fit, meum cor.”

You could feel his cock pressing against the back of your thigh, but you did not truly make sense of the size of it until he said something. He did not miss the way your eyes widened, the brief expression of panic flitting over your features. His free hand came up to cup your cheek, thumb running over the apple of it as he leaned down to kiss you.

Teeth clashed together as you opened your mouth to his a little too eagerly, his fingers tilting your jaw to correct it as he grunted. You clenched around his digits, walls fluttering to accommodate them and the steady rhythm he set. 

“You are so close,” he muttered against the corner of your mouth, sounding almost desperate for you. You half understood what he meant, the tightening in your lower abdomen vaguely familiar. It was the point that you had always gotten frightened and stopped, thinking that you could not go any further.

Marcus had no such reservations, moving past what you thought was the point of no return with ease. You choked, your left leg starting to shake uncontrollably where it rested bent against his hip. 

It seemed like a badge of honor to him, a breathtaking smile on his face as you withered beneath him. There was no way for you to speak properly, broken words spilling from your mouth as your mind went slippery with desire. Your hips moved as though they had a mind of your own, jolting with the motion of his hand, one, two, three times before it felt as if you had been struck by lightning.

“There you go,” he said, his voice as sweet as honey as he worked you through your entire body convulsing with euphoria. You squeezed your eyes shut with ecstasy, your cunt clenching around his fingers rhythmically as your world shattered.

Your mind was entirely elsewhere, moments feeling like hours as you desperately clung to Marcus. The wet smear of his lips against your throat revived you, blinking into the world like a newborn as his bedroom shifted into focus. His body held you steady through the aftershocks, your chest heaving as you tried to make your breaths even.

“Marcus,” you sighed, satisfied as you ran your fingers through his hair. He had not moved away yet, cupping your sex comfortingly.

You knew there was more, that more had to happen to truly consummate your marriage. Perhaps now the tirade of making you advocate for what you wanted would end, the focus having been on you for long enough that he would take what he wanted.

He pulled his tunic off in one smooth motion, removing his underclothes quickly. You were astounded as you stared at him–the thick muscle of his body were all the proof of a life spent laboring rather than someone chasing an aesthetic. You were practically salivating at the sight of him, fingers twitching as you languidly moved to your knees, grabbing for him in an attempt to pull him back to bed.

“Come here,” you breathed, hands finding his shoulders as you stretched up to capture his lips.

A breathy laugh was smothered against your mouth, the bed dipping beneath his weight as he knelt on it. He grabbed the fat of your hips, maneuvering with you so he was seated at the head of the bed. You were pulled toward him, shuffling closer on your knees. It was hard to hide the way your stomach flipped as he looked at you like you were the most delicious thing he had set his eyes on.

“You come here, meum cor,” he murmured, voice sounding rough as he squeezed you beneath the wide spread of his fingers. 

“What is it that my husband wants?”

That seemed to pour pleasure into him, his grip marginally tightening as he pulled you so close that you nearly sat astride him.

“I want you to take what is yours,” he whispered, head tilting back so you could watch the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed. One hand ran over your hip to the globe of your ass, giving you a swat that was more affectionate than harsh.

You looked between your bodies, a bit intimidated by his request. But you had been told that you needed to do everything your husband asked on your wedding night–you just had expected that he would have taken control.

Insecurity made itself an unwelcome guest in the room as you swallowed, looking down at his lap. His hand cupped your cheek, moving your gaze back to his. “You can handle it,” he murmured encouragingly, so earnest that you started to believe him. “I want to feel you around me.”

You nodded slowly, letting him guide you over his lap and position you properly. The press of the fat head of his cock made you shudder. You grabbed his biceps, an attempt to steady yourself as you began to lower yourself onto him.

It was a slow process, Marcus’s hands squeezing the thick of your thighs as he helped you. It made it hard to breathe, your mouth dropping open as you eased down every inch of him. It was hard to imagine a life where you were used to the size of him. Three fingers was not enough to properly prepare you, his cock stretching you wider and reaching deeper than you could have anticipated. 

You whined as the backs of your thighs finally settled against his lap, his cock fully seated inside of you. It was like his cock was all the way inside your throat, making you choke. 

“Fuck,” you cursed, your eyes squeezing shut. You could feel the hair on his thighs against your bare ass.

“You are doing so well, meum cor,” he praised as you tried to adjust to the feeling of him so deep inside of you. Your head was spinning, nails digging into his skin as you attempted to find a comfortable way to tilt your hips. His big hand smoothed over the small of your back, pressing so you rocked forward.

“S’too deep like this,” you groaned. He squeezed your thighs hard enough that you were sure there would be bruises left behind, his jaw clenching beneath his beard. It was almost too intense, part of you wanting to lift off of him just so you could catch your breath.

“I know,” he mumbled, his voice impossibly deeper. “It will feel good in a moment, I swear.”

You shook your head, disagreeing with him. The stretch was not painful, only making you feel uncomfortably full as you did your best to settle. He rocked you in his lap a few more times, the coarse hair at the base of his cock catching against your clit as he did. A gush of arousal dripped down his cock, making both of you let out a harsh breath.

“It feels good,” you sighed, holding onto his arms as you slowly lifted yourself up a few inches before sliding back down. You relished in the hollowed-out moan you earned from Marcus, his dark eyes squeezing closed.

It started slow, the grind of just an inch inside of you until you got bolder, sliding up and down Marcus’s cock. Your breasts bounced with each movement, matching the slap of your ass meeting his lap. His gaze could not find a place to land, cutting between your face, breasts, and watching his cock disappear between your thighs. Either way he was enchanted.

The feeling of being in control made your stomach twist, the press of his hands encouraging you to experiment between different motions and tilts of your hips. He was patient as you found what you liked, the muscles in his arms rippling beneath the skin as he assisted you until you found something you liked.  

He grunted unabashedly, each broken sound lending you just how infatuated you felt. The sounds he made were deep, rugged. Huffs of breath and deep sounds in his throat as he started to thrust up to meet each bounce, your sweat-slicked skin slapping together.

“You are so tight around my cock,” he choked out, the deep creases between his dark brows visible as he tried to keep his composure.

“Mhmm.” You nodded, mind blank.

Each plunge of his cock carved out a space inside of you, making you let out a soft exhale as all of the air was forced from your lungs. 

You only had a moment of warning, gone too far in a place of hazy, honeyed pleasure to recognize the tightening in your belly. It spiraled up through you like a knife, slicing you from root to tip with its heat. Your eyes sprung open, you were gasping and scrabbling to hold onto him, each movement frantic. “Marcus–” the rest of the sentence was lost to your moan.

Your legs shook from pleasure and the strain, thighs burning in a way that almost felt pleasant. It was impossible to do anything aside from fall forward, your head falling into the curve of his neck as you panted. His hands shifted your weight on his lap, thrusting up into you from below.

“I truly have the loveliest wife,” Marcus grunted through grit teeth, letting you melt in his lap as he planted his feet against the bed to fuck into you. You could tell he finally was moving how he wanted, his pace quickening as his groans and breaths became shallower, less restrained. The walls of your cunt fluttered and pulsed around his cock as you rode out your orgasm, shivering with each drag of his cock.

“Fuck,” he groaned, your name falling from his lips. He forced your hips down against his, grinding into you.

It drew your eyes to open, lifting your heavy head back onto your shoulders as you found his gaze in the firelight. You touched the tension at the corners of his eyes with soft fingertips, the veins of his throat throbbing and sweat glistening over his brow. The dizzying need to tell him you loved him came over you as one hand smoothed over his throat, feeling his frantic breaths beneath your touch.

“Make me pregnant,” you mewled softly, the request bubbling from you before you could properly think it through.

It was enough, he groaned and went rigid beneath you, rutting up against you like a man possessed. He sounded like an animal, the moan barely contained in his throat as you felt his cock jerking inside of you. Each pump of his spend into you was hot enough to almost burn, filling you up until you were gasping.

He gathered you as close as possible, your skin sticking together with your sweat as you nuzzled into him. You fit like you were meant to be there, head beneath his chin and listening to the frantic beat of his heart.

You could see how the sky was just beginning to turn blue, the sun would be rising soon. 

Marcus moved both of you, laying back against the bed with you sprawled over his chest. You pressed your fingertips over a scar across his ribs, imagining the sword that had slashed him. There was a lot you did not know about your husband, that you still had to learn. 

He fell asleep first, letting your gaze trace over his profile unabashedly. The sun would rise over Rome, shine on the first day of your marriage as you attended another party of many to come.

You would finally enjoy a life you chose for yourself, Marcus at your side.

[vivwritescrappythings]

meum cor

marcus acacius x fem!reader

Your father had raised you for one purpose: to be a very rich man's wife someday. As it turns out, that man is Marcus Acacius, the renowned general himself.

a/n: Thank you for this lovely request! Instead of a princess I made reader the daughter of a rich merchant in Rome, but I hope you like it! I am on the fence about a part 2 right now.

tw: fem reader, afab reader, reader is shorter than Marcus, reader has long hair, social norms of ancient rome, vague description of a chariot crash, your imaginary dad is a misogynist, not proofread, Marcus may be poorly written.

word count: 5.1k

masterlist

--

Being born a woman in Rome was being born shackled. Your life depended on being a mother, a wife. The servitude of others would be your shining opus, the symbol of a life well-lived. It was hard to imagine, your mother passed away when you were just a babe. 

In the privacy of your mind, you imagined growing up to become a soldier or a scholar like your brothers. The desire for independence itched beneath your skin. But that would not be your fate. You were committed to your loom and learning to run a household and being a good wife someday. 

After years agonizing over who to marry you off to, your father had finally found a man suitable enough: General Marcus Acacius. 

His decision was twofold: help your brothers get better positions in the Roman army and increase his influence by tying you to one of the most powerful generals in the empire. 

It was no matter that he was nearly twenty years your senior–your father assured you it was a common match. There was nothing for you to worry about, it would be a great honor for your family for you to marry General Acacius. No use in arguing, or pouting, or fighting against it.

Your father’s word was law.

You ruminated over the mysterious General Acacius for weeks. All you could consider was what your future husband was like, agonizing about any scrap of information you could learn about him. He had spent most of the past few years fighting in battles: the conquest of Armenia, of Parthia, of Germania. A man obsessed with legacy. You could only imagine the amount of blood on his hands–how many people had he killed to aid the sprawling Roman Empire? 

At his age he had never been married before. You had expected to be his second wife, men his age looking to marry were widowers more often than not. Perhaps he had been too dedicated to his military career to consider marriage… or you had heard stories of men who preferred the company of other men. 

If anything, that could make him an amicable husband. Simply marrying you for your dowry and allegiance to a merchant, but otherwise left you to your own devices?

You could live a life that way.

The walk to Palatine Hill did not take you and your father long, the fall weather just starting to cool after a long summer. In truth, you had never even spoken to anyone that lived on Palatine Hill, let alone visited a domus there. Each one was more elegant than the last, elegant homes that exuded affluence with beautiful entryways and manicured grounds. 

