Marcus Acacius X Reader - Blog Posts
Adstrum in ruinas. | part one.
General Marcus Acacius × F ! Reader
• summary: After your father’s sudden death, the general starts spending more time with you. At first, it feels strange, but as you come to learn, he isn't that big a brute everyone thinks he is.
• kind of slow burn ??, age gap (unspecified), forbidden love, marcus is pretty positive and in love, and he's cute, mutual pining, mentions of death, lmk if i missed anything.
• tokkis note: This is the first part of a little fic i wanted to write. the nsfw smut part will be in part two since this part already has almost 4k words. i just wanted a little backstory, so who knows... if you guys enjoy this part, maybe i will make it into a short series. i have lots of ideas. anyways, enjoy!!!
The palace felt colder after your father’s death. Though the sun still danced across the walls, nothing could have warmed you.
He had always been a quiet man, steady in his craft and in his love for you. You had grown up watching his hands work leather as though it were clay, each stitch meticulous, each touch with purpose. He had poured his life into the emperor’s court, shaping beauty out of necessity, and yet, when his time had come, they had discarded him without hesitation.
Accused of theft, he had been taken swiftly, the charges flimsy, the judgment quick. You had not been allowed to speak on his behalf. No one had. And when his life ended on the blade of the emperor’s justice, the world moved on as though he had never existed. You had not cried when they took him. There had been no time, no space for grief within the stone walls of the palace. Instead, you swallowed it whole, the ache settling deep within your chest, cold and unforgiving. You could not cry. In a way, crying was admitting to the gods that he was no longer, so you did not dare slip one tear. Let the pain seethe.
No one spoke his name. To your face, at least. Not until General Marcus Acacius.
You had known his name long before you ever knew his face. The empire’s greatest general, a man whose victories had carved Rome’s borders, who had spilled oceans of blood in the emperor’s name. He was the kind of man you had only seen from afar—untouchable, his presence a thing of myths whispered amongst men. To you, he was just that: a man. A cruel one.
So when he first appeared in the apothecary, you almost did not believe it was him. “The town speaks of… you,” he said, voice filling the room like the low roll of thunder. You turned sharply, the pestle slipping from your grasp. He stood in the doorway, tall and broad, his figure framed by the dim light spilling in from the corridor. His tunic was torn, a gash running across his arm where blood had soaked through. “So I heard,” he continued, stepping inside, “if it is true—”
“Oh, yes, I—yes, it is true,” you stammered, fumbling for words. His presence unsettled you, though you could not say why. Perhaps it was the way his gaze lingered or faint something in his tone. It was different this time. “I understand. You have my condolences,” he said. You hesitated, unsure how to respond. Something in your heart fluttered. “Thank you, General.” He was not a monster. Not here with you, not now, at least. It seemed sincere enough. You looked him up and down. Why did the blood keep on trickling? For a moment, you thought he might say more, but he simply gestured to his arm. “May I trouble you for assistance?” No monster.
At first, you thought nothing of his visits.
They were sporadic, a few days apart—always under the pretense of some new injury. A cut from a sparring match. A dislocated shoulder. The aches and pains of a soldier’s life. He came to you because it was easier than seeking the palace’s physicians, or so you told yourself. But then the days stretched into weeks, and his appearances grew more frequent.
You noticed the small ways in which he lingered. The way his eyes followed you as you moved about the room, the way his voice softened when he addressed you. It was subtle at first, almost imperceptible, but as the days passed, you found yourself waiting for the sound of his footsteps in the hall.
For even when he was far, his touch still lingered, you were still drunken on his smell, and his eyes still loved yours.
One evening, as you prepared a salve by the fire, he spoke. “Your father was a great man.” You froze, your hands stilling over the mortar. “I remember his work,” Marcus continued, his voice low. “He made my first pair of riding boots. I was just a young man then.” You swallowed dry, willing your voice to remain steady. “He never spoke of you.”
“No, I suppose he would not have.”
The silence that followed was deafening. Finally, “So why are you telling me this?”
“Because he deserved better,” Marcus said simply. The words struck something deep within you. You looked away, vision blurring as the firelight flickered. Better.
He was all you could think about. Each night, from the first, you would sing sweet, mournful songs to the moon. Maybe it was because you missed your father dearly, and he filled that space up almost perfectly. Or maybe because, when he was with you, he did not seem to be the seven-headed monster all saw him as. Maybe pretending was his virtue.
But you were not the last judgment.
“Why are you always here?” you asked, voice sharper than you intended. He hesitated, his gaze flicking to the floor. “Do you not want me here?” A smile played on his lips. “That is not what I said.”
“Then why ask?”
“Because I do not understand.” You stepped closer, your heart pounding in your chest. “You never cared before. Why now?” His jaw tightened, and for a moment, you thought he might walk away. But then he sighed, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly. “It is nothing,” he said at last.
“It is not nothing,” you pressed. “You are avoiding the truth.”
He looked at you then, his expression guarded but not unkind. “And if I told you the truth, would you thank me for it? Or curse me for what I know?”
Your breath caught in your throat. “What is it that you mean?” Marcus hesitated, the words heavy on his tongue. “Your father,” he said finally. “He did not die because of the charges. He died because they needed a scapegoat. The emperor needed to remind the court what happens when you step out of line.” The room seemed to tilt, the walls closing in around you. “You knew?”
“I tried to stop it,” he said quietly. “But there are things even I cannot change.”
You shook your head, the ache in your chest threatening to overwhelm you. “I do not need your protection, Marcus. I do not need anyone’s.”
“I know,” he said, stepping closer. His voice was steady, but there was something raw in his eyes. “But you have it anyway.”
You wanted to be angry with him. You wanted to scream, to push him away, but instead, you stood there, frozen, as he reached for you. His hands were rough, calloused from years of battle, but they cradled your face with a tenderness that left you breathless. You craved it. And you will crave it until the day you are no more.
“I care for you more than I have ever cared,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “And that terrifies me.”
Whatever happened to honor and victory? It was brutal. He was brutal. Raw, bloody, and utterly inhuman. But how could he also be the quiet after the storm? The wind that travels over still waters, the sound of dawn over mountains of dead people? You had to treat him many times, but the wounds he had inside his heart came well over the ones on his skin, you think.
You didn’t want to think of him—Marcus, with his dark eyes and the way they seemed to unravel you each time they met your own. But he lingered, even when he wasn’t here. He lingered in the soft creak of the door, the faint scent of leather and iron that clung to the air after he’d gone. It wasn’t fair, how much space he took in your thoughts. How much warmth he brought into this cold, empty life. You hated him for it. You hated yourself more.
“You work too hard.” You glanced up, startled by the suddenness of his words. He was seated by the fire, his armor stripped away, leaving only the simple tunic beneath. His shoulders were broad, his posture commanding even in repose. “You say that as though there’s an alternative,” you replied, turning back to the herbs in your hands.
“You could rest,” he said simply. “And do what? Dream of better days?” The bitterness in your voice surprised even you. Marcus leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “You deserve better days.” The sincerity in his voice caught you off guard. You hesitated, unsure how to respond. Finally, you set the pestle down and met his gaze. “Better days won’t bring my father back.”
“No,” he agreed. “But they might give you something to hope for.” You shook your head, unwilling to let yourself be drawn into his optimism. “Hope is for fools, General.”
“Perhaps,” he said, his voice quieter now. “But sometimes, it’s all we have.”
He wanted to hold you, to let his body meld with yours, ask you to run away to far lands. Let him take care of you, make you have his babies. Love you until there's nothing left.
but he couldn't.
“What would you do with better days?” you asked, the words slipping out before you could stop them. Marcus’s gaze lifted, startled by the question. He leaned back in his chair, his broad frame casting a long shadow across the dim room.
“I don’t know,” he said after a moment. he did know. he'd spend them with you. oh, silly it all felt. “I stopped imagining them a long time ago.” You paused, your fingers stilling over a jar. “You must have thought about it. When you were younger, before…” You trailed off, uncertain how to finish the sentence. “Before the blood?” he supplied, his tone sharper than you expected. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I suppose I did. Once.” still.
“And?”
He hesitated, the tension in his shoulders palpable. “And it doesn’t matter. The man I am now... he has no place in better days.” Something in your chest ached at his words, though you couldn’t say why. You wanted to reach for him, to close the distance between you and tell him he was wrong. But you didn’t. Instead, you lowered your gaze and returned to your work, your voice quiet. “That’s a pity.”
The days stretched into weeks, and though you tried to resist, the threads of your lives intertwined in ways you couldn’t untangle. Marcus became a constant presence, his visits no longer marked by the pretense of injuries. He came for you, though neither of you dared to speak it aloud.
Each touch, each glance, was a betrayal of the barriers you had built around yourself. Yet, you let him break them piece by piece, unable to deny the pull that drew you closer.
One night, as the apothecary lay bathed in moonlight, he found you humming an old melody—a song your father had sung on quiet nights. The tune was bittersweet, a memory wrapped in longing. Marcus lingered in the doorway, his shadow stretching across the room.
“I’ve heard that before,” he said softly.
You turned, startled. “My father used to sing it.” He nodded, stepping closer. “It suits you. Beautiful and haunting.” You didn’t respond, your gaze dropping to your hands. “I don’t sing much anymore.”
“You should.”
He was close now, close enough that you could see the faint scar that ran along his jaw, the one you’d traced with your eyes so many times but never dared to touch. “Why?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. “Because it’s part of you,” he said simply. “And I want to know all of you.” His words left you breathless, the weight of them settling in your chest. You wanted to pull away, to guard the fragile thing that was growing between you, but you couldn’t.
But people talk.
They talk in whispers that snake through the palace walls, slithering through cracks and beneath doors. Whispers of his visits, of his presence in the apothecary, of the time he lingers where he should not. They do not speak to you directly, but you can feel their words coiling around your throat, tightening with every passing day.
You hear them behind you when you walk through the halls: the sharp staccato of hurried footsteps, the low murmur of voices that stop the moment you turn. You catch glimpses of knowing glances, the way the maids shift their eyes when you enter a room, how the guards avert their gazes.
They all know, and yet they know nothing.
Because what is there to know? You have not touched him beyond necessity, have not dared to let your hand linger when you tend his wounds. And yet, the air between you is thick, suffused with something that neither of you has the courage to name.
“You should not come here anymore,” It was late. The apothecary was empty, save for the two of you. You stood with your back to him, arranging jars on the shelves in some vain attempt to distract yourself from the weight of his presence.
“I will decide what I should or should not do,” Marcus replied, his voice steady. You turned to face him, exasperation rising in your chest. “They talk, Marcus. Do you not see the danger in that? For you— for me?” His expression changed fast. “I cannot stop them from speaking,” he said finally, his voice quieter now. “And I will not stop coming.”