The amount your father was offering for your dowry must have been staggering. 

Being a merchant had its benefits. You were sure your father offered access to the best imports and potential to take over a few ships if he wished to step down from his post as general. 

Marcus’s domus was mixed in with the rest, your father nodding to the guards and stating his business. They let you pass without issue. Marcus had invited you and your father to visit his home and they would attend the chariot race that afternoon. It was the final step to securing his agreement to your marriage, ensuring that he deemed you suitable enough to take as his wife.

Your father had been frantically preparing you, training you in proper topics of discussion and how to answer any questions Marcus had. The strategy simply turned into allowing your father to answer any and all questions and smiling demurely in the background. Better seen, not heard.

The autumnal sun slanted into the atrium, shining off the impluvium and illuminating the space. It was sparsely decorated: reception benches positioned strategically around the space, a few tapestries hung on the walls. The most intriguing part of the room was the mosaic in the impluvium, an intricate scene of a gold octopus and colorful fish embedded in the tile. You stared at it for a long time while a servant ran to fetch Marcus from deeper within the household.

Before you realized, he stood before you.

You were surprised to see him dressed so simply—he did not look like the decorated general you had expected. The only indication of his status was the deep burgundy cape clasped over his chest, the clasp and embroidery shining gold. He was broad and tall, his head full of dark curls that were starting to go gray at the temples. His beard was going gray at the jowls. But his gaze was focused on you and your father, his deep umber eyes taking you in. There were a few scars on the tanned skin you could see, the permanent furrows of a scowl above his curved nose.

But he was handsome. 

The thought caught you so off-guard that you nearly tripped on air, heeding your father’s beckoning hand to stand near him. You did not realize that you could find a man twice your age to be handsome, or even pleasing to the eye.

“Justus Acacius,” your father began, his voice booming through the atrium as he put on a show of joviality that he did not feel, “I am pleased to see you once more, and for you to finally meet my daughter.”

Your father gestured to you with a sweeping hand. You inclined your head politely, eyes downcast. “I am honored, Justus Acacius,” you murmured, keeping your gaze on the polished stone. The name felt unfamiliar on your tongue: it was the first time you spoke it aloud.

The weight of his appraising stare was palpable, you did all you could to stay still beneath it. The last thing you wanted was for Marcus to think you weak-willed. You forced yourself to stay calm, your breaths slow and even.

Then came approval in the form of a slight nod–nothing more than a partial lift of his chin. You glanced up, finding his expression unreadable. “Welcome to my domus, I trust the way here was not too taxing,” he said, his voice a smooth baritone. You understood how soldiers could fall into line at his shout—it commanded attention.

Marcus turned to your father, clasping his shoulder in a firm grip that spoke of their familiarity. “Your daughter is a beautiful maiden, Tiberius. You did not over exaggerate.” You glanced at your father, eyebrows ticking up in question. You did not realize that he had bragged about your appearance–in your list of accomplishments he tended to leave it off. 

“Come, let us retire to the triclinium. I have refreshments waiting.”

You followed dutifully, taking in the extravagance of his home. The build of it spoke of opulence, prim white stone forming the walls and meticulously carved columns. For all its grandeur it lacked the details, there were a few busts placed in alcoves and the odd tapestry on the wall. They looked old, the fibers slightly frayed–passed down from mother to son, most likely.

“It requires a feminine touch,” Marcus said, noticing how you were looking around. “Something I am certain my future wife will be able to supplement.”

Your father bristled at the way his statement was open-ended, no guarantee in sight that you would be that future wife in question. It seemed that your supposed beauty was not enough to secure a betrothal.

The triclinium was furnished with three low couches around a dark table, your father claiming the couch in the center and forcing you and Marcus to sit apart from one another. The table was littered with fruits, cured meats, and pastries, but you did not have the stomach for any of it. You took a fig to be polite, taking miniscule bites of it.

Your father and Marcus ate seemingly without concern, grazing as they spoke idly of politics and distant lands the Emperors wished to conquer. It all sounded frivolous to you, the impending doom of your marriage looming over your head like an executioner’s axe. You were so preoccupied in your thoughts that you did not realize Marcus had spoken to you until your father had cleared his throat.

“Tell me,” Marcus said, turning to face you as he handed your father a goblet of wine before pouring one for himself, “what are your interests? Your skills? I would like to know more about the woman I am to wed.”

He leaned against the cushions, the embodiment of relaxation as he drank. His arms crossed over his broad chest, the muscle moving beneath his tanned skin like snakes. 

You took a breath, opening your mouth to answer before your father interrupted you.

“She is excellent with a loom,” your father proudly offered, the metal cup hanging from his fingers as he leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “She took over the duties of my late wife when she was just a girl, and, dare I say, the fabrics she weaves are even more fine than her mother’s.”

Your father did not even allow Marcus time to respond, launching into his next point with gusto. “She also is proficient with the flute and knows how to dance. My wife and I had wanted her to become a Vestal, but the goddess did not call upon her.”

“I assure you, Justus Acacius, she is well prepared to run a household in your absence,” he promised, wetting his lips with the wine to hide the anxious set of your mouth.

Marcus listened intently to your father’s praise of your skills, one eyebrow slightly arched. He took a sip of his own wine, the ruby liquid leaving a faint stain on his full lower lip. 

“Raised modestly as well,” Marcus remarked, glancing at you with a hint of a smirk. The touch of humor surprised you, your cheeks warming as you hid your smile. You took a larger bite of the fig so you did not have to school your expression, the ripe fruit sweet on your tongue.

He set his metal cup down on the wooden table with a soft clink. There was a moment of pensive silence before Marcus cleared his throat, fixing your father beneath his penetrating stare. “I am pleased to hear of your daughter’s talents. They will serve her well as a Roman matron.” He paused, the weight of his words sinking in. “However, I would like to hear it from her. Tell me, how would you intend to manage a household in your husband’s absence?”

His cool gaze drifted back to you, dark eyes glinting with curiosity and a hint of a challenge. The pregnant silence held the expectation of your response.

It was unusual. Most men were comfortable to allow your father to speak for you, preferring women seen rather than heard. It was the first time a man had asked you for your own words. You found the image of him that you created in your mind rewriting itself. 

“As for running a household–I am literate,” that simple fact already put you a step ahead of many women you knew, “my father went through the additional effort of hiring tutors to teach me grammar and how to use an abacus. Now that I am of age I have handled my father’s affairs a few times when he left on trading expeditions–both of my brothers are serving in the army so it fell upon me to manage the responsibilities.”

You paused for a moment, taking a breath as you looked up at Marcus. He was watching intently, holding a terrifyingly neutral expression. “As for running your household, I would study your previous ledgers and discuss your strategy of managing your assets before you were to leave.”

The silence of the room was deafening–you could hardly stand it. “If anything, I rather enjoy calculations with the abacus,” you said, babbling to fill the dead air. You could feel your father’s glare without needing to look at it. “At times I have done them simply to pass the time, seeing how much I can challenge myself.”

Marcus nodded slowly, dark eyes glinting with amusement as the corner of his lip threatened to turn up. He downed the rest of his cup of wine, clasping his hands together in front of him for a moment as his gaze dragged over your form.

“I find your honesty refreshing. It is clear you are well-equipped to be a devoted wife and manage a household of this size,” he said as he stood, towering over you and your father. You were holding your breath, waiting for the verdict as though you would receive your death sentence. “I believe this match will be beneficial for all of us.”

And you could breathe once more. 

You looked up at Marcus, trying to reconcile that the man would be your husband. It had not felt real until he acknowledged the match. Part of you had assumed that he would change his mind upon meeting you, opting to marry some Senator’s daughter instead of the daughter of a merchant.

But he would have you as his bride. His wife. 

Marcus turned to your father, broad shoulders squared. “Tiberius, have you ever sat trackside at the chariot races? I was planning for us to use my seats,” he said, taking a step back to leave the room. You knew your father would be pleased by his offer, sitting with Senators and dignitaries had always been his aspiration.

The sun was shining in through the arches leading to the courtyard, high in the clear sky. The races would surely start soon.

Your father accepted readily, the two of you standing quickly. He arranged for your cousin to meet you at Circus Maximus to escort you home–it was inappropriate for a woman of your social class to walk by herself through the streets of Rome. 

“Tell me, my lady, would you care to join us? I have found that a touch of excitement and spectacle can be invigorating for the soul,” Marcus said, his words an open invitation.

You could not help but glance at your father for his approval–he had always considered the races too aggressive for the fairer sex. They had always intrigued you, the sheer size of Circus Maximus always caught your gaze when you were near. Sometimes you could hear the crowds cheering.

After a moment of deliberation your father nodded, albeit less enthusiastically than he could have. “It will be good for the two of you to spend time together in public, it will serve to announce the union prior to the ceremony.”

“Excellent,” Marcus murmured, holding his hand out palm up for you to take. There were callouses on his palm and fingers that spoke of training long hours with a sword and shield. The spread between his fingers was wide, your hand disappearing in his hold as he pulled you up to your feet. “Let us be off.”

–

Circus Maximus was a buzz as you took your seats, your breath stolen by the enormity of the track and the stadium surrounding it. 

You had never seen so many people in one place, the stands roaring. Marcus’s seats were in the first row. Senators filled in the space around you, your gaze drawn to the broad purple stripes on their tunics. If you had known you would be meeting Senators you would have dressed differently. 

It had already taken you far too long to weave the palla you were wearing over your crisp ivory tunic–a band of yellow following the hemline of the rich crimson fabric. Your father had insisted you wear the jewelry your mother had passed down to you, gold bracelets adorning both wrists and a matching choker clasped at your throat. But you still felt underdressed–you would have braided your hair more intricately or added a band over your bicep. 

“My lady, are you alright?” Marcus asked, pulling you from your thoughts as you blinked at him for a moment. You could feel your cheeks warming, sheepish that you were caught in your reverie.

“Yes, General Acacius,” you breathed, a self-conscious smile twisting the corners of your lips. You did not want him to worry about your comfort. “I was simply gathering my surroundings–this is my first time inside Circus Maximus.I hope you do not take offense to my naivety.”

His surprise was palpable, dark eyebrows lifting toward his hairline and eyes rounding. Then his expression melted into a smirk, his head bending toward yours. “Well, I will find great enjoyment explaining the sport to you if you are willing to listen,” he said, just loud enough for you to hear him.

He was close enough that it felt like a secret between the two of you, a chill running up your spine despite the warm autumnal sun. You found yourself enjoying it.

“Of course, if it is not too much trouble.” Your entire life was dedicated to taking up as little space as possible, your father’s devastation over having a daughter known to you as soon as you were old enough to understand what his rebukes meant.