“Why?” you demanded, stepping closer. “Why do you care what happens to me? Why do you risk so much just to be here?”
He did not answer immediately. His gaze flicked over your face, searching for something, though you could not say what. Finally, he sighed, the sound heavy. “Because you deserve better than this,” he said. “Better than what the court has given you. Just... better." You shook your head, chest tightening. “That is not an answer.”
“It is the only one I can give you,” he said, stepping closer. “For now." But deep down, you knew better.
And you hated him for it, too.
“I see the way you look at me,” he said one night, his voice breaking the silence. You froze, your hands stilling over the poultice you were preparing. “What?”
“Do not deny it,” Marcus said, his tone softer now. “I know that look. I have seen it on too many faces not to recognize it.” You swallowed hard, your chest tightening. “And what look is that?”
“The one that says you hate me as much as you try to fight it." The words struck you like a blow, and you turned to face him, your cheeks burning. “I do not—”
“You do,” he said simply, cutting you off. “And I do not blame you for it.”
His gaze was steady, his eyes dark and unreadable. For a moment, you thought he might say more, but instead, he stepped closer, his hand reaching out to brush against your arm. “I do not deserve your forgiveness,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I hope for it, all the same.” You did not hate him. you wish you could, because falling in love wasn't what you wanted right now.
“I think about you,” Marcus admitted, his voice raw. “More than I should. More than is safe.” Your breath caught in your throat, your chest tightening as his words sank in. “You shouldn’t,” you whispered, though your voice lacked conviction. “I know.”
The silence between you stretched.
“But why?” you asked, your voice trembling. “Why do you care now, after all this time? You never gave me an answer, Marcus..."
He hesitated, his jaw tightening. “Because I see you,” he said finally. “And I see myself in you—the parts of me I thought were dead. The parts I’ve tried to bury.” You shook your head, tears stinging your eyes. “I don’tㅡ Marcus, if this is all a game to you, of things you want to rediscover within you..."
"It is not. I do not intend to play with your heart."
So why does the blood keep on trickling?
They were wildflowers, clearly gathered from the edges of the palace gardens, and they looked out of place in his calloused hands. He held them out awkwardly, his expression somewhere between defiance and vulnerability, as though he expected you to scold him for the gesture. “For you,” he said simply. You stared at them for a moment, then at him. “Why?” you couldn’t help but smile. “Do I need a reason?” His tone was defensive, but the softness in his gaze betrayed him. No monster.
Your fingers brushed against his as you took the flowers, and he flinched almost imperceptibly, as if the touch burned him. “They’re beautiful,” you said. He didn’t reply, but you thought you saw the corner of his mouth twitch— an almost-smile, there and gone in an instant.
“Are you trying to court me, General?” you asked, half-joking. The question caught him off guard, and he looked at you with something close to panic in his eyes. “No.” You laughed, shaking your head. “Good. You’d be terrible at it.” But the truth was, you didn’t hate the thought.
He started threatening the others after that.
The first time, you hadn’t been there to see it, but you heard about it from one of the maids who whispered to you in passing. “The general,” she said, her eyes wide. “He nearly broke Marcellus’s arm. All because he said something about you.”
He didn’t deny it. “He should not have said what he did,” he said simply, his tone calm but firm. “What did he say?”
“It does not matter.”
“Marcus—”
“It does not matter,” he repeated, his voice sharper now. “What matters is that he will not say it again.”
You wanted to argue with him, to tell him he couldn’t go around threatening people in your name. But the truth was, a part of you was glad. A part of you wanted him to protect you. He didn’t just watch over you—he hovered, his presence a constant shadow that both comforted and unnerved you. When he wasn’t by your side, you found yourself looking for him, craving his presence like air. And when he was with you, you felt safer than you had since your father’s death.
Days passed, and though you told yourself you should push him away, you could not.
He was always there, like a storm on the horizon—inevitable, impossible to ignore. You felt his presence even when he was not near, his voice echoing in your mind, his touch lingering on your skin.
You hated yourself for it. Hated the way your heart leapt when you heard his footsteps, the way your breath hitched when his fingers brushed yours. You tried to convince yourself it meant nothing, that it was a passing infatuation born of grief and the fact that he so happened to be there. You tried to convince yourself that the soft yearning in your chest was fleeting. A passing fancy, born of loneliness and the way Marcus had carved out a space in your world so effortlessly.
But as the days turned to weeks, the intensity of your feelings betrayed you. Every glance he cast your way lingered. Every word he spoke seemed to reverberate in your mind long after it had been said.
And every time his hand brushed against yours—whether by accident or intent—it felt as if the earth shifted beneath your feet.
It was one of those moments now. The two of you stood side by side in the apothecary, the late afternoon sunlight spilling through the windows. He was reaching for a jar of herbs on the shelf above, his arm brushing against yours as he leaned closer.
Your breath hitched, and you stepped back quickly, your movements too sharp, too sudden. “Am I in your way?” Marcus asked, his voice low and amused. “No,” you said hastily, turning to busy yourself with a mortar and pestle. “Not at all.” He did not move, and you could feel his gaze on you, heavy and unwavering. “You always do that,” he said after a moment, his tone thoughtful.
“Do what?”
“Step away.” You forced yourself to meet his eyes. “I do not know what you mean.”
“Yes, you do,” he said quietly. There was no accusation in his voice, only a gentle insistence. “You step away as if the space will make it easier. But it does not, does it?” Your fingers tightened around the pestle. “Marcus—”
“I feel it too,” he said, cutting you off. The words hung between you, raw and unvarnished. You stared at him, your heart pounding. “You should not say that.”
“Why not? Because it is the truth?” He stepped closer, his hand resting on the edge of the table. “Because I look at you and I can think of nothing else? Because when I leave here, all I want is to come back?”
“Marcus, stop.” Your voice was trembling now, a plea more than a command. “I cannot stop,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “And I do not think you can, either.” The room seemed to shrink around you, the air charged with something that felt too big for your soul to understand. “Tell me to leave,” he said, his eyes searching yours. “If this is too much, if I have crossed a line, say the word, and I will go.” You opened your mouth, the words on the tip of your tongue. But they would not come. Because no matter how much you told yourself this was dangerous, reckless, wrong. you did not want him to go.
You did not step back this time. “I cannot,” you whispered, the words breaking free like a confession. His breath hitched, and for a moment, neither of you moved. Then he reached for you, his hand cupping your cheek with a tenderness that made your chest ache. “I do not know how to do this,” you said, your voice trembling. “I do not know what happens now.”
what is this pandora box you have opened?
Before you could respond, his lips were on yours. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t tentative. It was raw and consuming, as though he’d been holding back a storm and now it was unleashed. His hands slid to frame your face, his thumbs brushing against your cheeks as his lips claimed yours. There was no hesitation, no room for doubt. And, oh, you couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Your hands found his tunic, clutching the fabric as though it were the only thing keeping you grounded. His scent filling your lungs, his warmth, the feel of him, it was too much and not enough all at once.
When he finally pulled back, his breath was ragged, his forehead resting against yours. “I shouldn’t have done that,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I shouldn’t…”
“You did,” you whispered, your own voice shaky. “And I didn’t stop you.” His lips twitched into the barest hint of a smile, but his eyes remained serious. “Say the word, and I’ll walk away. I swear it.”
You hesitated, the weight of his words settling over you. But then you shook your head, your hand lifting to brush against his cheek. “I wil not say it.” His eyes closed briefly, as though your words had physically hit him. When he opened them again, they were softer, full of something you couldn’t name but felt in every corner of your soul.
“Then I am yours,” he murmured. “For as long as you’ll have me.” You leaned up, your lips brushing against his once more. A promise, a surrender, a beginning.
꒰ 𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐔𝐒's works for 𝐏𝐄𝐃𝐑𝐎 𝐏𝐀𝐒𝐂𝐀𝐋'S CHARACTERS. ꒰ main m. / characters list ꒰ ꒱ PROMPTS ⒈ & ⒉ for requests / ... MY 'READERS' PALETTE / ABOUT 𝐌𝐄 ... ꒱ "where art thou, why not uponeth me?..." | DARK CONTENT |
꒰ drabbles ꒱
₁ DO NOT BLAME THE WIND ꒰ 𝓙 OEL 𝓜 ILLER -- ONESHOT ꒱
₂ CORIANDER UNDER THE FIG TREE ꒰ 𝓜 ARCUS 𝓐 CACIUS ꒱
𝓓AVE 𝓨 ORK ꒰ COMING SOON.... ꒱
𝓙AVIER 𝒫EÑA ꒰ COMING SOON... ꒱
© THEHYDRAETHEREAL COPYRIGHTS. DO NOT REPOST, TRANSLATE OR REWRITE MY WORKS. INTERACT USING YOUR COMMON SENSE. THIS CONTENT IS TRIGGERING.
thank you SO MUCH, ahhh
"You flinch like that again in public, and I’ll give you a real reason to." (1)
Character: General Marcus Acacius.
Trigger warnings: age gap (maybe reader is the daughter of someone from the Senate), power dynamic (he's the General a.k.a HOT), physical abuse, harassment, threats, fear kink, manhandling, manipulation maybe ?
I was honestly just thinking of Acacius putting on the facade of a caring, loving and dotting husband when he's scorting reader to the market to buy some food for dinner and at some point she does something he does not like and she flinches at his reaction. He's an abusive man close doors because he's obsessed with reader and deep down fears she's going to run away from him or something like that, I leave it to you obviously, I read your work and god, breathtaking to say the least
CORIANDER UNDER THE FIG TREE ههههه
senator's daughter.ᐟ reader && dark.ᐟgeneral acacius
.ᐟ trigger warnings: My work contains dark themes such as physical abuse, power imbalance, age gap, harassment, threats, phsyhological terror and other possible triggering elements. Proceed with caution. If these warnings trigger you, DO NOT INTERACT. 𝒜cces my DARK PROMPTS, my WHEEL OF INSPIRATION, my MASTERLIST and send in more REQUESTS.
ههههه
A shaky breath leaves your chest as you stroll next to the aged fig tree which marked the beginning of the market. And then, the scent hits you—coriander. Its citrusy and spicy aroma was the characteristic, consoling element that marked your childhood.
Whenever you touch the darkened green leaves, sadness overflows you.
Your father, Ghauccus, often let you stand among the servants. You were much beloved due to your father’s kindness, everybody loved to see his sweet child growing up so gorgeously. The maids often let you ground spices in the bronze mortar—an activity you loved doing, especially during summer evenings, after you had tired yourself running after fireflies and the moths that gathered around flames that illuminated the garden and vines. Notwithstanding their chuckles at how heavy the pestle was for your infant hands, you were still encouraged and strength was manifested over you ever since you were a youngster.
A custom you and your father honorated religiously was the first quarters of the moon, spent within the folds of forgotten stories or legends about women that shaped their own fate and destiny—no matter how darkened it seemed. You still felt your father’s fingertips grazing your lower back, showing you his deep affection and cherishment whenever you shared a walk in the open.
You flinch hard as you feel the general’s —your husband's— fingers gripping your hip and pulling you nearer his grander body. Your ribs are adorned by burgundy marks and a tiny whimper escapes your throat as the bruised flesh is pressed against the gilded armor with drops of gold which poke your skin mercilessly.
People bow their heads as he passes by with you on his arm, even though a couple of elders eye him with a disgusted glare and you...with pity. As they remember who your father was and who your husband is. They all view his as a tyrant for serving the twin Emperors so respectfully but you are the one that knows he certainly wants the throne somehow. You know about the plots and about his aspirations of becoming the Emperor of Rome soon. And the thought terrifies you.
You can already tell, by the way the muscles in his jaw clench and tick, that your "stunt" has maddened him. Fear constricts your throat and you feel your chest burning, so you try your best to brush the event off your husband's mind.
"W-we should buy more herbs, and I will have the maids prepare you the dish you l-like so much—", you try to speak, but Acacius lowers his head to speak in your ear and the words die on your tongue.
"We will return home, my love.", he growls and you already feel tears burning in your eyes. Home? You don't want to go "home". You know how rarely he lets you out and you know what will happen to you when you arrive back to the villa so you try to delay the inevitable by lingering in this moment.
"P-please, my lord, please...", your eyes bore pleadingly in his coal black ones as you try to steady your whispering voice. "Please, no, let's stay a little longer—".
"No?", he cuts you off again, and you feel his grip tightening. The deep chuckle that erupts from his broad chest sounds more like a growl and again, you feel small, powerless, you feel like a lamb to the slaughter. "When I command something, you have no say in it, haven't I taught you that, my little lamb?", he continues, as if he heard your thoughts.
You nod your head weakly, as you graze your eyes over the marketplace one more time. The coriander you willed to buy lies now forgotten on a wooden table as fear curses through your veins.
As soon as your feet hit the marble floors, and Acacius knows he is not under people's gaze anymore, you feel his hands on you. He grips the back of your neck and drags you to himself. You don't have time to scream, plead, beg—only to whimper—, as his lips press to your ear. "Tell me, you like when I put my hands on you?"
When you only move your head in a silent no, too choked by your own sobs and tears, he shakes your body harshly. "Answer me!", he says, trying to keep his voice down, inhaling and exhaling, visibly overly angered.
"N-no...", you cry out in the silence of the house.
The general grabs your waist next and he slams your body in the wall. You fell the copper of the blood in your mouth as he presses himself against your back. "Then why you make me do this?"
Both of his massive, calloused hands that killed so many, wrap around your wrists, pushing them next to your head. The general's massive figure makes your lungs burn, air simply not reaching them.
"My queen, why do you have to be so diffucult? ", he asks you again, and even under the heavy robes, you feel his hard member poking at your lower back. A sob escapes your lips and you feel a warm, thin trace of blood running down your chin, along with fresh tears. He always gets disgustingly excited whenever he feels your muscles tensing with fear. Another thing you loathe about him.
"I give you everything, don't I? I am a good husband, I am wealthy and I will make you my queen one day, and you still act so ungratefully."
He retreats from you all of a sudden and your knees give up on your weight, making your body collapse on the ground on your palms and the skin tears open on them. Teardrops fall, wetting the expensive marble carved with bronze. Acacius's hand fists itself in your hair and he slowly pushes your head up. His eyes scan your terrified features and the blood that starts to dry on your face and he licks his lips at the sight. You feel like you are nothing but a pile of broken limbs at the general's feet.
He runs his thumb over your lips that are trembling, and pushes it in your mouth, letting it rest heavily on your hot tongue.
You screw your eyes shut as he pushes it further, almost touching the back of your throat with it. "Look at me.", he commands and you obey immediately when he grips your jaw harshly with the other fingers. "You are mine by right. If you shame me one more time, I will ruin you so thoroughly that even the crows will pity what is left."
You flinch at the threat, and terror settles deep in your bones.
The general retreats the finger from your mouth and grips your cheeks with his entire hand. The look in his eyes was, for a brief moment, vulnerable. The only vulnerable thing in him.
Another tear slipped down your face and, combined with your blood, it painted his hand in a powdered pink stripe.
"You flinch like that again in public, and I'll give you a real reason to.", the man finished, standing up high.
"I expect you in the bedroom. You have wife duties to attend. And if you refuse, I will fuck the disobedience out of you under the sun’s gaze — and when everyone will spit on you as a whore, you’ll know you earned it."
You choked on a sob as he left, and your blurry vision caught one of your servants, one of the servants that let you ground the coriander in your father's home, look at you with tears in her eyes. There was nothing you could do but stand up and join your husband.
⋆↝ 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒: So, when I saw your request in my inbox, I was literally SO. HAPPY. because I've been seeing your reblogs and you read good stuff and it was really encouraging that you are reading MY shit 😭 ♡ Thank you, my love and I really hope this reaches your expectations. I LOVED WRITING THISSS
⋆↝ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒: @highonmarvel @pedrosyouknowwhat @essraxi ♡
"You flinch like that again in public, and I’ll give you a real reason to." (1)
Character: General Marcus Acacius.
Trigger warnings: age gap (maybe reader is the daughter of someone from the Senate), power dynamic (he's the General a.k.a HOT), physical abuse, harassment, threats, fear kink, manhandling, manipulation maybe ?
I was honestly just thinking of Acacius putting on the facade of a caring, loving and dotting husband when he's scorting reader to the market to buy some food for dinner and at some point she does something he does not like and she flinches at his reaction. He's an abusive man close doors because he's obsessed with reader and deep down fears she's going to run away from him or something like that, I leave it to you obviously, I read your work and god, breathtaking to say the least
CORIANDER UNDER THE FIG TREE ههههه
senator's daughter.ᐟ reader && dark.ᐟgeneral acacius
.ᐟ trigger warnings: My work contains dark themes such as physical abuse, power imbalance, age gap, harassment, threats, phsyhological terror and other possible triggering elements. Proceed with caution. If these warnings trigger you, DO NOT INTERACT. 𝒜cces my DARK PROMPTS, my WHEEL OF INSPIRATION, my MASTERLIST and send in more REQUESTS.
ههههه
A shaky breath leaves your chest as you stroll next to the aged fig tree which marked the beginning of the market. And then, the scent hits you—coriander. Its citrusy and spicy aroma was the characteristic, consoling element that marked your childhood.
Whenever you touch the darkened green leaves, sadness overflows you.
Your father, Ghauccus, often let you stand among the servants. You were much beloved due to your father’s kindness, everybody loved to see his sweet child growing up so gorgeously. The maids often let you ground spices in the bronze mortar—an activity you loved doing, especially during summer evenings, after you had tired yourself running after fireflies and the moths that gathered around flames that illuminated the garden and vines. Notwithstanding their chuckles at how heavy the pestle was for your infant hands, you were still encouraged and strength was manifested over you ever since you were a youngster.
A custom you and your father honorated religiously was the first quarters of the moon, spent within the folds of forgotten stories or legends about women that shaped their own fate and destiny—no matter how darkened it seemed. You still felt your father’s fingertips grazing your lower back, showing you his deep affection and cherishment whenever you shared a walk in the open.
You flinch hard as you feel the general’s —your husband's— fingers gripping your hip and pulling you nearer his grander body. Your ribs are adorned by burgundy marks and a tiny whimper escapes your throat as the bruised flesh is pressed against the gilded armor with drops of gold which poke your skin mercilessly.
People bow their heads as he passes by with you on his arm, even though a couple of elders eye him with a disgusted glare and you...with pity. As they remember who your father was and who your husband is. They all view his as a tyrant for serving the twin Emperors so respectfully but you are the one that knows he certainly wants the throne somehow. You know about the plots and about his aspirations of becoming the Emperor of Rome soon. And the thought terrifies you.
You can already tell, by the way the muscles in his jaw clench and tick, that your "stunt" has maddened him. Fear constricts your throat and you feel your chest burning, so you try your best to brush the event off your husband's mind.
"W-we should buy more herbs, and I will have the maids prepare you the dish you l-like so much—", you try to speak, but Acacius lowers his head to speak in your ear and the words die on your tongue.
"We will return home, my love.", he growls and you already feel tears burning in your eyes. Home? You don't want to go "home". You know how rarely he lets you out and you know what will happen to you when you arrive back to the villa so you try to delay the inevitable by lingering in this moment.
"P-please, my lord, please...", your eyes bore pleadingly in his coal black ones as you try to steady your whispering voice. "Please, no, let's stay a little longer—".
"No?", he cuts you off again, and you feel his grip tightening. The deep chuckle that erupts from his broad chest sounds more like a growl and again, you feel small, powerless, you feel like a lamb to the slaughter. "When I command something, you have no say in it, haven't I taught you that, my little lamb?", he continues, as if he heard your thoughts.
You nod your head weakly, as you graze your eyes over the marketplace one more time. The coriander you willed to buy lies now forgotten on a wooden table as fear curses through your veins.
As soon as your feet hit the marble floors, and Acacius knows he is not under people's gaze anymore, you feel his hands on you. He grips the back of your neck and drags you to himself. You don't have time to scream, plead, beg—only to whimper—, as his lips press to your ear. "Tell me, you like when I put my hands on you?"
When you only move your head in a silent no, too choked by your own sobs and tears, he shakes your body harshly. "Answer me!", he says, trying to keep his voice down, inhaling and exhaling, visibly overly angered.
"N-no...", you cry out in the silence of the house.
The general grabs your waist next and he slams your body in the wall. You fell the copper of the blood in your mouth as he presses himself against your back. "Then why you make me do this?"
Both of his massive, calloused hands that killed so many, wrap around your wrists, pushing them next to your head. The general's massive figure makes your lungs burn, air simply not reaching them.
"My queen, why do you have to be so diffucult? ", he asks you again, and even under the heavy robes, you feel his hard member poking at your lower back. A sob escapes your lips and you feel a warm, thin trace of blood running down your chin, along with fresh tears. He always gets disgustingly excited whenever he feels your muscles tensing with fear. Another thing you loathe about him.
"I give you everything, don't I? I am a good husband, I am wealthy and I will make you my queen one day, and you still act so ungratefully."
He retreats from you all of a sudden and your knees give up on your weight, making your body collapse on the ground on your palms and the skin tears open on them. Teardrops fall, wetting the expensive marble carved with bronze. Acacius's hand fists itself in your hair and he slowly pushes your head up. His eyes scan your terrified features and the blood that starts to dry on your face and he licks his lips at the sight. You feel like you are nothing but a pile of broken limbs at the general's feet.