Marcus’s brow furrowed, his gaze tracking to where your father was speaking with some Senator before coming back to you. “My lady,” he murmured, voice a tick lower as his fingers brushed a loose piece of hair from your face, “you will soon be my wife. I intend to bring you to these events, and they will be more enjoyable if you understand the rules.” His hand cupped the side of your neck, warm against your skin.

You tried not to shy away from his touch, his skin rough against yours. A man had never touched you so intimately before. The frantic beat of your heart filled your ears for a moment, you were sure he could feel the hammer of your pulse against his hand.  

“Alright, explain it to me,” you murmured, biting the inside of your cheek for a moment as you folded your hands in your lap. You twisted the fabric of your palla over your fingers, not sure if he expected you to return the touch or simply accept it. Perhaps you were thinking about it too hard–too worried about misstepping and causing Marcus to change his mind.

But he seemed pleased, releasing you to turn and face the track fully. “Those gates down there are where the chariots start,” you followed the sweep of his arm with your eyes, “they run around the center barrier, the spina, to reach seven laps around the track first.”

You listened intently, bracing one hand on the carved stone rail as you leaned forward. The spina surprised you with its intricacy, obelisks and statues decorating the center of it. There were water features mixed in with the artwork, gilded columns on each end of the barrier indicating turning points.

“Are there teams?” you asked, glancing at Marcus before looking at the track again. 

He nodded, eyes seemingly lighting up at your questions. “Yes, today the Red and White teams will race,” he said, resting his elbows on his knees as his gaze drifted to your palla. “You are dressed aptly, for I support the Reds.”

“It must have been the goddess Fortuna guiding me this morning,” you said with a grin, almost looking smug. 

Your father pulled Marcus’s attention from you, asking questions about which team he supported and if he had placed any wagers. It was hard to hear his reply, their voices getting lost in the din of the stadium. 

Solitude amongst a crowd was something you were taught to be used to, your mind occupying itself with silly games. You counted the number of obelisks in the spina, the number of stadium sections you could see, the number of people in the lowest section across from you. 

The thoughts of your upcoming wedding ceremony drifted into your mind–would your aunt take the place of your mother? Would she dress you the morning of the ceremony? Tie the Herculean knot at your waist in wool? You could hardly imagine Marcus taking you from her arms during the wedding procession–you and your aunt were little more than strangers. But she was the only woman in your family, the responsibility would fall to her. 

“My lady?” You felt a nudge to your side. Marcus and your father were looking at you, you noticed a vendor standing in the aisle. 

“Yes? My apologies, I was lost in thought,” you said amiably, crossing your legs at the knee.

Marcus cleared his throat. “Would you like something to eat?” he asked, so conscientious of you that it was almost frightening. You were thankful it was loud enough that the sound of your stomach growling was audible. 

Despite your hunger you shook your head, waving off his concern with a polite smile. “No, I am alright.” you said softly. You could see your father’s satisfied expression and nod over Marcus’s shoulder. Refusing was the right answer. “Thank you, General Acacius.”

“Nonsense, you hardly touched the food before we left,” Marcus said, turning to the vendor and shouting a few orders. He had a keen eye… you were not used to scrutiny. He took two clay pots from the vendor, handing you one of marinated green olives so he could pay the vendor. “Eat, and do not be afraid to ask for anything you see that entices you.”

“You are far too generous, Justus,” your father said, squinting in the sunlight as he looked at you. His disappointment was clear. But Marcus did not seem to notice or mind, simply placing both bowls into your hands. The other bowl had toasted hazelnuts and walnuts, the clay pot pleasantly warm in your hands. You placed both bowls on the carved stone step between yourself and Marcus, picking from them idly.  

It was enough to satiate your stomach, staving off the dregs of your hunger until you made it home.

Then your gaze was drawn by a magistrate walking onto the track, a white flag held aloft and shining in the sun. Marcus caught the movement out of the corner of his eye, sitting up straighter. “Once he drops the flag, the race will begin,” he said to you with a glance to make sure you were paying attention.

It was quick. As soon as the flag dropped the gates opened, each chariot being pulled by four horses. The thunder of their hooves almost rivaled the cheers of the crowd as all twelve chariots flew down the track.

You watched with rapt attention, studying the way the charioteers had the reigns of the horses tied around their waists. The first two laps seemed to only be used for gaining speed, the chariots staying in their designated lanes before chaos broke loose.

The gasp that pulled from your throat when you watched a charioteer whip another one that got too close caught Marcus’s attention, making him bark out a deep laugh. You had lurched to your feet with the rest of the crowd, the adrenaline getting to you. “They will try to make one another crash as they vie for a position closest to the spina,” he said to you, a hand gently placed on the small of your back. The press of his palm on your spine brought you a step closer to him.

You watched with wide eyes, the red and white robed charioteers careening around the track without abandon. The horses kicked up clods of dirt with every hoofbeat, spraying anyone that dared be behind them. You understood why they had been spraying so much water over the track–an attempt to keep down the dust. 

The first crash was brutal, two sets of horses tangling with one another. One charioteer cut himself free of the reins with a curved knife, jumping from the chariot and into the greenery that adorned the spina. The other one was not so lucky, the sound of wood splintering and cracking reaching your ears as you clapped a hand over your mouth. The other racers had to dodge the mess, narrow misses of the pileup making you wince.

“It is alright, the charioteers are alright, my lady,” Marcus said, his nose brushing against your hair as he spoke into your ear. You looked up, seeing the other man pull himself from the wreckage to safety. It helped you breathe easier, a nod coming from you.

There was one more crash during the race, a chariot clipped one of the columns and spun out of control. Marcus had pulled you to his side as the laps went on, you could feel his excitement through the way his fist clenched in the loose, draping fabric of your palla. You pressed your fingertips to your lips, brow furrowed as you watched the final stretch. 

The teams were neck and neck, the entire stadium tense until the Reds pulled forward at the last moment. You let out a sigh of relief, your eyes slipping closed for a beat. Then you could hear Marcus laugh, loud and raucous. “Why I believe you must be a priestess of Fortuna herself, my lady, for the Reds have not come out victorious in the past fifteen races,” he said to you, crushing you to his side in a way that made you chuckle. 

You had not expected ease at his side, and certainly not praise. Warmth covered your cheeks and neck as a genuine smile found its way to your face, your gaze casting up through your lashes to meet his. He released you after a moment, clapping your father on the back as they animatedly discussed the race.

There were a few more races that day, each one as chaotic as the last–but they were all Red wins.

–

Marcus had insisted on escorting you and your father back to your father’s domus as the sun began to set on the horizon. Your father’s property was grand in comparison to that of your neighbors, but with respect to Marcus’s estate it was a simple home. 

Your favorite part were the orange and lemon trees growing on the property, filling the air with the scent of citrus as the sky turned pink. Marcus had accompanied you up to the atrium, a soft smile on his face as he looked down at you. Your father had sent a servant to fetch wine, anxious to continue impressing Marcus.

“I must bring you with me to all the chariot races, my lady,” Marcus said, his dark eyes raking from your head to your toes. “It seems that your presence bodes well for my luck.”

You shook your head, flattered as you covered your smile with your fingertips. “I believe you are too kind to me, General Acacius,” you murmured, unable to hide your grin from your voice. 

You felt giddy, your father and Marcus had spent the entire journey to your father’s domus discussing dates for the ceremony. It was set for three weeks from that day, it would give you just enough time to alter your mother’s wedding gown to your tastes and to set a menu for the feast.

“Tiberius,” Marcus started, deep voice booming throughout the atrium, “would it be alright if I had a moment of privacy with your daughter? I would like to give her a gift so she does not forget me within the next three weeks.”

He hesitated for a moment before obliging, saying he would be just down the hall if you needed anything. You knew he would be standing just beyond the door.

“You have pleasantly surprised me,” he said, a hand running down the bare skin of your left arm until he held your wrist. Goosebumps lifted on your flesh, a shiver running down your spine as your breath caught in your throat. “I had expected this to be a marriage of necessity, but it seems to me that it has the potential to be much more.”

He pulled something from the folds of his tunic, the gold catching the light of the setting sun as he brought your left hand toward him. You realized that it was a ring–an engagement ring. 

“I wanted to see before I gave this to you, just to be sure,” he murmured, his dark eyes focused on your hand as he threaded the ring onto the third finger on your left hand. “Ah, perfect fit. I should not have expected any less from my priestess of Fortuna.” 

You rolled your eyes, still smiling as you looked down at the ring. It was not as heavy as you had expected, sitting snug on your finger. It was believed that a vein connected your heart to the ring finger–but for some reason you had never imagined a ring occupying that space. It was simple, a design of two hands clasping on the center of the band. But the gold alone must have cost far too much.

“It is beautiful,” you breathed, a bit mystified.

Marcus’s hand clasped your chin, tilting your head up toward his. “It suits you,” he mumbled, dark eyes partially-lidded as he looked over your face.

His hand shifted, clasping the back of your neck. You were stretched onto your toes, leaning toward him with such fervor that you would fall forward if he stepped away. The air between you was warm, smelling of wine and roasted hazelnuts.

The first brush of his lips against yours was tentative, so cautious. It seemed like he was just testing, treating you like glass. 

You should have pulled away, bashful and flustered and told him that you would have time to continue on your wedding day. That three weeks was not a long time to wait–a mere twenty four days away. 

But you did not, hesitantly placing a hand upon his chest for stability as you stretched further into the kiss. Marcus let out a soft groan, the kiss deepening as his mouth slanted against yours. His beard and mustache tickled your delicate skin, but you found yourself enjoying the sensation. The broad stretch of his hands cradled your jaw, guiding you through the clumsiness of naivety into the kiss.

Your hand fisted in his tunic, pulling him toward you with some urgency. He let out a muffled grunt, a hand finding the curve of your hip. 

He then pulled away, his cheeks flushed and his lips parted as he took in air. You could feel his chest move beneath your hand with each heavy breath. A smile curved his lips, genuine in a way you already found yourself cherishing.

“I will see you soon,” he murmured, pressing another chaste kiss to your lips before untangling himself from you. “But I believe if I keep you any longer, your father will be suspicious.”

You let go of his tunic, nodding as you let go of him. He cupped your cheek in his hand, thumb running over your cheekbone before he bid you farewell, stamping another kiss upon your brow before leaving your father’s domus altogether.

The girlish giggle came from you before you could stop it, your hand covering your mouth as you looked down at the ring on your finger. 

Bless the goddess Fortuna for your fate that day.

[vivwritescrappythings]

ubi tu gaius, ego gaia

marcus acacius x fem!reader

part 1

The day of your wedding to Marcus Acacius finally has come. What kind of man is he behind closed doors?

a/n: this is part 2 to this lovely request! sorry it took me a while, i work full time and am getting a graduate degree

tw: fem reader, afab reader, reader is shorter than Marcus, reader has hair long enough to braid, social norms of ancient rome (my research may also be wrong, but i did my best), your imaginary dad is a misogynist, not proofread, Marcus may be poorly written, SMUT, p in v sex, riding, fingering, creampie

word count: 10k

masterlist

MDNI!