He runs his thumb over your lips that are trembling, and pushes it in your mouth, letting it rest heavily on your hot tongue.
You screw your eyes shut as he pushes it further, almost touching the back of your throat with it. "Look at me.", he commands and you obey immediately when he grips your jaw harshly with the other fingers. "You are mine by right. If you shame me one more time, I will ruin you so thoroughly that even the crows will pity what is left."
You flinch at the threat, and terror settles deep in your bones.
The general retreats the finger from your mouth and grips your cheeks with his entire hand. The look in his eyes was, for a brief moment, vulnerable. The only vulnerable thing in him.
Another tear slipped down your face and, combined with your blood, it painted his hand in a powdered pink stripe.
"You flinch like that again in public, and I'll give you a real reason to.", the man finished, standing up high.
"I expect you in the bedroom. You have wife duties to attend. And if you refuse, I will fuck the disobedience out of you under the sun’s gaze — and when everyone will spit on you as a whore, you’ll know you earned it."
You choked on a sob as he left, and your blurry vision caught one of your servants, one of the servants that let you ground the coriander in your father's home, look at you with tears in her eyes. There was nothing you could do but stand up and join your husband.
⋆↝ 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒: So, when I saw your request in my inbox, I was literally SO. HAPPY. because I've been seeing your reblogs and you read good stuff and it was really encouraging that you are reading MY shit 😭 ♡ Thank you, my love and I really hope this reaches your expectations. I LOVED WRITING THISSS
⋆↝ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒: @highonmarvel @pedrosyouknowwhat @essraxi ♡
struggling with writing Acacius rn, that man is making me wanna rip my skin off
still available! ♡♡
⋆⁎✽๛ 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐊 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐒 --- for requests
෴ 𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐌𝐄𝐑: This content is dark and very triggering. Minors and easily triggered people, do not interact. Your mental health matters. You are responsible for your own media consumption.
෴ 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒: MY CONTENT IS DARK AND DARK ONLY. My requests are now OPENED. You can request as many fictions as you want, but you have to check out my CHARACTERS LIST and my WARNINGS first. IF YOU ARE ANON, USE AN EMOJI, SO WE CAN TALK MORE <3. Request via my INBOX. Please, also write a short summary of your ideas, do not just send in the number of the promp and the character. Thank you.
𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐆𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 I will use for these: Choking; chasing kink; Dacryphilia (tear kink); fear kink; dv + heavy violence; restraints; manhanding and others. Please choose a few in your request.
"You flinch like that again in public, and I’ll give you a real reason to." (1)
"I don’t remember asking what you wanted, sweetheart." (2)
"You can cry if you want. Won’t change a damn thing." (3)
"That’s the problem with you. You never fucking listen." (4)
"Go ahead. Tell me no again." (5)
"You move, and I promise it’ll be worse." (6)
"I told you to sit down. Don’t make me say it twice." (7)
"You think I give a fuck if you’re scared?" (8)
"I liked you better when you knew your place." (9)
"You’re only still breathing because I let you." (10)
"See how quiet you can be after I slap you around?" (11)
"You can beg if you want. Doesn’t mean I’ll stop." (12)
"Do I look like a man who’s gonna change his mind?" (13)
"At least make yourself useful, baby." (14)
"You act like I haven’t done this before." (15)
"If you were strong enough to stop me, angel, you would have by now." (16)
"C'mon, baby, don't cry...we haven't even started." (17)
"I'll destroy your pretty face of yours if you do that again." (18)
"Come here. Now." (19)
"I'd suggest you returned because if I catch you...you won't like what I'll do to you." (20)
nah, I'm a little too obsessed with this. Read the other part too, but this one was purely delicious! Oh, the talent is killing me softly, really --
Clean
Summary: They are everywhere, at all times.
Warnings: Dead dove do not eat, noncon, kidnapping, fingering, manhandling.
Pairings: Dark! Joel Miller x reader, Dark! Javier Peña x reader, Dark! Marcus Acacius x reader, Dark! Oberyn Martell x reader, Dark! Agent Whiskey x reader, Dark! Dieter Bravo x reader, Dark! Frankie Morales x reader
Series Masterlist
You hadn't recollected yourself when Joel spoke once again, Texan drawl lighter after the relief he had taken on your body. Your shivering hands attempted to paw at scraps of your clothes, using your previously discarded jean jacket to cover your naked form.
"Might as well bathe her if she's sleeping in my bed," He asserted casually, looking down at your disheveled state. "had a long day, didn't you, puppy?"
You stared at him wide eyed, not knowing what to possibly say. The nickname rolled out of his tongue with satisfaction, towering over your kneeling form, as if you actually were a dog. His shoulder flexed under his worn navy sweater, and he shifted to the rest of the men, tucking their still-hard erections away. You sensed the power Joel held over them, taming their savage desire with a simple command.
"Call dibs on that." Dieter proclaimed, a chuckle and a growl mixing in his tone as the rest cackled slightly. Joel tutted, cutting through the sounds charismatic-ally.
"Want her squeaky clean, Catfish it's on you."
Your Savior slammed the toy helicopter on the kitchen table, standing up with a torn, dutiful look on his face. The rest begun rumbling, and Joel simply looked up at them through his eyebrows, silencing them.
Catfish's dark and dirty boots stumped on the floorboards, short lived protests in their wake. His eyes glared at Joel from beneath the visor of his cap, hands twitching at his sides, but softened when he came down to his knees before you.
His hands reached for the over sized jean jacket that you had a white-knuckled grip on, and he gave it a wavering tug. Your eyes pleaded at him, and he nodded, still reaching for the jacket; his eyes reassured you, but you had seen the bulge protruding at his zipper, he was no better than the rest of them.
Burning holes into your head was Joel's stare, so you let go. It surprised you as Catfish straightened up the piece and showed you the arm hole. Slowly, you extended your limb and climbed into the jacket.
"Can you walk?" He whispered, and you tensed your muscles, skimming the possible pain. Your core felt like fire, but your legs felt enough as you pushed yourself onto the soles of your feet. You breathed out, eyes on him as he lifted you around your waist, hands warm through the denim.
As you came onto your feet, you realized the other men had possibly lost interest, fidgeting around with random objects you couldn't place through blurry eyes. Some sat down on the tattered couch, other's perched upon the counter.
A reassuring step after the other, with Catfish's arm supporting your back and waist, palm not fully pressing against you, you walked past the fireplace, and the couch and almost reached the hallway before your muscles turned taut, stretching and pulling at the fiber of your flesh. His careful grip wasn't enough to hold you as your knees slammed against the floor, crevices and lines sinking into your flesh and eliciting a sharp hiss.
"Need help?" One of them asked, and you hand shot to pull the only item of clothing down your bare ass. Preserving some dignity.
His hands were more stubborn, pulling you hastily from the floor to your feet and into the shadowy hallway. You felt cold marble digging against your back as he propped you against the bathroom counter, turning on the yellowed light.
The bathroom was well kept, but it didn't compare in the slightest to your back at home. You scanned for similarities, washbowl, mirror, toilet and tub. Although the porcelain looked stained, and the mirror was barely enough to see you face and some of your neck, it was spacey enough for the two of you to stand with some distance.
He crouched by your legs, hands reaching into the cabinets before pulling out some essentials; soap, a towel and bottle of shampoo which's label had rubbed off. After placing them on the counter, he silently kneeled over the bath tub, turning the rusty faucet on.
You peeked at him through wild strands of hair, debating onto what to do next. Your whole body was ravaged in shock, and you barely processed the situation. The men were speaking on the other room, you heard it as low whispers, along with the water splashed onto the porcelain, intercepted by Catfish's thick fingers.
His dark brown t-shirt expanded over his large back, material so thin you could trace the outline of each bulging muscle; as he leaned over the edge of the filling tub, a peak of flesh showed from the space between the shirt and his worn out boxers. He smelled musky, hidden under a layer of what you could tell was cheaper version of your father's perfume.
The sole idea brought tears into your eyes, stinging their way down your cheeks as you sniffled lightly. He pushed his shoulders back, tensing at the sound, but didn't say anything.
They were dead, that you were almost sure about, bodies were scattered everywhere and guns were going off madly as you ran away. You didn't even get to say goodbye, slipping out of your comfy bed that very own morning to go get coffee down the street before the alarms went off. You ran, because you knew the alarm meant you had to.
The bathtub creaked as Catfish used it to leverage himself up. He dried himself on the itchy hand towel, and turned to face you, but his eyes didn't meet yours.
"Water's cold, sorry for that." He muttered, sincerely. He stepped aside, showing you the half filled bathtub. Your thighs pressed together, sticky mess pooling and drying flaky upon your damp skin; your hands clutched onto the jean jacket as you pressed it as closed as possibly.
Catfish scanned the room, as if checking everything was in place before he moved to the door. "Gonna see if I can give you something to change onto."
Not because of finding something, but if he was allowed to. That went unsaid, and you kept silent as the door creaked shut. For some seconds, you froze, testing the strength of your strained legs or expecting something else to happen. But the more you looked at the tub, you knew you had to get this done with.
What could happen if you took too much time?
You slipped your jacket off, biding goodbye to the last trace of your scent as the cold autumn air bit at your exposed skin. The soap felt greasy and thick against your hand, and your mind dumbly wondered if it could cause any bad reaction against your skin, but the idea of being dirty disgusted you more.
You bit a hiss as you stepped onto the cold water, sinking in quickly to avoid further discomfort. The icy water aching at any pain in your body, but it took away any dirt and sweat as you lathered the soap against your body. You didn't dare to look between your thighs as you rubbed at them underneath the water.
And then you dropped the soap, letting it sink to the bottom as your fingers ghosted over your core. You still felt him, deep inside you, and you hesitated to rub there, to try and clean any trace.
Your mind clawed towards the inevitable future as your shoulders slumped against the cool porcelain, as you scratched the shampoo into the knotted hair, careful on the spots that had been tugged. Some stray hairs tied around your fingers as you attempted to comb it. Once you believed you had finished, you let your eyes closed.
Would they be mad if you stayed here?
For a brief second you allowed yourself to relax, finding comfort in momentary stillness. The door creaked open, making you jump and slosh the water around. It had turned grayish, and you felt your hands shot to cover your bare chest.
Big, puppy dog eyes peeked through the door. He had taken of his cap, and his dark brown hair curled almost in shape. He held a dark bunch of fabric in his hand, and he stretched his upper body to settle it in the toilet lid.
"I'll be waiting outside, no hurry." He mumbled, softly, eyes reassuring and voice barely above a whisper. "Joel's already in bed, told me to bring you once you are done."
You nodded. You heard more talking outside the door, but his words had assured you at least some brief respite of the situation. It had brought everything crashing back, your vulnerability, and you took a deep breathe as you begun emptying the tub.
As the water swirled, you realized you didn't felt clean enough. With shaking fingers you popped the stopper back in and turned the faucet back on.
It pooled around your feet, cold no longer bothering you as you pulled your knees onto your chest, pressing your under eyes against the scratched skin.
Some seconds more, some more seconds of ignoring what was happening to you, you wondered if this was going to become an usual occurrence before the door hinges cried in protest.
You sighed, knowing you had possibly exceded your time in peace as you begun to rise.
"F-fuck you!" Was bellowed, and your head snapped to the door.
A sharp cackle followed that, and the scene unfolded.
Catfish's face was red as it bulged beneath Marcus' imposing bicep, knees folding under the pressure. Whiskey limited your view, body connected the door frame and the knob as he stepped in, too busy laughing at his fellow Raider to look at you. Beside him, Javier leaned against said frame, Cheshire cat grin pulling under his mustache as his eyes narrowed at you.
He pushed the laughing Whiskey into the bathroom, not before shooting Marcus' a smile over his shoulder as Catfish struggled against his confines. A hand was clamped over his mouth, keeping his gaze forcefully fixed upon you.
They neared the tub, eyeing the streaming faucet with intrigue. As you stared at them, slotting your body as far as possible into the tub, you realized they had changed into night clothes.
It gave you a small reminder of your guy friends back into the community, pijama pants and old t-shirts, though their eyes told a different story. Dark and blown out.
You felt Whiskey's breath against your back, making you jolt forward, coming face to face with Javier. Your hands came to grasp at the sides of the tub, knuckles turning white.
"Easy there," Javier commanded, voice stern. His hand dipped into the puddle forming by hour feet, fingers swirling on the water. "It's cold baby, want me to warm it up for you?"
Your head shook on itself, rapidly, frantically. He shifted, jaw ticking to Whiskey behind you. His arms slithered slowly around your collarbones, pulling your crouched back straight against the flannel of his pijama shirt. Your arms stuck to your sides at the armpits, incapacitating you as the heel of your feet kicked splashed water around.
"Can't fuck you without Joel's approval," Javier grunted, wet fingers tracing up your naked thigh as his eyes ransacked your form. Whiskey's grip pulled taught at your breasts, nipples erect and pruned from the freezing water, and you couldn't close your legs without slipping further into the bath and straining your neck. "Should have done it when I found you, you were already in all fours, recall?"
You slammed your head back in panic, Whiskey barely dodging it as he nosed along your neck; he growled at you. You clenched your thighs as best as you could, but Javier was stronger. Elbow pressed against one knee and his hand splayed against the other, forcing you an arm width open for him.
His other hand, the one that was previously tracing up your thigh, lowered dangerously, tracing two fingers through the seam of your sex.
You whined, Whiskey’s breathe fanning over your cheek as a single tear slid through it. It all felt tense, their hands on you, the faint noises of rustling behind you as Catfish attempted to escape Marcus’ grip, and their hot gazes upon you.
Two fingers pulled your lips apart, exposing you if possibly further to the cold air of the bathroom. Javier bit his lower lip, sighing as warmth spread up his neck.
Not even then, as you bathed yourself, you had peace.
His digits prodded at your hole, swollen and pink from Joel’s cock, yet they slipped in with some protest. A louder yelp escaped your lips, Javier giving Whiskey a warning through his knitted eyebrows. The man pressed a big, calloused hand to your lips, and you understood their boss possibly hadn’t given them permission for this.
Experimentally, Javier pushed his fingers to the last knuckle, pads pushing against your walls as they felt around. Searching, they were, along his eyes; searching for something in your expression.
“How is she?” Whiskey whispered, voice laced with amusement.
“Still fucking tight.” Javier growled ferociously, retrieving his fingers and working them back in slowly at first.
A small, hidden moan bounced against Whiskey’s palm, and your eyelids shut close. There was something about the way he was curling his fingers, against something just below your mound, that sent your legs shivering. Tears slipped into his hand, shame, breathing hard by his powerful grip upon your chest.
They shared a mischievous smile, almost juvenile in a way.
“Don’t cry, puppy.” He cooed, but the mockery made you cry harder. “Just gonna make this pussy cum.”
He leaned forward and spat, straining his shoulders from the position. His thumb scooped up the spit and pressed at the apex of your core, beginning to rub careful circles as his hand begun thrusting harder into you, curling quicker.
You felt the knot tighten at your stomach, toes curling and you tried, one last time, to get away. Useless.
“Make it quick.” Marcus hissed, a thin layer of sweat shining over his forehead. Catfish hadn’t stop struggling, vein popping at his forehead.
He didn’t answer, but his ministrations became more forceful, sending your eyes rolling back as you felt wetness spread, coat his fingers.
A sloppy kiss on your collarbone sent you spiraling, biting painfully on your lip as you exposed more of your neck to the man behind you. The knot snapped, walls clenching around Javier’s fingers as they fucked you through your high. Pride resounded in his chest.
The arm that was spreading you dislocated from your knees, curling around your quavering thigh as you squirmed away, ministrations becoming too much.
It hurt, though pleasure laced on the action you felt raw, vulnerable, small. You felt your breathe heaving, growing agitated with the passing seconds. Fear clouded your features, mind chanting please make it stop over and over.
As if hearing your thoughts, Javier slowly pulled out his fingers, cleaning them in the sloshing water and then his pijama pants. He relished in the way your eyes clouded with tears and how helpless you looked, the grin on his face told you so.
You felt the arms around you loosen, and sobs wrecked through your body as the hand came off. From the corner of your eyes, Marcus let Catfish go, but the man just ticked his jaw at him, unable to say more.
A grip on your chin stopped you from casting your eyes downwards, and Javier studied how red your lips looked, puffy from crying.
“Give me a kiss.” He ordered, though his voice was sultry. You swallowed hard, shame tinting your cheeks as you blinked at him.
Cocking his head, he grinned even wider. “Have you never…?”
The threat lingered in the air, Whiskey’s stubble rubbing against your neck.
The hand on your chin rose to cup your cheek, keeping you still as he rolled on the balls of his feet, mouth parted before smashing his lips onto yours.
You whimpered at the feeling of his tongue entering your mouth, taking a claim. Teeth clashing against teeth, Javier coating your mouth with his own saliva, and how the bathtub dug into your back as you tried to escape away, just falling deeper into Whiskey’s spread arms.
He pulled away, leaving a string attached as he revisited for a quick peck, enamored with the taste of your lips. His hand smoothed over your cheek, wiping tears carelessly.
He stood up, and Whiskey followed him, knees cracking. You balled up, face hidden in your knees as muscles tensed and ached.
You heard their chuckles as they left, only one pair of eyes on you now. Catfish groaned into his hand, fist slamming against the counter, sending you flinching.
He softened as he turned on his heel, spreading the towel for you. He could tell you were scared, your eyes looking up at him through your wet lashes, but he just turned his head to the side.
You stood up, droplets cascading from your body as he draped the thick, coarse material over your form. You stepped out of the tub, breathe hitching as you waited for his next move.
He shook the hairbrush in your face for you to take it, and rested the t-shirt and a new toothbrush on the counter as he turned around, head planted to the door.
You stole glances of his broad form as you brushed your hair as best you could, and as you slipped into the y-shirt; it was old and stretched out, yet smelled good. You could tell it was Catfish’s, by the perfume.
You spat out the remaining toothpaste and propped the toothbrush on the empty holder, hand daring to tap at his back.
He gave an off the shoulder glance before fully turning around, quickly scanning your form. How silent you were irked him.
“Gonna take you to Joel’s room.” He grunted, jaw tensing. Though his eyes told a different story; sad and puppy like, warm brown.
You nodded, in defeat. He stopped in his tracks, hand resting at the door knob.
“What’s your name?” He asked.
You felt it slip out of your tongue almost uncharacteristically, just your first name. What good could your surname do at this point?
“Pretty.”
He opened the door, hand once again finding your hip. The lights outside the corridor were off, and the house was silent.
You passed through doors and doors, realizing the state of the house as you stepped in front of the last one. It wasn't like your house, but it was big, not dirty but time had taken its toll. You wondered if they had found it like this, dilapidated wall paper and humidity splattered on the ceilings, or if they had been there for long enough.
Catching you gawking, Catfish murmured over his shoulder. "If you are looking for a way out, I'll tell ya now, they won't allow it."
You swallowed, the idea hadn't even crossed your mind. In all honesty, most of the thoughts you were having were blank.
Catfish knocked on the door, and you heard a faint “come in” grunted.
Inside the room, Joel lay in a king size bed, silk navy sheets carefully done beneath him. You recognized them from the shop back in your community. His thighs were strapped in flannel, and his muscles bulged through a thin tank top. The dim light of a bedside light illuminated his marred skin, shining lightly. At the other end of the room was a door and a window. Through the curtains you saw the deep, treacherous forest, a pool of black and green.
He looked up from the book he had dwarfed in his hands, and his brows furrowed.
“Didn’t tell you to dress her.” He commented, voice sharp.
Catfish sighed. “It’s just a t-shirt.”
Joel let the book on his nightstand, arms crossing as he glared at the defiance. “You can take it, she won’t be needing it.”
Your adverted gaze rose to look at Catfish, but his fingers still wrapped around the hem of the shirt. He peeled it off, gently, before looking once more at Joel.
“That’s it, thank you, Frankie.”
Your mind buzzed, lips parting as Catfish turned on his heel and closed the door behind him.
“Come here.” You heard, forcing you to face once more the man in the bed.
Your legs wouldn’t budge. His eyebrow shifted, threateningly. You felt your lower lip jut out, swallowing a sob.
His muscles tensed, and you forced yourself to take a step closer in fear he was going to stand up. Another, and another, your naked knees grazed the bed.
He nudged to the space of the bed beside him.
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you never miss, i swear. the darkness is everything , i genuinely can't WAIT any longer for the next parts 🗣️😫
under his grasp
Pairings: Dark! Suitor! Marcus Acacius x Queen! reader
warnings: noncon, cheating, victim blaming, oral (f receiving), threats of rape (not to reader), noncon insinuations (not to reader), breeding kink, unprotected p in v, violence, etc
series masterlist
Seeing he had gone for good, you had dressed back into your wedding dress as it was the only comfort and clothes you had and decided to sleep in the marital couch, too scared that crawling in his bed would give him any ideas.
Morning came and you were up earlier than expected, sleep being scarce and more frightening than being awake. As your gaze searched around the room, the thick body of Acacius laid pleasantly in his bed. You tried to sleep longer, but handmaidens bustled into the room ready to prepare you for the first day of you endless nightmare.