--

You were dizzy with anxiety. No matter how many times your aunt tried to soothe you, your thoughts were a boat that had strayed too close to Kharybdis–pulled into the watery depths of your inadequacy as you fussed with your hair and your dress and the flowered crown you weaved last night. It was hard not to burst into tears as you straightened it on your head, pinching leaves into place and pruning shriveled petals from the flowers. 

It settled nicely, the colors warm and inviting. You had gathered the flowers and greenery yourself, taking your time to pick the best blooms. A similar one was made for Marcus to wear, an errand boy having already taken it to his domus that morning. Crowns befitting a husband and wife—or at least you hoped as much. 

“You must calm down,” your aunt murmured, brushing her fingers over your brow to smooth the furrow. “You look beautiful, just as a bride should.”

You stared at the reflection of yourself, taking in the slope of your nose and the curve of your lower lip. The white stola was your mother’s, woven in one piece out of a linen so fine you knew she had spun it herself. You added a border the color of egg yolks to match your veil. A wool belt tied in the knot of Hercules pulled the loose fabric in at your waist. 

The belt was soft beneath your fingertips as you idly traced the shape of the knot. Marcus was the only person allowed to untie it–the knot of Hercules could only be undone by a groom on the eve of his wedding. 

It was hard to imagine. The wedding still felt elusive despite it being only a few hours away. 

Perhaps it was the notion that you would suddenly accomplish everything your father had ever intended that you found difficult to grasp. You would soon be a wife and you, much to your father’s delight, would be Marcus’s responsibility. It was the culmination of all your training.

What would be left of you then?

It had never occurred to you that there would be something after. An entire life left to live.

Would Marcus be as your father was: controlling and demanding with a clear image of what the matron of his house would look like? Or–perhaps the more frightening option–would he allow you to take your own shape? 

It was impossible to know.

“It is nearly time,” your aunt said as she stood behind you, affixing the veil to the flower crown and adjusting it to cover your intricately braided hair. The golden fabric hung down your back, just barely brushing the floor. “The omens were taken this morning, it seems you have chosen a favorable wedding day.”

“I am lucky, then,” you breathed, nodding as you met her gaze in the reflection.

She took stock of you, fiddling with the folds of your stola and the way your jewelry settled against your skin. “You look so much like your mother like this,” she murmured wistfully, the sincerity in her tone nearly making you choke. 

It was becoming hard to remember what your mother looked like–you were so young when she passed away. Your father refused to talk about her and your brothers followed his lead, claiming that it was too painful to discuss her. The only memories you had of her were hazy: a soft voice singing you to sleep, a gentle hand running a brush through your hair. Always faceless. 

You only knew about her from the things she left behind–jewelry, clothing, tapestries. She liked gold more than silver, preferred red to blue. Almost every tapestry was adorned with images of the rolling countryside. Maybe she would have liked to summer there. 

And now you knew of her from her wedding attire that had been carefully boxed away, the stola soft around you–it was simple, as was the woolen belt at your waist. Simple and elegant. 

“What was she like?” you asked, hoping your aunt would not rebuke you as so many others had before. 

She guided you to sit before the mirror, producing the leather sandals for you to wear. “She was lovely. Generous and kind and intelligent,” your aunt said as she buckled the straps around your feet and ankles. “She loved music and debates at the Forum. Far too good for your father, but he was a different man before she died.”

You listened intently, greedily taking in any scrap of information you were given.

“She loved you so much,” your aunt said as she stood, pinching your cheeks to bring color to them. “She would have loved to get you dressed this morning and–”

Your father burst into the room with little care, looking flustered as he set his gaze on both of you. “The procession has arrived and your bridesmaids are in place, you must go now,” he said, hardly even taking in your appearance. You wondered if he even noticed that you were wearing your mother’s wedding attire.

Ultimately, it did not matter. He had already left the room by the time you stood, your aunt ensuring that the stola and veil draped properly as you took slow steps out of your room. It was nearly empty now, your things having been packed away in trunks that would be transferred to Marcus’s domus during the feast.

Your father’s home had been decorated opulently–tree boughs and flowers hung along the walls and columns, elegant tapestries providing additional color. Bands of wool stretched in elegant swags lined the hallway to the atrium where Marcus would be waiting for you.

Marcus.

The thought of his name made you feel faint. 

Your bridesmaids met you near the entrance to the atrium–a few girls you grew up with dressed in their best pallas wrapped around them and flowers woven into their hair. They greeted you with wide smiles, reaching out to squeeze your hands and pull you into embraces.

Their compliments rained over you, coaxing a shy smile onto your face despite the suffocating feeling of your trepidation. You could hear the witnesses murmuring just around the corner, waiting for you to arrive. 

Then, your matron of honor took you by the arm and brought you into the atrium, the other two bridesmaids following.

Marcus stood next to the impluvium, a priest of Jupiter at his side. The toga he wore was beautifully crafted, the cream color of the fabric entirely unblemished with a border of gold thread running along the hem. The white and gold cloak marking him as a general was clasped just below his throat. 

His expression changed when he saw you, the corner of his mouth twitching into the smallest of smiles, umber eyes crinkling at the corners. A warm drip of pleasure ran down your spine–making him smile felt like a feat of great difficulty. 

You almost forgot yourself, your look of apprehension wavering to a true smile for a moment. Roman brides were expected to be nearly distraught on their wedding day: devastated to leave their fathers while also eager to join their new husband. If a woman only was excited to marry, it reflected poorly on her family.

So you schooled yourself into a carefully practiced expression of perturbation as you worried your lower lip with your teeth for a moment, your steps on the smooth stone floor faltering for a beat.

The witnesses had parted for you–a mix of your father’s and Marcus’s friends and their wives present to view the ceremony. Your father and brother’s were among them, you could see the impatient set of your father’s shoulders and the curious gazes of your brothers. They had not set eyes upon you since you were a girl, but in a matter of moments you would be married to their commanding general.

You stopped in front of Marcus, facing him. It was hard to know what to do with your hands, so you clasped them before you as you glanced up at him. You only held his gaze for a moment before looking away, your cheeks warming.

The priest began, his voice surprisingly commanding despite his withered appearance. “Evil spirits are not welcome here, the omens have been taken on this auspicious day in favor of this union,” he said, causing the whispers of the witnesses to die off into silence. 

“We ask the lararium and Vesta for their blessings,” the priest announced, gesturing with wide, sweeping motions. 

Fresh incense had been lit upon the lararium, the altar to the household spirits gleaming from the thorough polish it received that morning. All three were represented: the genius for the prosperity of the family, penates for the prosperity of the house, and lares for protection.  

“Finally, may Janus guide each of them through the transition from their individual lives to pursue a life together as husband and wife.”

The matron of honor moved forward, joining your right hand with Marcus’s. His grip was warm and firm, his calloused thumb rubbing up and down over the back of your palm in a soothing motion. The stretch of his fingers almost reached entirely across your hand, your own almost disappearing within his palm. Your forefinger rested over his pulse, his heartbeat steady and slow.

He did not seem nervous at all.

You were to begin, you had rehearsed. As you are Gaius, I am Gaia. It could not have been more simple.

“Ubi tu Gaius, ego Gaia,” you murmured, demurely looking up at your soon to be husband. He squeezed your hand gently as you spoke.

“Ubi tu Gaia, ego Gaius,” he responded, his voice deep and smooth like honey. 

You could hear your father’s sigh of relief from where you stood. A bright smile stretched across your face, delight warming you from the crown of your head to the tips of your toes. You had gotten the idea in your mind that Marcus would change his, that he would wake up and want to marry a Senator’s daughter.

The priest said something you could not quite hear, too wrapped up in your own thoughts.

Marcus’s free hand cupped your cheek, tilting your head up toward his. The kiss he pressed to your lips was chaste, nothing more than a quick peck before he stepped back. It left you a bit giddy, your head full of air as he directed you to the two stools facing the makeshift altar to Jupiter that had been set up in the atrium.

The priest prattled on about respecting the gods in a marriage covenant and the duties of a husband and wife. You were impatient as you listened, wanting to lean into Marcus and hear the low tones of his murmur during the first of too many feasts.

“It is time for the couple to break bread together.” The priest presented a dish with spelt bread to you and Marcus, each of you taking one side in hand. 

You carefully broke off a corner with your fingers, tentatively presenting it to Marcus. His dark eyes were sparkling, a smile curving his lips as he parted them for you to feed the bread to him. Your breath hitched as his mouth just barely brushed your fingertips, your gaze stuck on the way his jaw moved as he chewed. He pressed a kiss to your palm before you pulled your hand away.

He was gentle as he moved through the same motions, feeding a portion of the bread to you. His thumb lingered for a moment on your bottom lip before pulling his hand away, watching as you slowly chewed the honey-sweetened bread. The way his dark eyes focused on you made you feel like you had been turned inside out. The weight of his gaze was inescapable, your eyes finding the marble floor. You heard him huff softly, the sound almost affectionate. 

Then he continued on his duties, breaking a larger portion to present on the altar for Jupiter. The rest was taken by a servant to be divided amongst the guests. He sucked the honey off his fingertips as he reached back to gently cup your elbow, bringing you forward to the altar with a gentle hand. 

He signed the marriage contract first, without hesitation. You looked down at his name with a wistful expression. 

Marcus Acacius. 

You wanted to trace the letters with your fingertips, but instead you simply took the reed pen in your hand. With a deep breath you placed the inked tip against the papyrus sheet, signing your name beneath Marcus’s. 

And that was all, you were a married woman.

Your father practically sounded giddy as he announced the feast in the inner gardens, taking up the new fashion of eating outdoors. Truthfully, there was not enough room in the trinclium to fit everyone without setting up a second. 

You preferred it, the smell of the lemon and orange trees perfuming the air and shading the long tables that had been set out. Marcus waited for you to take his arm, the muscle of his bicep warm and strong beneath your fingers. You entered the courtyard first, the corners of your veil draped over your arms so it did not drag on the ground.

“You are beautiful,” he murmured softly, head bent toward yours. You could feel his gaze travel over you, dragging from your feet to the crown of flowers and greenery holding your veil in place.

You smiled, your gaze dropping to your feet for a moment as he led you to the center seats at the high table across the courtyard. You were seated between Marcus and your father, your aunt and brothers to the right of your father and some of Marcus’s cousins to his left. 

“Are you pleased?” you asked as he sat down next to you, a huff of breath from you giving your nerves away.

Marcus leveled you with his dark eyes, twisting in his seat to face you properly. A big hand found yours, gently squeezing the delicate bones of your fingers for a moment. “Are you pleased, meum cor?” he asked, his deep voice curling over the term of endearment as though he had spoken it a thousand times before.