They were quiet, Acacius’ handmaidens. They greeted you shyly, perhaps unknowing how to greet a Queen, and presented you a lavish turquoise gown; you allowed them to dress you as some stirred Acacius awake, but he batted them off, grumpily.
“I can dress myself.” He groaned, and you could tell that after he left you the night before, he had drunk.
Certain handmaiden caught your eye; she was young, similar to you physically, and she stood close to you. Her movements were timid, perhaps even more scared than the others. Your eyes followed her as she left the room.
True to his words, Acacius dressed himself in more casual robes; a beige picta. The silent was deafening, casting shadows over the dawn as you sat still, unaware of what to expect.
“When are we returning to the Palace?” You managed your courage to mutter, and Acacius finally posed his tired eyes on you.
“When you learn to be a good wife to me.” He answered sharply. “A husband cannot spend his nights looking for solace in another’s woman’s embrace.”
His words felt thick around him, his eyes glaring daggers. You felt a knot in your throat.
“Was that what you did after the events of last night?” You dared to ask him. He hesitated for a while, you could see it in his swerving eyes.
“Do not blame me, you decided not to comply.” He responded, and his feet padded closer to you, his broad figure becoming bigger and bigger.
“That didn’t deter you the other night.” You bit, rage lacing your words. “and I guess that didn’t deter you yesterday, as I can’t believe your other woman was whorish enough to sleep with a newly wed man.”
He chuckled at your words, pleased in his fantasy that you were portraying jealousy. “You would be surprise by how many girls like you dream of pleasing a General as myself.”
If that was true, then it felt unfair. For him to take you, just to dispose of you later, felt unfair. It all felt like a twisted joke, because despite not wanting him, he had done all of this for a reason.
“But just so you know,” He added, a sly grin on his face. “the one I bedded last night wasn’t compliant either.”
It felt like salt on a wound, and your face twisted into a bitter expression. He enjoyed it so much, the fight, your hatred, it fueled the fire in his loins.
“You are disgusting.” You spat, rising to your feet. “I cannot fathom how you portray yourself as the Hero-”
A sharp slap cut your words short, sending your face to the side as you gasped. His grip fell again on your face, now slightly more tender as he forced you to look at me.
“Oh, I am no Hero,” He sneered. “I am far more than that, I am your God now, and like Gods, I do not preach morality.”
You felt weak once again, but hatred still run through your veins as you glared at him. Your cheek stung.
“All this fighting has made me wanton.” He confessed, and your eyes widened in fear of his words. “after all, we must give Rome a heir.”
“You will be crowned King shortly,” You ushered, perhaps pleading. “you can have bastards and make them heir.”
He tutted at your excuses. “But I want you, darling; our heirs will rule Rome.”
“Why does it matter anymore?” You questioned, seeing impatience running through his features.
“Enough.” He barked, letting go of your chin. “Get on the bed.”
What if I say no?
What if I scream?
What if I comply?
Your mind raced, and he grew angry but you stood your ground. His lips almost curled into a smirk as he grabbed your forearms, as bruising as he had done the first night, and begun moving you towards the bed.
Your instinct kicked in, and you fought because complying was too humiliating for you. Kicking and clawing came to no avail as your back hit the soft, tousled fabrics of the bed.
“Are you going to behave or do I need to tie you down again and fuck you like a breeding mare?” He barked, and your arms grew weak under the threat. His gaze fell over the pretty dress that you wore, and he fought the urge to rip it apart. It was new, and a gift to you from him.
He opted for lifting your skirt and producing his manhood from beneath his robes. You didn’t want to look at it, feeling its weight on your leg was enough to tell you.
Your arms had fallen limp against the bed as he forced your thighs apart, presenting your cunt to his eyes.
“I realized I had forgotten something,” He confessed to you, and your mind screamed. “did not taste you properly yet.”
His dark eyes were set on you as he lowered his face to your exposed core, a pink tongue darting from his lips and licked a line along your seam. A whimper escaped your pressed lips, thighs shaking, and his mouth latched to you.
Like a man starved, he sucked your most intimate part, sending shivers along your body. Your nails dug into the covers, begging someone or something to stop the pleasure he was eliciting so darkly. But your hips buckled, making him even wilder as he thrusted his manhood into the bed. Like a man on a mission, he constrained his desires in order to get you to submit beneath him, which perhaps brought him more pleasure than the act itself.
A hand that was spreading your thighs apart let you free, but the limb curled itself into you, presenting yourself as soft mewls and squeaky moans left your lips. His fingers tangled themselves in the slick mess of arousal and saliva, pushing through your swollen walls; you jerked as he curled them inside, working your clit with his tongue.
There was a slight pain from the pressure, but it fueled the heat you felt, nipples pebbling against the silk of your dress and electricity jolting through you. Your thighs shut around his head, thick curls slightly matted from his efforts, and he knew.
A hand on your hip, holding you still, and now his digits thrusted in and out, fucking you until your legs wrapped around his neck, and you felt pressure relieve as you shot slick arousal directly into his face.
You didn’t care to try to reason what he had forced your body as you fell, spread, on the sheets, eyes lidded and throat hoarse from the war cry that had erupted from you.
Through your blurred vision you saw him rise on top of you, wiping you from his lips and face as his devoured all the essence you had poured onto him.
“No-” you whined as you felt the engorged tip of his cock pushing against your abused folds, hands rising to push at his chest.
“Come on, dumb girl,” he muttered at your skin, a hand gently taking your wrists above your head as the other propped your leg over his shoulder, letting himself slide right in with a pleased grunt. “I have pleased you, now do your duty.”
He sheathed himself in with a hiss, head bobbing back as your overstimulated core clenched around him. The sting had dissipated, and shame rose to your cheeks as you felt a need for it. The feeling, of needing to be fucked, pitifully reminded you of those nights along Lucius, the ones were his body heat felt like forbidden fruit, were you craved he would touch you, and were you would feel shame burn on you the next day as wild images blurred your thoughts.
But Acacius wouldn’t let you feel that need ever again, that you knew. He was an animal, biting into your soft skin as he rutted into you, as if trying to get closer. In a way, his assault felt like his desire to imprint on you, to make you yours, thing that he wouldn’t let you forget as he groaned and moaned it into your ear.
“There you are,” he mumbled, almost whispered, tightening the grip around your wrists unconsciously. “being fucking good for me, letting me fuck my wife.”
And you could fight it, you howled like a bitch in heat beneath him, letting General Acacius breed you despite the tears in your eyes. Your leg muscles stung beneath him, splayed like whore, for what felt like hours.
“Gonna finish inside you, paint your walls,” He panted into your ear before nibbling on your lobe. “gonna fuck the heir of Rome into you, dumb girl.”
True to his words, his pace picked up even more as he decided to finish the job. His grip snaked to your lower back as he pressed himself into you with a guttural groan, and you felt his sticky wetness inside of you, coating you; something you couldn’t clean up.
Perhaps this was for the better; the sooner you’d give him a heir the sooner he wouldn’t have an excuse to do this. But you knew that fantasy was unrealistic. Acacias had no excuse for enjoying the act so much.
His weight fell over you, shortening your breaths as you finally peered your eyes open, gaze cut by the mountains of muscular flesh of shoulder and back. The simple robe he had placed slipped from his body, and you felt sweat dampening as his torso pinned you down. His hand unwrapped his grip, knitting his fingers with yours. You begged he didn’t fall asleep.
But he didn’t, and you were grateful for that. Knowing he was crashing you, he tossed his body beside you on the bed. The silent rang in your ears; anticipation heavy, until he spoke.
“Each time you displease me, or deny me,” He said, threat and decisiveness in his voice. “I’d like you to think of our first night, and I’d like you to remember the pretty faces of the handmaidens I have here, at my power-and to know that I was considering you a Queen at the time.”
He had made his words clear.
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ℐ am literally amazed. Like, how do you come up with this? It is so beautifully written that I felt like I was right 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 and so deliciously dark, it is the 𝙗𝙚𝙨𝙩 dark! Acacius fic I've ever read (and I've read a lot lol).
Hold them down
Summary: After years of missing your husband, your suitor decides to take matters into his hands.
Pairings: Dark! Suitor! Marcus Acacius x Queen! Reader
Warnings: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, Noncon, unprotected sex (p in v) forced infidelity?, plotting of rape, historical inaccuracies, manipulation, rough rough sex, loss of virginity (and related blood), breeding kink, size kink, corruption kink, bondage, planned murder, dark dark and dark,
Inspired by the Epic Musical and the original Odyssey!
After the Twin Emperors had fallen, the Gladiator Hanno rose to power, being recognized by Lucilla as his long lost son, Lucius Verus. Succeeding his rise to power, his first order was to have Macrinus, a wealthy businessman and slave owner, executed for his treason against the Democracy of Rome and clear General Acacius' name.
Having decided not to love another woman after the death of his wife, he opted for a political marriage to benefit the city. Cherry picked by senators as the finest of eligible bachelors, you were a perfect match for the new Emperor.
Arriving to Rome from your certainly smaller yet blooming city, Lucius had clarified that he didn't intend in taking you as a lover, rather than as a companion and ally for his ruling; and when the day of giving the kingdom a heir came, the affair would be short and, well he didn't exactly said that word but, meaningless.
You weren't discontented in his boundaries, you weren't there to find a lover but to enlarge the possibilities of your kingdom. As years went by, Lucius had become tender with you, unlike the city that suddenly demanded a Prince. However, as Rome transitioned into a prosperous city, the people seemed to be appeased by being fed and war-less.
As a way to erase Geta and Caracalla's history, Lucius decided to free the colonies in Africa himself, so two years after your marriage he had embarked.
"Take care of Rome for me." He smiled in your bittersweet goodbye, holding your hands in his.
"And who will take care of me then?" You joked, feeling the rough finger pads of his work torn hands; his eyes fell behind your frame, with a confident smile.
"I actually have that covered;" You followed his eye line to see the broad, dark figure behind you. General Marcus Acacius himself, for some a Valiant Hero of Rome, for others, another victim of the deceased emperors' terror. "Acacius will be your personal Guard, in case anyone attempts anything against the Empress of Rome."
Despite the eerie way the General's big brown eyes seemed to narrow over you, you learnt to feel safe with his presence, despite being behind you at all time. It kept you calm as people begun questioning the Emperor's absence, a you begun to question it too.
A year passed, and rumors spread about wars breaking out in the colonies due to their new found freedom. Exploited colonies at war trying to survive from spoils of war, predictable really, but Lucius had wrote to you, soothing you that he was aiding the reconstruction of those societies. That was the last time he had wrote.
Another year went by, and the flourishing nature of Rome kept people from questioning the Emperor's absence, but not you. Your nights became sleepless, as you pondered around your room, perhaps hoping for sudden news, confirmation of something, anything. It was a cold night when your insomnia made you think about the man standing outside your bedroom door. General Acacius.