Your heart stuttered, the consideration of your opinion still catching you by surprise. But you found yourself nodding quickly–you were pleased. Even when you had imagined your wedding as a little girl, you never anticipated feeling so content. It had been hard to conjure the shape and character of your husband, but Marcus surpassed everything you had dreamed of by far.

“Then I am pleased as well,” he said, a hand curling around the nape of your neck and pulling you in to press a kiss upon your brow.

Your eyes fluttered shut as he did, the simple intimacy of the exchange warming you. There had been no model for how a couple acted in your life, your father had never sought out another wife after your mother passed. You never knew it could be that way.

“After all, I am married to a wonderful woman, how could I not be pleased?” 

You rolled your eyes good-naturedly, leaning against the straight back of your seat. “You know, we are already married–there is no need to be so generous in your compliments,” you murmured, settling in your seat as you prepared to speak with your approaching father and aunt.

Marcus’s gaze lingered on the side of your face, making it burn. “I do not compliment you just to charm you, my lady, I hope you will come to realize that,” he said, curling his fingers around your hand and letting the entangled unit rest on your thigh.

Then your father and aunt were upon you, the first in a long line of congratulations you would have to listen to that day.

–

You watched Marcus leave from the atrium, his deep laugh echoing through the evening as he walked with his cousins. The feast had gone on until sunset, food continuously filling platters and wine flowing freely. You felt warm from the few goblets you drank, and Marcus’s cheeks were flushed when he took off to meet with you at the first crossroads between your father’s domus and his.

The atrium was loud with activity as you prepared for the procession. Your bridesmaids helped you drape your veil out of the way as the torch was lit from the hearth. The boys walking with you were chatting amongst one another, fighting over who got to carry the torch while the other two had to guide you by each arm. A camillus had arrived specifically for the procession, ensuring that you followed all of the proper religious rites lest you doom your marriage before it even had the chance to truly begin. Your matron of honor carried your distaff and spindle to represent your domestic life. 

The evening was erring on the side of cold, the beginning of autumn rearing its head as you stepped out onto the street. You watched the torch flame flicker before you as you walked, more focused on keeping steady on the cobblestone due to your wine-induced tipsiness. The rest of the procession was giddy and loud behind you.

You let the boys on either side of you lead the way to Marcus’s domus, your heart rate increasing with every step. A shaky smile still found a home on your face–you were walking to your new home. 

People on the street stopped to offer you their best wishes, some joining the procession despite not knowing where you were headed. You welcomed the company all the same. Their voices joined those of your wedding guests, singing songs that you had heard from other wedding processions. 

Marcus waited for you at the first intersection, bags of nuts and sweetmeats and sesame cakes distributed between him and the two men who had accompanied him on his errand. His gaze remained only on you as the procession approached.

You dropped one of the three coins you carried at the crossroad, offering a silent prayer to Janus. The two groups mingled, Marcus and his companions spreading their treats through the crowd.

“Now what would my wife like?” he asked, walking backwards to keep up with you. He seemed almost boyish despite the way his hair was graying at the temples and lines marked the corners of his eyes. Even his steps seemed lighter than air.

“A sesame cake,” you decided. He arranged it for you, waving over the man who carried them over and selecting one for you. 

Instead of giving you the cake, Marcus leaned in to kiss you. Unlike each time that day, he parted his lips, the kiss messy and clumsy as you both walked. But you were melting into it, your steps quickening as you pressed forward, letting your mouth open beneath his. He was shooed off by your bridesmaids, the girls tittering as he separated from you with mirth shining in his expression. 

“You have to wait until we get her home, Marcus!” one of the men shouted, laughs echoing up from the procession behind you. Your cheeks warmed, the wolf-whistles making you bashful as Marcus waved them off with a hand.

“The sesame cake, Marcus,” you reminded him with a giggle. He made a soft noise of acknowledgement, breaking the cake in his hands in half before feeding you part of it. It was sweet on your tongue, making you hum as you chewed. He ate the other half, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek before going to mingle with the rest of the procession behind you.

You were still being pulled along by each arm, the procession eager to deliver you to Marcus’s estate and begin the next party of many. The sheer number of people that had joined in astounded you, strangers shoulder to shoulder with friends and family. They were all merry as they sang songs and shouted compliments and well wishes. Marcus distributed treats among them, some of the nuts getting tossed up toward you for good luck.

It was not much longer until you reached Marcus’s domus. Guards were at the entrance, only allowing wedding guests through. 

The boys had dropped your arms, lingering on the steps to the front door as your aunt wrapped her arms around you. “You are a very lucky bride,” she murmured into your ear, her chin hooking against your shoulder. The two of you swayed gently together.

“This house is grand,” you breathed, taking in the way the lit sconces and braziers shone through the windows. 

Your aunt hummed, her head barely shaking as she disagreed with you. “No… well, yes, General Acacius has a very lovely estate,” she amended, squeezing you gently, “but I mean the way he looks at you. You may as well actually be Gaia.”

Your hands covered hers where they linked above your navel. “I doubt it,” you breathed, turning to look at her for a moment. Her gaze was warm, kind.

“I believe you have my wife,” Marcus said, making both of you turn around. There was a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he leveled his stare upon you. He took a step forward, hands twitching at his sides. “It is due time that you give her to me.”

Your aunt denied him, as was custom. “You will have to rip her from my arms, General Acacius,” she said, her hold on you tightening marginally. You never understood it, the show of a husband pulling his wife from the arms of her mother. Perhaps if it was your mother holding you, you would understand.   

Marcus’s lip curled at the challenge. You pretended to desperately hold onto your aunt as he descended upon you, thick arms curling around your waist. Part of the game was pretending you were less than willing, that you could not imagine leaving the company of your family for this new life with your husband. You had seen other women tearfully clutch their mothers as their husbands wound their arms around them, earnest in their hesitance. 

You would have let go right away if it would not have reflected poorly on your father. Instead you yelped, one hand grabbing Marcus’s forearm as the other still clutched your aunt. It took him one, two more good tugs to free you from her hold, his shout of victory echoing as he held you close.

Marcus pressed a quick kiss to your brow before setting you on your feet. A big hand remained pressed against the small of your back, nudging you along to the front door. 

Bands of wool rested near each doorpost, a clay container of oil near the door. You had anguished over this portion of the ceremony, trying to practice smooth ways to unwind the wool before you had to do the real thing. You managed it smoothly, spiralling the red yarn over both columns to represent your domestic role in the home. The olive oil was warm on your fingers, the guests singing behind you as you rubbed the oil into the painted wood. You spread it across the edges of the door, the oil dripping down to your elbow until the door was relatively saturated to show the abundance you hoped for in your lives.

You wiped your hands off on a scrap of cloth looped through the handle of the jar, barely having time to properly set it down before Marcus lifted you into his arms. The screech you let out was unsightly for a woman of your station, but it only made him chuckle softly and he held you with an arm beneath your knees and the other behind your back.

“Are you ready to enter your home, meum cor?” he asked, maneuvering you just enough to be able to push the door open with one hand. 

You looped an arm around the back of his neck, buzzing with excitement. “Do not make me wait longer, Marcus,” you said, eager for him to put you down. All you could think about was the weight of your body in his arms.

He just nodded, crossing over the threshold into the atrium of his home–your home.

It had been decorated extravagantly, beautiful bouquets of fresh flowers perfuming the air along with colorful fabrics and tapestries hanging from the walls with fresh tree boughs laden with fruit. You could feel the pride exuding from him as he set you down.

“Marcus, this must have cost a fortune,” you murmured, your fingertips pressed to your lower lip as you tried to hide your delighted smile. No one had ever gone through this much trouble for you before.

He took both of your hands in his as the guests streamed in, admiring the decor. “And I would spend it a thousand times over to see your lovely smile,” he said, his head bending toward yours. “I am glad you find it suitable–I admit I left most of it to my cousin’s wives.”

“And they did a very good job,” you murmured, squeezing his hands for a moment before you reached out to take the torch.

The boy ran off as soon as he handed it to you, returning to his parents just as your other escorts had. You took the burning torch to the empty hearth, lowering the flame to the kindling. It took a few moments to light, the warmth washing over you as the fire crackled to life. You prayed to Jupiter, running over the words you had practiced a thousand times to ensure that your hearth and home would be warm and safe. 

You had no doubt that it would be. 

The torch was quickly extinguished, tossed amongst the guests to scramble over. The unburnt torch was said to be a sign of good fortune, blessing whomever was lucky enough to finally grab it. 

You paid the results no attention, hardly caring to find out who ended up capturing it as Marcus brought you to one of the one of the various tables laden with food, plucking a fig from the bunch. He turned the fruit over in his hand, scrutinizing it in the firelight.

“The first time you came to this place you were hardly able to stomach an entire fig,” he murmured, taking a bite of it. He turned to you as he chewed, leaning on the table with his hip. “And you are now my bride.”

 There was a honey cake nestled amongst the rest of the food, sticky on your fingers as you selected it. “The stories of you are very intimidating, General Acacius,” you said, smirking playfully. You had been petrified of him at first, expecting a hardened, difficult general. “I thought you would be much more… strict,” you said, savoring the sweetness of the honey on your tongue.

It was his turn to laugh, his hand capturing you by the waist and pulling you in. He gently tugged at the woolen belt around your midsection, eyes flashing as though he meant to untie it then and there. “Strict? I can be strict if you wish it so,” he teased.

You rolled your eyes, accepting the goblet of wine that he poured for you. “How about instead of that, we enjoy our party,” you suggested, tongue darting away to lick the droplets that clung to your lips. 

The motion seemed to catch his attention, his mouth dropping open for a moment before he caught himself, swallowing thickly. You lifted a brow, unsure what to make of his expression before he cleared his throat, umber eyes looking almost like obsidian as he met your gaze. “I think that is an excellent thought,” he said softly, taking up his own goblet.

You lifted your cup to his for a moment, taking a long drink of it before your matron of honor emerged to pull you into a conversation, separating you from Marcus once more.

–

It was late when you finally found one another again, your breath smelling like wine and Marcus’s cheeks flushed as he secured both hands around your waist. 

Midnight had long passed, the evening climbing toward the early hours of the morning as he dipped his nose into the curve of your throat. The strong bridge of his nose was a touch cold against your skin, making you squeak and shiver. But you remained in his hold.

“I think it is high time that I get my wife alone,” he said lowly, his voice more of a rasp than you had ever heard it. All of the talking and laughing was catching up to him, but you did not mind it.

You hummed, a smile finding its way to your face as you grasped his toga. “Alone? Then you should lead the way,” you breathed, anticipation starting to roil in your gut. You had received plenty of unsolicited advice on being alone with your husband, drunk matrons in attendance providing their opinions to you each time they spoke. Each conversation made your anxiety climb higher and higher as you became aware of your lack of experience.

It was expected of a bride to be less experienced than her husband, but you still found it intimidating.

Marcus guided you to his cubiculum, ignoring the good-natured jeers from some of your guests as he cut a straight line through the crowd. The sound of lyres and talking diffused as you ascended the stairwell to the second floor. A guard was posted at the door, stepping aside as you approached. 

“Do not let anyone disturb us,” Marcus instructed, prompting the guard to nod silently before Marcus opened the door and ushered you into the room.

It was larger than you expected, the bed the dominant piece of furniture in the room as you looked around. There was a tree partially obscuring your view of the moon outside the window. The walls were elegantly painted, murals of cities you did not recognize adorning each panel. 

Marcus pressed himself against your back, his fingers looping around the wool belt as he bent toward your neck. “I have been eager to get you here all day,” he mumbled against your throat, goosebumps running down your arms.

“You have?” you asked softly. He removed the flower crown and veil from your head, setting it on a nearby table. The weight off your neck was a relief. You sighed, letting your head roll back to rest against his shoulder as your eyes fluttered shut. The comfort of his presence was a shock, you expected to feel uncomfortable around him.

He made a sound of agreement, pressing his lips to your neck. “Of course I have, meum cor,” he said softly. 

You bit your lip, trying to breathe through the bubble of anxiety in your chest. The past few hours had been spent agonizing how your first moments alone together would go–you had gathered vague information about what you were supposed to do, what he expected. It seemed that all of the women at the party had advice to give, informing you about what their husbands enjoyed.

With a deep breath, you turned in his arms. Marcus’s deep brown eyes looked practically molten in the flickering light from the hearth. He cupped your jaw in the scoop of his palm, thumb rubbing over your cheekbone. Your fingers twisted into the curls at the nape of his neck, pulling him in for a kiss.

He let out a groan, a hand finding the small of your back as he pressed your body firmly against his. His trimmed facial hair tickled your skin as you clumsily followed his lead. You parted your lips when he did, letting out a soft noise of surprise as he licked into your mouth. His tongue tasted like wine and figs, twisting around yours and running along the inside of your teeth. 

You pulled back, looking up at Marcus through your lashes for a moment.

Everything those women said kept running through your mind. You had to please him, to show that you were able to be the perfect wife.

You took a deep breath, teeth digging into your lower lip for a moment as you steeled your nerves. If you had anything less to drink you would have been frozen in place, but instead you sank to your knees, your fingers already having found the edge of his toga.

It seemed easy enough when they told you: take it into your mouth and suck until… until what? That part had been left out of your conversations, but you were sure you could figure it out.

Marcus’s hand found the back of your head, fingertips pressing into your hair. The stone was harsh against your knees, but you remained at his feet dutifully as you began to pull the folds of the crisp white toga out of the way. His legs were tanned and scarred, the wide muscle of his quads sporting a smattering of dark, curly hairs. You tentatively ran your hands over his skin, your palms smooth as your fingers curled over his knee and around the back of it.

Then he laughed. You felt your entire face get warm as you looked up at him through your eyelashes. “What are you doing?” he asked, a smile on his face. He cradled the back of your head in his hand, tipping it further back so he could get a better look at you.

All of the air had been sucked out of the room, embarrassment winding around your chest. “Well, some of the women…” you said, trailing off as you pressed your fingers to your lower lip–a nervous habit.

He snorted, the sound making your face practically catch on fire. “Some of the women?” he prompted, crouching down in front of you. His other hand nudged your chin, keeping eye contact despite the fact that you wished the floor beneath you would open up and swallow you whole.

“Well, uh, they gave me advice,” you admitted, chewing on the inside of your cheek. It was mortifying to admit, the words sounding ridiculous out loud. You wrung your hands in your lap. The silence that hung between you forced you to babble. “I just… I wanted to be able to please you. You have much more experience than I do and I was worried that my naivety would disappoint you.”

Marcus smiled, his thumb gently touching the corner of your lip for a moment. “There is no chance that you would disappoint me, meum cor,” he breathed, so sincere that you could burst into tears. 

“That…what you were just doing, there will be time for that later,” he said, winding his arms beneath yours as he lifted you to your feet. He half carried you across the room, your toes brushing against the floor before you were deposited on the bed. “This night I want to be for both of us, alright?”

You gulped, nodding as you looked up at him. The nod was enough for him, Marcus’s hands unbuckling your sandals and dropping them to the floor. He gestured for you to move further back onto the bed, the wool soft beneath you as you did as he said.

Your wide eyes followed his movements as he removed the ornamental parts of his attire, his cape tossed haphazardly over an upholstered chair along with his sandals and the laurel wreath you had weaved for him. It was hard to breathe as you watched him remove his toga, left solely in his cream-colored tunic

He stalked toward you like a wolf hunting its prey, grabbing you by the ankles and yanking you toward him. You let out a yelp that turned into a giggle as you landed on your back, your wedding gown riding up around your thighs. 

“Tell me, my lady, what do you know of pleasure?” he asked, letting your legs fall to either side of his hips. He reached for the knotted belt at your waist–he was the only one allowed to untie it. 

To your surprise, your bashfulness turned into mortification. You wanted to lie, to tell him that you knew absolutely nothing–that was what any good bride would have done. What you knew was inconsequential, your information was only self-centered rather than knowing anything about a man and woman…together. 

“Do not be afraid, tell me the truth,” he breathed, the belt falling open. Your dress lost all semblance of shape and structure, the woven fabric falling loosely around your form as he began to pull it apart.

Goosebumps pricked over your skin, following the trails that Marcus’s calloused fingers left behind. “I, um, have… explored myself,” you admitted, looking up at the vaulted ceiling. There was a mosaic of the sun inlaid there, the tiles shining orange in the firelight. It was easier to study the colors they used rather than wait for his reaction.

He only chuckled, bending over you as he began to press kisses to your clavicle. “I am glad to hear that,” he said into your skin, the wiry hairs of his mustache forming to each word as he spoke. His lips trailed toward your sternum, the neckline of your dress splitting as he pulled away the fabric. “I worried you would be a bride that did not know up from down–it is a relief that you will be able to tell me what you enjoy.”

You tried to keep your breaths even, briefly squeezing your eyes shut as he pulled your dress down your arms. Your chest was bare, the press of his lips to the soft swell of your breast almost making you jolt. “Whatever you enjoy will be more than sufficient,” you said, tentatively threading your fingers in his thick hair.

His displeasure was hummed against the silken underside of your breast, dark eyes focused over the swell of it at you. You were pinned in place by the weight of his stare, gasping softly as his fingers brushed over one of your nipples. “I have been paying attention,” he said, wet presses of his lips finding the valley between your breasts once more, “and, while you have allowed everyone in your life to make your decisions for you, I will no longer allow that.”

“That is not true,” you protested, combing your fingers through his hair. His teeth nipped at the side of your throat, making you tilt your head to bare it to him.

“It is certainly true.” The words tickled, making you squirm. You could feel his smile against your throat. “Meum cor, if you want to do more than sleep in our marital bed this evening, you must tell me what to do.”

“Marcus,” you murmured, brow furrowing, “I cannot do that.”

It was hard to imagine asking for anything, let alone telling him what you wanted. No man had ever asked you what your needs were. No one had ever bothered wanting to know.

He placed a hand flat on the bed next to your shoulder, propping himself up slightly so he could look down his nose at you. “Then we will have a lovely night of sleep together,” he said, pressing a gentle kiss upon your brow before lying down next to you. 

Your brow furrowed as his arm curled around your waist, reeling you in against him. He was warm against your side with his chin pressing against your shoulder. Despite enjoying the closeness, you could not stop the feeling of disappointment as you considered what your wedding night should have entailed.

You took a deep breath, swallowing thickly before you spoke. “I…I liked when you touched my breasts,” you admitted with a whisper. You covered your face out of embarrassment, your cheeks warm from the wine.

“Is that so?” Marcus asked, his smirk clear in his tone. You nodded sheepishly, glancing at him with wide, hesitant eyes. He captured your lips, voracious and hungry as he opened his mouth to yours. You were so distracted that you hardly noticed his hand ghosting over your naked chest until his fingertips closed over your nipple. 

You whimpered as he tweaked the bud–it never felt as good when you tried touching yourself that way. One circle of his fingers had you keening against his mouth. 

“Like this?” he asked, pinching it softly between his forefinger and thumb. You moaned softly, your thighs squeezing together beneath the remaining fabric of your wedding gown. The other breast earned the same attention.

“And this?” The touch of his tongue to your skin made your eyes roll, his mouth sucking at the bud making your breath hitch. It was all you could do to nod, his curls soft as your fingers tangled in them.

He had you whining and whimpering pathetically as he rolled to hover on top of you, lapping and rolling his tongue over your nipples. The sensation made your sex pulse between your legs, aching like a wound as he made a space for himself between your spread thighs. 

“Marcus,” you mewled, squeezing his sides with your legs. “Please…” You trailed off before you could ask for what you really wanted, your hips tentatively rocking up toward his.

He chuckled, the sound muffled by the mark he was sucking into the side of your breast. “My lady, what do you need?” he asked, voice so sweet it almost made it seem like he was going to take pity on you. “You are asking me so nicely.”

Despite his pretend ignorance he started to pull away the rest of your wedding dress, sitting back on his knees as he yanked it down your legs and tossed it aside. There was not enough time for you to be embarrassed, his body pressing back down upon yours as the tip of his nose dragged in a line from your jaw to your collarbone.

“Marcus,” you huffed, petulant and needy. Your brows knit together, everything about you finding it near impossible to just ask.

He snickered, scraping his blunt teeth over your sternum. “You must ask, meum cor,” he reminded you, one of his hands grabbing the outside of your thigh and squeezing. The contact was enough to send shivers through you, your legs spreading in an attempt to coax his hand between them. “I will give you whatever you wish, lest you tell me that you want it.”

“I thought a husband was supposed to take what he wished on his wedding night,” you muttered, a bit frustrated. You tugged on the roots of his hair, just enough to earn a soft groan from Marcus. “Be the conqueror of the bedroom and all of those things.”

Another laugh, a slight shake of his head. “I have conquered plenty, my lady. Distant lands, foreign armies… I have conquered enough to last an entire lifetime,” his warm tongue laved over your nipple, “Now I wish to see you take in your own right. I am yours just as you are mine, there is nothing you could want that would frighten me.”

You wished his encouragement actually worked, but the words were still shackled behind your teeth. Instead you grabbed Marcus’s hand, fighting through your embarrassment as you brought it to your sex. You pressed his fingertips through the soft thatch of curls there to feel how wet you were.

Something dangerous made his expression light up. “You wanted me to touch you here?” he asked, already rubbing tight circles over the bud of your clit without prompting.

You keened beneath him, nodding through your light-headedness. His touch already felt drastically different than your own, an element of anticipation added to the mix. Each movement was a mystery, a divergence from the routine you had carefully crafted for yourself over many years of exploration. His calloused fingertips applied less pressure than you would have, moving in slow circles to tease you.