Silently, in case you regretted it, you tiptoed towards the big ornate door from your shared chambers, and cracked it open. There he stood, clad in his armor as the dim lights of the hallway torches illuminated his face; his right cheekbone held a scar, visible in the warm lighting as he slowly came to look at you. In his two years as your shadow, you had never taken your time to look at him.
"My Queen," He whispered sternly, eyebrows furrowing. "Why are you still awake at this hours?"
You licked your lips guiltily, and his gaze fell onto the thin, almost see through sleepwear you had on under the blanket draped over your shoulders. He could trace the outline of your navel...
"May you come in?" You asked, tucking a stray piece of hair behind your shoulder as you realized how inappropriate this was, but you didn't care; perhaps his war experience could help you calm down. "I cannot conceal sleep, and someone to talk to could be nice."
He obeyed silently, sneaking through the crack on the door. The Emperor's chambers held an extravagant amount of luxuries, left behind by the old Emperor Geta; Lucius had wanted to get rid of them, but as producing an heir, he never got the time to do it.
Acacius' gaze fell over the bed, only your side disrupted as if Lucius was coming back anytime soon. You had sat down in a velvet chair beside the fireplace, hands clutched over a golden cup of raspberry wine. He walked over to you in slow steps, as if expecting you to tell him the issue and leave when commanded. If you hadn't gazed expectantly at the chair beside you, he probably wouldn't have sat down.
"I am unease by Lucius' absence," You confessed, despite the obviousness. "I heard rumors he was fine, back in Numidia, building houses, but he hasn't written to me in over a year."
Acacius hummed, showing he was listening, however your wild eyes indicated that you wanted an answer. "Your concern is reasonable, my Empress, the city shares your discomfort."
You furrowed your brows at his words, surprised the matter was relevant enough to discuss. "I had only heard some questions, but I believe the people knew his circumstances."
"It isn't that they dislike you;" He clarified, sending relief down your stomach. "In fact, they adore you."
You felt your lips twist into a small smile in his words.
"They adore you so much they trust you to rule if, of course let's pray not, Lucius doesn't return."
Your stomach sank once again at the possibility, but Acacius gave you a warm smirk, as if it was a compliment.
"The issue is..." He hesitated, and you saw the reflection of the flames in the brown of his eyes as he looked at you, seriously. "the succession."
You hummed, intrigued to what he was meaning. Your eyes asked him to explain more, and he let out a breathe when the blanket slipped off your shoulders, allowing him to see the outline of sometihing far more tempting than your navel.
"If Lucius hasn't been home for almost two years by now, and you haven't been with child yet, the senate fears the throne may spiral once again to a tyrant after your passing."
You shook your head in confusion, a new worry appearing and attaching itself to your chest. "Why haven't I been informed of this fear?"
Acacius chuckled lightly, as if you were too naive to understand; it made you feel small, stupid.
"They do not wish to offend you, my majesty." He explained, and you scowled. "Now, you are in your prime age for...carrying an heir...but if Lucius is to be gone for longer, let's say four more years, you'd be pass that age, and thus..."
"Anyone could take the throne." You completed, understatement dooming in your features. "But I couldn't...Lucius could be back tomorrow for all I know."
"There still is time," He reassured, taking the cup of wine from the table. "but the lack of knowledge of his stance is, as you say, uneasy for most of the Senate, and of course the people of Rome."
As you sipped more wine, you leaned over the armrest of your chair, as if wishing to keep the conversation as private as possible, but all he could see was the way your breast, unconsciously, became visible from your neckline. His breathe hitched.
"As a knowledgeable and prestigious General," You asked, eyes wide and frantic. "what should I do?"
He pretended to think for a while then sighed. "In confidence, I believe you should wait for him, perhaps a year or two, and if he isn't here by then and you haven't received any notice, you should remarry, just for the sake of your wellness and the city's."
You almost gasped from his words, the alcohol inhibiting your senses. "My sake?" You manage to question him, words starting to slur. Of course they did, you had been drinking for hours trying to catch sleep.
"The people may believe that you are intertwined in the fall of the city," he whispered, eyes wild as if he was personally offended by what the people may do. "They can believe you have arranged it all to set someone in the throne, they might riot, and we know from our old Emperors that rioting never goes well; imagine what they could do to a women such as yourself."
Acacius' words stained your mind for the next year, as Lucius failed to prove his existence once again. You had proposed the idea to the Senate, who seemed surprised by your initiative; Acacius had later told you that they didn't expect a woman as devoted as you to determine that if Lucius didn't appear or made himself known in the next year, you would seek another man to remarry to provide the heir, but that it was what all of them believed to be correct. You had grown fond of him in the last year, inviting him for wine in those restless nights and him informing you from what the Senate was too scared to tell you. As Lucius had grown to be a close friend, so did Acacius.
Which is why, after two years had passed and you had to teary-eyed greet the suitors that had came wishing to become the Emperor of Rome, you were taken a back when General Acacius presented himself before any of them, asking for your hand. His thick frame, clad in his white honorary attire along with ten of his best trained soldiers trailing behind him, had profusely scared all the other suitors that stumbled and staggered on their words after him.
Which is what made you jump on him like a rabid dog once they had gone to their rooms and Acacius was the only one i the throne room with you. Standing up from your golden throne, identical to the empty one beside you, your feet stomped near him. He was awfully tranquil, almost smirking at you.
"May I know why you have proposed as a suitor?" You bellowed at him, praying this was a sick, twisted joke, like you had joked that your "Guard dog" of a General would scare them off.
"Because, my Empress, the senate and I believe that a true Emperor needs to be one who knows how to handle the rise of Rome into democracy." He explained, and you felt a pang of betrayal, jealousy even, as the Senate had allegedly preferred to discuss such matters with him rather than the actual Empress. "One that has aided in it's rise and is skilled at controlling the city; one that could guide you through ruling."
"You said they trusted me." You protested, looking up at him; despite being furious, you could see by the way he craned his neck to look down at you that he didn't feel threatened, at all.
"They do, I assure you that; but the uneducated and starved people of Rome won't take a women as an Emperor, much less if she has some foreigner as a husband." The way he sneered at you told you he had this planned. "But you and I know that you are smart enough to know I am your best opportunity; I am a war Hero and a symbol of democracy, my Empress, the people would riot if you chose any other man."
You glared, never expecting this from him. He enjoyed the way you stormed out of his view, silky dress swishing as he laughed so hard, he almost dropped the carefully stacked letters that told him Lucius would be home in six months.
Almost as if you knew, you had delayed your choice for four months by then, posing impossible challenge after challenge, simply to get on Acacius nerves. But he did not even falter; even if it was bringing dozens of water buckets across the city, taming wild horses or swimming with crocodiles to retreat minuscules gold pieces from the bottom of the murky river, Acacius managed to have win after win. For most people, it was becoming clearly ridiculous how adamant you were against Acacius.
If he had proposed the idea to you things would have been different, but he had planted seeds of doubts in the Senate about your capabilities, evidenced by your revengeful behavior in presenting tasks. The more you fought with Acacius, the more the Senate seemed to become wary of you and the more the people of Rome called you frivolous. You acknowledged the last part, as you were now dedicating more time in plotting unachievable tasks than governing the city.
As grief for mourning Lucius meddled with the new issues of the city, Acacius looked at you victoriously; naked war torn torso and a shining emerald in his hand as he retrieved from the river, almost waving goodbye to the last bunch of suitors you have scared away.
Almost 5 months had passed since you had greeted the suitors, and the only one still standing was Acacius. As you walked into the Senate's room, you caught wind of something that drove you wild.
"If the wedding is going to be next week, then we would need to at least levy taxes until the end of the season to compensate for the rise-"
"What wedding?" You bellowed, and the Senator who was speaking quickly silenced himself as the whole room turned their heads towards you. Marcus stood, dressed in his best, before rising his goblet to you; it took you a while to see from where he was rising from, Lucius' throne.
"There aren't anymore suitors," He informed, and his name rolled out of his tongue mockingly. "Next year you'll turn 28, and we cannot risk it anymore."
"And has this council decided this over me, their Empress?" Your gaze fell on the senators around you, men who rolled their eyes as if you were taking up their time; as if calling your self the Empress was a mockery. "Has the council forget Lucius had chose me to rule by his side and not just to produce an heir?"
"This Council had chosen you," Acacius corrected, and you felt the tips of your ears burn up in embarrassment. "and if Lucius had given the city an heir this wouldn't be an issue, but he didn't and thus, I am the most suitable option."
You dug your nails into your palms, seething at him.
"And this Council believes it is correct to plan a wedding without consulting the bride?" You hissed at them. “What do the people think?”
"There had been riots in the south due to the succession," A senator informed you. "You would have known if you had attended the last meeting."
You felt fury pile up in your throat, as if itching to scream, because no one that even told you about the last meeting. You felt caged by these men, and Acacius grinning peacefully at you, that conniving snake of a man had turned the Council against you.
You sighed, tears kissing the brim of your eyes in frustration before clapping your hands together. “If the people of Rome wish me to marry, I will, however please give me a week to mourn, properly, the loss of our Emperor. I will marry Marcus Acacius in two weeks time, without complaint.”
Acacius’ smiled fell, and you believed your surrender had annoyed him.
“Haven’t you got two years already to do so?” He bit at you, and the Senate looked around bewildered by Acacius sudden lack of manners.
“Oh I know it is a selfish desire, but it would facilitate the process for me.” You pouted to the people of the Senate, who became more understanding after you agreed to marry him. “If that is all, I am to leave.”
You walked through the door calmly, running the second the Council could no longer see you. He had trapped you, backed you up against a wall and showed your scared self to the whole Senate of Rome. As you unlocked the door, precaution you took everyday since Acacius had proposed, you felt a shadow lurk around the corner. You almost jump when you saw him, striding towards you. If you were to open the door, he could have pushed inside, and if you stayed there, god knows what he could do. So you stayed frozen.
He called your name, rather than my Empress; it was a way of stabilizing dominance. You glared at him, hand on the door knob.
“I hope that you can come to see our marriage as more than a political ploy.” He grinned, as if he was one of those brand new suitors that attempted to gain your trust while flirting. “I certainly can’t wait to give the city an heir.”
The way he looked at you urged you to run and hide.
“I have nothing to discuss with you, Acacius.” You responded, pushing the door slightly open to slip inside. “You have betrayed my trust.”
As you were about close the gap from were to entered, the General placed his big hands on the door, speaking to you from the ajar door.
“What is it, my Empress?” He pressed, the door becoming thousand times heavier under his strength. “Are you scared about the consummation, because you and Lucius had never really…?”