His other hand held your hips to the mattress, not letting you buck into his touch for added friction. Each time you tried his grip tightened. It took you a few moments to realize he was doing it on purpose, wanting you to tell him you needed more.

“I need more,” you breathed, your lashes fluttering. 

He immediately acquiesced to your request, the increase in friction was enough to make you dizzy. “You are so beautiful,” he cooed. You were too distracted by sensation to even shy beneath his stare, letting him observe the way your brow bunched and mouth fell open. Your whines were breathy, your knees falling away and toward the mattress. 

The only way you could describe how you felt was madness. Any semblance of control over yourself was quickly lost, or abandoned–you had no way to be sure. 

Your sex clenched around nothing, the emptiness almost painful as you twisted the rough weave of his tunic in your hands. His grip on your hip relaxed, letting your hips stutter up toward his hand–a pitiful attempt to get him to slide one in you without having to vocalize the need. You should have known better.

“Do you wish for me to simply play with your clit all night, meum cor?” he teased. You wanted to wipe the grin off his face.

It was so hard to set aside the lessons you had been taught throughout your life: women were supposed to be meek and soft spoken and subservient. Your father had demanded your supplication, had taught you that your husband would require much of the same. 

But Marcus was not what either of you expected.

He watched you sink to your knees in submission and lifted you back to your feet. You thought he would give you orders with ease, spell out exactly what he wanted from you without a detail spared. Instead he was asking what you wanted from him, begging you to make demands of him.

“I need…please, I need you inside,” you whimpered, the request making your cheeks burn. It was grating on your ears, your desperation unseemly.

If Marcus noticed, he kept it to himself. “We will get there, I assure you of that,” he soothed, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. It was shorter than you wanted, just a momentary peck. There was not enough time to whine for more before a finger teased at your entrance before pressing deep.

“Marcus!” you gasped, eyes widening as you felt him reach deeper inside you than you had ever been able to reach.

He shushed you softly, head bending to press his lips to your jaw. His blunt teeth scraped over the hinge of it as you let out another harsh breath. Your toes curled, spine starting to arch away from the mattress as he found a rhythm that elicited a moan he liked the sound of. 

There was a spot you had no idea existed, the pleasure making your eyes roll each time the pad of his finger rubbed against it. Your breath hitched as his thumb stroked the swollen bump of your clit with the same dizzying pace. It was reminiscent of how you touched yourself, but his capable hands brought you to heights previously undiscovered.

One finger became two, the stretch a discomfort you welcomed. It was only for a few moments, your muscles relaxing into feeling full. 

You were soaking his fingers, the obscene squelch of them inside of you was loud enough to make your cheeks burn.  

But he was looking at you as though you were of the gods themselves, sent down from the heavens and into his bed. The thin rim of color around his blown pupils matched toasted hazelnuts, warm as they took in every detail of you. His stare was almost greedy as it dragged over every part of you he could see. It was caught on the way his fingers disappeared inside your cunt, wetness dripping onto the mattress.

Your voice broke as a third finger entered you, filling you up tight. Three was almost too much, your brows knitting together as your hips rocked, trying to accommodate to the size. The moan that came from you was pathetic.

“I know,” Marcus murmured, his free hand rubbing circles on the indent of your waist as he tried to soothe you. “You need to take three or I will not fit, meum cor.”

You could feel his cock pressing against the back of your thigh, but you did not truly make sense of the size of it until he said something. He did not miss the way your eyes widened, the brief expression of panic flitting over your features. His free hand came up to cup your cheek, thumb running over the apple of it as he leaned down to kiss you.

Teeth clashed together as you opened your mouth to his a little too eagerly, his fingers tilting your jaw to correct it as he grunted. You clenched around his digits, walls fluttering to accommodate them and the steady rhythm he set. 

“You are so close,” he muttered against the corner of your mouth, sounding almost desperate for you. You half understood what he meant, the tightening in your lower abdomen vaguely familiar. It was the point that you had always gotten frightened and stopped, thinking that you could not go any further.

Marcus had no such reservations, moving past what you thought was the point of no return with ease. You choked, your left leg starting to shake uncontrollably where it rested bent against his hip. 

It seemed like a badge of honor to him, a breathtaking smile on his face as you withered beneath him. There was no way for you to speak properly, broken words spilling from your mouth as your mind went slippery with desire. Your hips moved as though they had a mind of your own, jolting with the motion of his hand, one, two, three times before it felt as if you had been struck by lightning.

“There you go,” he said, his voice as sweet as honey as he worked you through your entire body convulsing with euphoria. You squeezed your eyes shut with ecstasy, your cunt clenching around his fingers rhythmically as your world shattered.

Your mind was entirely elsewhere, moments feeling like hours as you desperately clung to Marcus. The wet smear of his lips against your throat revived you, blinking into the world like a newborn as his bedroom shifted into focus. His body held you steady through the aftershocks, your chest heaving as you tried to make your breaths even.

“Marcus,” you sighed, satisfied as you ran your fingers through his hair. He had not moved away yet, cupping your sex comfortingly.

You knew there was more, that more had to happen to truly consummate your marriage. Perhaps now the tirade of making you advocate for what you wanted would end, the focus having been on you for long enough that he would take what he wanted.

He pulled his tunic off in one smooth motion, removing his underclothes quickly. You were astounded as you stared at him–the thick muscle of his body were all the proof of a life spent laboring rather than someone chasing an aesthetic. You were practically salivating at the sight of him, fingers twitching as you languidly moved to your knees, grabbing for him in an attempt to pull him back to bed.

“Come here,” you breathed, hands finding his shoulders as you stretched up to capture his lips.

A breathy laugh was smothered against your mouth, the bed dipping beneath his weight as he knelt on it. He grabbed the fat of your hips, maneuvering with you so he was seated at the head of the bed. You were pulled toward him, shuffling closer on your knees. It was hard to hide the way your stomach flipped as he looked at you like you were the most delicious thing he had set his eyes on.

“You come here, meum cor,” he murmured, voice sounding rough as he squeezed you beneath the wide spread of his fingers. 

“What is it that my husband wants?”

That seemed to pour pleasure into him, his grip marginally tightening as he pulled you so close that you nearly sat astride him.

“I want you to take what is yours,” he whispered, head tilting back so you could watch the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed. One hand ran over your hip to the globe of your ass, giving you a swat that was more affectionate than harsh.

You looked between your bodies, a bit intimidated by his request. But you had been told that you needed to do everything your husband asked on your wedding night–you just had expected that he would have taken control.

Insecurity made itself an unwelcome guest in the room as you swallowed, looking down at his lap. His hand cupped your cheek, moving your gaze back to his. “You can handle it,” he murmured encouragingly, so earnest that you started to believe him. “I want to feel you around me.”

You nodded slowly, letting him guide you over his lap and position you properly. The press of the fat head of his cock made you shudder. You grabbed his biceps, an attempt to steady yourself as you began to lower yourself onto him.

It was a slow process, Marcus’s hands squeezing the thick of your thighs as he helped you. It made it hard to breathe, your mouth dropping open as you eased down every inch of him. It was hard to imagine a life where you were used to the size of him. Three fingers was not enough to properly prepare you, his cock stretching you wider and reaching deeper than you could have anticipated. 

You whined as the backs of your thighs finally settled against his lap, his cock fully seated inside of you. It was like his cock was all the way inside your throat, making you choke. 

“Fuck,” you cursed, your eyes squeezing shut. You could feel the hair on his thighs against your bare ass.

“You are doing so well, meum cor,” he praised as you tried to adjust to the feeling of him so deep inside of you. Your head was spinning, nails digging into his skin as you attempted to find a comfortable way to tilt your hips. His big hand smoothed over the small of your back, pressing so you rocked forward.

“S’too deep like this,” you groaned. He squeezed your thighs hard enough that you were sure there would be bruises left behind, his jaw clenching beneath his beard. It was almost too intense, part of you wanting to lift off of him just so you could catch your breath.

“I know,” he mumbled, his voice impossibly deeper. “It will feel good in a moment, I swear.”

You shook your head, disagreeing with him. The stretch was not painful, only making you feel uncomfortably full as you did your best to settle. He rocked you in his lap a few more times, the coarse hair at the base of his cock catching against your clit as he did. A gush of arousal dripped down his cock, making both of you let out a harsh breath.

“It feels good,” you sighed, holding onto his arms as you slowly lifted yourself up a few inches before sliding back down. You relished in the hollowed-out moan you earned from Marcus, his dark eyes squeezing closed.

It started slow, the grind of just an inch inside of you until you got bolder, sliding up and down Marcus’s cock. Your breasts bounced with each movement, matching the slap of your ass meeting his lap. His gaze could not find a place to land, cutting between your face, breasts, and watching his cock disappear between your thighs. Either way he was enchanted.

The feeling of being in control made your stomach twist, the press of his hands encouraging you to experiment between different motions and tilts of your hips. He was patient as you found what you liked, the muscles in his arms rippling beneath the skin as he assisted you until you found something you liked.  

He grunted unabashedly, each broken sound lending you just how infatuated you felt. The sounds he made were deep, rugged. Huffs of breath and deep sounds in his throat as he started to thrust up to meet each bounce, your sweat-slicked skin slapping together.

“You are so tight around my cock,” he choked out, the deep creases between his dark brows visible as he tried to keep his composure.

“Mhmm.” You nodded, mind blank.

Each plunge of his cock carved out a space inside of you, making you let out a soft exhale as all of the air was forced from your lungs. 

You only had a moment of warning, gone too far in a place of hazy, honeyed pleasure to recognize the tightening in your belly. It spiraled up through you like a knife, slicing you from root to tip with its heat. Your eyes sprung open, you were gasping and scrabbling to hold onto him, each movement frantic. “Marcus–” the rest of the sentence was lost to your moan.

Your legs shook from pleasure and the strain, thighs burning in a way that almost felt pleasant. It was impossible to do anything aside from fall forward, your head falling into the curve of his neck as you panted. His hands shifted your weight on his lap, thrusting up into you from below.

“I truly have the loveliest wife,” Marcus grunted through grit teeth, letting you melt in his lap as he planted his feet against the bed to fuck into you. You could tell he finally was moving how he wanted, his pace quickening as his groans and breaths became shallower, less restrained. The walls of your cunt fluttered and pulsed around his cock as you rode out your orgasm, shivering with each drag of his cock.

“Fuck,” he groaned, your name falling from his lips. He forced your hips down against his, grinding into you.

It drew your eyes to open, lifting your heavy head back onto your shoulders as you found his gaze in the firelight. You touched the tension at the corners of his eyes with soft fingertips, the veins of his throat throbbing and sweat glistening over his brow. The dizzying need to tell him you loved him came over you as one hand smoothed over his throat, feeling his frantic breaths beneath your touch.

“Make me pregnant,” you mewled softly, the request bubbling from you before you could properly think it through.

It was enough, he groaned and went rigid beneath you, rutting up against you like a man possessed. He sounded like an animal, the moan barely contained in his throat as you felt his cock jerking inside of you. Each pump of his spend into you was hot enough to almost burn, filling you up until you were gasping.

He gathered you as close as possible, your skin sticking together with your sweat as you nuzzled into him. You fit like you were meant to be there, head beneath his chin and listening to the frantic beat of his heart.

You could see how the sky was just beginning to turn blue, the sun would be rising soon. 

Marcus moved both of you, laying back against the bed with you sprawled over his chest. You pressed your fingertips over a scar across his ribs, imagining the sword that had slashed him. There was a lot you did not know about your husband, that you still had to learn. 

He fell asleep first, letting your gaze trace over his profile unabashedly. The sun would rise over Rome, shine on the first day of your marriage as you attended another party of many to come.

You would finally enjoy a life you chose for yourself, Marcus at your side.

[vivwritescrappythings]

it’s not that deep but it is that serious!

(editing and reblogging to clarify a couple things at the end of the post)

I just want to come to this app to talk about deep throating mean!Joel and to make friends with other hot freaks. But I need my fellow heathens to hear me out for a moment.

I’ve tried to keep this space a little escape from reality, but that’s not a realistic privilege because life and art are inherently political.

I saw @penvisions receive some particularly cruel racist hate last month. I saw @gothcsz receive a snide racist anon message a few weeks ago. I know these issues aren’t new for our Black and brown peers.

I see a lot of folks jumping to offer support and to express their disgust at the racist remarks.

I also see a lot of shock and disbelief and I want to talk about that.

Racism, bigotry, and prejudice are not new issues for Black and brown folks. If you find yourself shocked, surprised, and outraged when folks share the hate they receive I ask that you reflect on this. It’s a privilege to be surprised, to not be used to navigating and experiencing that vitriol.

I know it’s well intended when folks say things like, ‘if you’re a racist piece of shit get off my blog’ or similar messages, and i understand the anger and frustration. (*i appreciate seeing solidarity and i also do not want to police (acab) how people respond to the hate they receive)

I also don’t think anyone who is aware and actively spreading hate will be deterred. I imagine there are 4chan incel type trolls that just thrive on the attention and reaction of using the most inflammatory language they can, and trolls will troll. They inevitably will pop up.

What I want to address is the levels below the overt and active hate. The accidental or inadvertent covert racism. The micro aggressions. The passive silence or enabling of rhetoric that lets folks perpetuate harm without even thinking.

Black and brown creators in our community have been disregarded or overshadowed when they speak up about diversity or inclusion in this fandom or feeling unwelcomed.

They wade through oceans of moodboards with faceless, thin, white women paired with our favorite characters. They power through reader inserts with freckles, red marks, and pink pussies that say and do things they might never feel safe saying or doing in those universes. They scroll through bad Spanish or fetishized latino caricatures and romanticized colonial values. And they still show love and support by commenting and reblogging and uplifting other writers.

Maybe there are footnotes about the moodboards only being for inspiration, but that doesn’t erase the constant messaging that it was easier to find those pictures and add a note than to search harder or leave the pictures out.

When I saw a fic with a detail about the pedro character having a confederate flag in his trailer I had to pause. This is a perfect example. I don’t read this as malicious or intentionally harmful. I understand the stereotype it’s rooted in and the general humor of the story as a whole. I get that it’s a small detail and that racism wasn’t a core part of the character or the story.

But if we sit with this longer.. what does this tell our Black and brown peers? When the reader notices it and it’s just as notable as a calendar on the wall? And she fucks him willingly anyway?

Hate symbols aren’t unserious. Background or not. Imagine writing a Joel fic and giving him a swastika tattoo just as a background detail. Sounds extreme right? Maybe you’re writing an AU felon Joel and just trying to show how hardened and dark he is. Maybe in your headcanon he only got it in prison to protect himself and he isn’t a racist.

But to nazis it says this is a safe place to be. To the general audience it says you don’t care if this makes them feel unsafe or invisible.

To folks reading that a confederate flag isn’t a big deal, it signals that it’s an acceptable symbol. It shows that people are reading and commenting and sharing this story and are unbothered. That maybe people don’t even notice.

I’m not asking anyone to send hate and I’m not writing this as an attack on the author or anyone who shared the fic. We don’t know what we don’t know, but we have the opportunity to learn!

I am asking my peers to step in and step up, because I think y’all are smart and capable of more.

I am not an expert on anything. But as someone who went to grad school for social work — a field that only exists to combat the societal harm of power, privilege, and oppression — I don’t take it lightly. I work in advocacy fighting discrimination and prejudice from institutions built on systemic racism daily. I’m aware that I have the privilege of training, language, and awareness around diversity and inclusion, and that not everyone has the same knowledge or experience.

I also know this fandom is full of incredibly smart and well spoken folks who craft moving stories and analyze characters with nuance and passion.

I’m not interested in censoring what anyone writes and I happily abide by don’t like; don’t read.

If I only wanted to read I would stick to ao3. But I’m here and I stay here because of the community. The friendships and the extra tag games and challenges and support and camaraderie.

I know I make mistakes myself. And I know it can be uncomfortable to be called out for something you never intended to hurt anyone with. I know it can feel like your voice won’t be heard or your experience won’t be validated in such a big space.

I shared a post a while ago by a creator that doesn’t write for this fandom. It was an ode to Black fanfic writers in general, and in the comments Black writers were tagging each other to show love. And I knew there was something wrong when I wanted to share it but felt deeply hesitant about tagging anyone because I didn’t want Black writers to receive hate.

One of my favorite things about this fandom is how global it is. Getting to make friends with folks around the world is such a treat. I also know racism and fascism are not unique to one region.

It’s Black history month in the states and in Canada. I know other countries observe Black history month in other months. It’s an intentional observation for a reason.

For us, this is a hobby. We’re here voluntarily, and mostly anonymously, but we’re all people. Community is so vital to thwarting the dangers of fascism and hateful rhetoric.

This IS a post about racism.

But racism is absolutely entangled with sexism, classism, ableism, ethnocentrism, capitalism, colonialism, imperialism, patriarchal hegemony, etc.

This isn’t just a rant. It’s an ask. I’m asking my peers—writers, readers, gif makers, lurkers, etc.— to help.

Reflect on what you share and post. Think about how others perceive you.

I’m asking my peers to be curious and open to discussions. To ask questions if you see covert racism. To be willing to accept feedback.

We can be gentle with one another.

Like, ‘hey, I saw this and am wondering if you’re aware of the origin or the impact it might have?’ or ‘can I share how this may be misinterpreted or harmful?’

Be kind sure, but be an advocate!

If you see someone posting about a character being their ‘spirit animal’ — send them a DM! If you read something that stereotypes a race, let the author know! There’s plenty of online resources for writing characters from other races without falling back on harmful tropes.

And even better… support your Black and brown peers. Share their work. Show them you value their presence in the fandom.

I encourage folks to read fics with original characters or reader characters with explicitly diverse ethnicities and tell the author you appreciate that character! Recommend the work to friends.

I never shut up about how much I love @furious-rogue-stuff ‘s Heat and the story is incredibly compelling *because* the reader is a Latina written by a Latina.

Anyway, I come to this hellsite to laugh and be horny—but at my core I am an ethical hater and I only wrote all of this because I care and I want this space to be inclusive.

I’m not speaking on behalf of anyone else and I don’t want to speak over anyone. I’m open to feedback or ideas.

I’m tagging some mutuals I interact with and some that I don’t know very well, not to curse y’all with reading my long winded post but to ask: when you have the capacity will you help take action to make this community stronger? Will you commit to being open to feedback and growth?

Bottom line I just wanna read about getting railed by that fictional guy and I want my Black and brown peers to have the opportunity to enjoy the same escape from reality.

I feel like this is worth posting because I think y’all can make a difference. So many of y’all write and analyze stories and characters with such nuance and passion and detail—and that’s why i believe you can help spot subtle and insidious forms of racism and make real changes.

TL;DR: I’m asking everyone to be proactive when you see microaggressions or covert racism in the fandom, and to be willing to accept feedback and learn from each other. Being passive is a luxury and a privilege our marginalized peers do not have. Let’s be more than performative or not racist. Be active. Be anti-racist.

some tags for folks (no pressure to share, I don’t want attention I just want to encourage folks to take time to reflect or let me know what you think idk): *not calling anyone out as having committed any offenses just feeling compelled to share the message i guess

@auteurdelabre @joelmillerisapunk @lotusbxtch @probablyreadinsmut @ace-turned-confused @baronessvonglitter @yxtkiwiyxt @slimybeth69 @bitchesuntitled @thundermartini @sin-djarin @strang3lov3 @mermaidgirl30 @for-a-longlongtime @mrs-hardy-hunnam-butler-pascal @evolnoomym @wannab-urs @sanarsi @yopossum @almostfoxglove @itwasntimethatdidit40 @syd-djarin @miss-oranje-disco-dancer

to anyone: please start conversations or reach out to me or send me an anon ask if you want to discuss something or share, idc but i’m begging y’all to listen to each other and advocate for one another and be open to self-reflection 💗 editing to add: if i tagged you it was not a callout that i think you've done something specific to reflect on-- just a general invite to join me in being intentional and to invite feedback if you have any! if i made anyone anxious i apologize! - to clarify when i said 'it's not that deep' i mean that maybe fanfic is easily brushed off as not that deep, but every blog is a real person (minus the army of porn bots) and we form real connections in this community <3

[vivwritescrappythings]

Every thing I write I write in a daze. I’m feral. I’m bewitched. I’m controlled by powers far beyond my comprehension. The powers make me horny. The powers whisper in my ear to open the tumblr mobile app and scribble my proverbial cave drawings on the wall. The wall is my blog. I am horny. The powers made me that way.

I awaken from my daze and I find the scribblings of a mad woman. I read them. I stop.

“Hey this is actually good,” I say.

“Let the nutcase speak,” I say.

I live to write another day.

[vivwritescrappythings]

How are you doing?

Good, thanks :)

[vivwritescrappythings]

Could you do Marcus acacius x princess!reader

Your father want to have you to arranged marriage to General Acacius, you didn’t know who he looks like. The General came, you simply shyly beside in your father. Your father want to introduce to you to General Acacius. You politely bow to him, as he take your hand to kiss your knuckles, your father would like to go on tour around the palace. You two walks besides each other that he was curious about you, having complimented. You simply hate it that he say it. You two go to library, explore it to walk around, he would like to know you more. As you try to reach the book, he help you out to reach it but he was so close. As you turn to him, he simply look at you, realizing that spark. He was cupped your cheek as he’s about to kiss you deeply. That kiss was on fire that burn to your body. You hold his chest as the kiss keeps going. As they stop, they should get back to your father.

(Hope you will write it, thanks and have a great day)

Posted here! I made a few changes--the reader is a merchant's daughter rather than a princess and they go to chariot races instead of the library, but I hope you like it!