With a burst of strength you managed to push the door closed, resting your sweaty eyebrow to the cool ornate door as tears begun pouring from your eyes. Since Acacius had proposed you stopped inviting him at night, and locked the door. Some nights, as wind rustles trees and all you heard was his feet creaking the floorboards outside your room, you could also hear a faint rustle, and attempt to open your locked door, as if you could have forgotten to lock it some day.
That was another thing that was slowly driving you mad.
The next week went by organizing wedding affairs, and you begun to question what your plan was after begging to get married in two weeks. It had been stupid, you guessed, something that had strikes over your head as you looked over at a statue of Athena. You prayed for her strength.
Acacius loomed over your figure as he had done years before your friendship had bloomed, although the ghost of a creeping grin appeared in his face more than usually. You attempted really, to see the good side, but the fact that he had manipulated you into proposing the idea and then used it to his advantage deeply sickened you.
It was about two days from the wedding day when Acacius had disappeared almost all day, and you felt at peace by his absence. As the tailor arranged your wedding dress, clearly just a reconstruction of the old one, you heard him gallop through the entrance of the Palace, holding something on his hand.
“The Emperor is dead.” He told the Senate, holding up a letter he had received from the colonies. “Let the news not startle us from guiding Rome towards glory.”
You furrowed your brows, Lucilla next to you breaking into a deep sob.
“What does the letter say?” You asked him, and he looked at you as if you were testing him.
“Would be cruel to discuss the details of the dead infront of his mother, my future wife.”
You almost felt bile rising up to your throat from the words he said.
That night you became even more restless, so much it physically hurt. The night had been one of the coldest the was and a thundering storm had grown from the coast of Rome up until the palace. It felt like a message from the Gods, with all the thundering you couldn’t hear the door knob nor the hushed whispers behind it.
Your eyes were closed but just a thin layer of drowsiness was on top of you, not enough for you to peacefully sleep without the hammering at your temple. That is when you felt the bed dip beside you, and his scent brought you jumping up.
“Lucius?” You questioned through the darkness of the night, his perfume thick in the air.
“I am so sorry to inform you that Lucius is gone.”
Acacius. Your blood froze as your eyes fluttered open. In the darkness, the door hadn’t been opened because you could have seen the torch lights from the crack. There had been another way he had gotten in.
“However, he will return tomorrow night, to find his wife has remarried.”
You looked over his figure, lit by the moonlight entering from the balcony.
Broad shoulders and the willowy of his Roman nose.
“But he might as well return tomorrow morning, and that is why I must secure my claim.”
He spoke with such tranquility it send shivers down your spine. The fireplace had gone off, leaving burning embers. You looked at the door once again, still locked, by the time you could have gotten there he would have caught you. He was stronger, faster and more agile.
“Why are you doing this?” You asked him, voice quivering. He begun untying his armor, letting it clank slowly into the ground, accompanying the sound of lightning outside.
“Because I had been tempted with you from the day you arrived, little girl.” The nickname felt warm, but it spat out of his tongue like poison. “I was the one who had saved the city, but Prince Lucius got the crown, the power, and he got you.”
“Wh-What is it about me that you want?” You choked out, breathing startling as his robes pooled at his feet.
“If Lucius is set to return and you have already consummated your marriage to me, my heir would be on the throne.” He explained, and you got a deja vu of that night when you had invited him in; the same tone. “You’ll probably still be married to him, due to the coincidence, but you will be carrying my child. It will be our secret to history; an Emperor, son of a General.”
You slowly pulled the blankets from your body, thinking that if you were to arrive to the balcony, perhaps you could scream for help.
“Wasn’t it me that you wanted?” You persisted, entertaining him to distract him as you feet softly touched the cool marble floor, he had hunched over to undo his sandals.
“Well, of course, but the Emperor is gone a lot, he is too busy to notice-“
The sound of your feet padding against the floor made him turn, seeing you race until the balcony. He jumped over the bed, eyes rabid as a predator chasing a prey. The cold air of the balcony struck you, along with droplets of rain that all over you. Gripping onto the bannister, you screamed, but no sound came out, his hand clapped tightly over your mouth as his other clung to your torso, securing you to him.
“Stupid girl.” He bellowed, dragging you inside. You could feet the heat of his naked body, chest pressed against you, as you felt his stiffening cock against your lower back. It all felt too real, suddenly. He tossed you to the bed, climbing on top quickly and caging you. Just his immense back was enough to restrict your movements. You cried and punched his chest, attempting to push him to no avail.
As one hand splashed across your chest to keep you still, the other moved down, slipping between your silk gown. It dragged punishing between your tights, forcing them apart with his thick waist. It found the patch of pubic hair, hiding something sweet for him in its center. You could almost hear him smirk.
“Are you wet?” He asked, teasingly as his index finger ran across your slit. He then took his hand back out, presenting two fingers to you. “Suck, and make them wet or I’ll fuck you as dry as you are right now. Don’t you dare bite.”
You opened your mouth slightly, and he introduced two thick digits into your mouth; your tongue swirled around them, tasting the strong taste of perfume. He had taken the time to put on Lucius’ scent, perhaps to taunt you.
Once pleased, he pulled them out of your mouth and directed them to where they were before, bunching your dress at your hips. His fingers now grazed more softly, wet, and he rubbed them into your slit, finding a beaded nerve at the top.
You had touched yourself before; sometimes Lucius would come back drunk after dealing with claims and work all day; you excused him such actions, he had a lot to deal with. And he wouldn’t touch you, but he would hug you and hold you close, and that minimum amount of contact would drive you wild. You knew what was coming when he began circling around your flesh, the wetness that spread and threatened to burst at the tip of your lips.
“Feel how wet are you getting for me? has your husband ever get you like this?” He pressed, slipping one thick digit inside; your walls swallowed it, hugging it tightly; he almost moaned at the heat, the tightness of your core. “Are the rumors true? that you have never consummated your marriage?”
His voice was stern once again, as if he was one of the court ladies asking you about it; you thought to tell him the typical lie, that you had consummated but the stress of running the rising Rome had taken a toll on you, and that you will wait. However, you thought for a second that if you were honest perhaps he would stop.
“Yes,” you spat, eyes shut tightly as you felt your body betraying you, hips almost buckling. “we never…never had the chance.”
He chuckled, deep in his chest. “Then I’ll have another thing he doesn’t.”
His jealousy was almost childlike; he wished you because you weren’t his.
His fingers worked inside you, preparing you. Your mind, fogged with pleasure, attempted to see any way you could fight back; perhaps he’d be weaker once he entered you. Perchance you’d loose that part of you but escape his seed.
Seeing you still, the hand holding you down came up to rip the top of your night gown as a thunder cracked the sky. Your peaks hardened under the unforgiving cold night, and your body started to yearn for the heat of his body. His gaze roamed your tits, recalling the first night you had invited him in, perfect in form and size for him despite you not being keen on them.
“Such a fucking good pair,” He murmured, hand skimming over them, groping them barbarically as his other hand sped up, adding another finger, eliciting a gasp from you. “once you are my wife you aren’t going to parade around court with those skimpy dresses you love, or invite any guards inside at such hours of the night.”
Through your gasp you had realized that his words were becoming sloppier, he was forgetting his plans. You had to wait. He pinched your nipple as he begun curling his fingers, sending a jolt of energy and pressure to your core, places you had never reached.
You felt sudden emptiness when he pulled out his fingers, and you met out a shuddered sight of relief. Tears ran into your scalp, tears you hadn’t notice you were crying. His hand dipped between his naked body as the other finished ripping your nightgown, and as he let out a grunt you knew he was grabbing his cock. It bumped against your leg, and its own weight made you cry harder; you knew he was big.
“Still,” he commanded, seeing you shake. “Or I’ll shove it all in.”
You did your best, clenching your eyes as you attempted to wake up from this nightmare. Praying that it was once, that is.
He pressed the tip in, almost as big as your fist. The big head slowly broke through your walls, and he was shaking now too, lips parted and eyes clenched, that was all you could see as lightning striked the sky once again. “Feels so good,” he muttered under his breath, gripping your shoulders tightly. “I’m sorry-I can’t-“
He pushed in, all eight inches of himself and you let out a sharp cry he shushed pressing his lips towards him. Full and tasting of wine, a breathe than had fanned over your cheek but you had chosen to ignore. The scruff of his beard scratched against your face, but the pain of his cock was worse.
Thick and long, it had broken through the thin barrier of skin; your hymen or constricting walls, you didn’t know. He planted his weight in his knees and forearms, caging you as your legs dangled at the side of his imposing hips.
“I am not sorry for what I am doing.” He clarified, voice airy from delight. “But I am sorry for this, my queen, I cannot control it.”
Before you could confuse yourself about what he meant, he begun thrusting into you, curling his hips as some animal in heat. Your moans were in pain and his were in pleasure as he melted onto you; he was fucking you so hard you felt as if he was trying to imprint the shape of his cock into you; it felt like hours, and it probably was too, his lips momentarily trying to catch your unresponsive ones, silencing moans and cries.
You knew then that there was no escape, no way you could push this man off you. You felt something wet growing, but now you were sure it wasn’t arousal.
“So good of a pussy,” He grunted into your ear, now gripping your thigh as if he was attempting to spread you even more open. “gonna fuck a son into you, make you finally mine.”
His words only created more tears, as if that was their only aim.
“Such a sweet Empress, s-so eager to please everyone, such a fucking. Good. Girl.”
He synced his thrusts with the last words, each more punishing than the previous.
“So loyal too,” he cooed, mockingly, teeth kneeding at your neck. “loyal to her absent husband.”
He was leaving marks, you knew that. His arm suddenly wrapped around you waist, muscle flexing as he hoists into the air and you fell down deeper into his cock. Your arms braced itself in his shoulder for support, sheets almost sticking to your back due to the sweat that had pooled. One hand in your lower back and and the other groping your ass tightly as he fucked into the air, making you feel every ridge and vein in his member.
“Gonna cum,” he confessed, unashamed. “right into this cunt.”
“No no please-” you mustered all your strength to say, but he was far too gone, plopping you once again on the bed but then bringing your thighs together and slinging your legs over his shoulder, clutching them together as his cock came in and out almost fully. His final thrusts felt as if he was trying to reach your guts, cock tensing and twitching inside you, before shooting hot ropes of cum right into you as his full body weight fell onto you, stretching you to the point your knees almost touched your face. He caught himself in his hands a few moments later, pulling out.
You hadn’t noticed, but the sun begun to peak from the balcony, signaling morning. The tears had dried from your face. As your legs fell back onto the bed, you saw the blood. Around your thighs, into the bed and around his cock and pubic hair. Staining the scene as a gruesome crime scene.
You felt your cunt start to throb, painfully. Your hand stopped by your pelvis, also in pain alike your legs.
“Took it so good,” he praised, and now you could see him better. Body scarred, some fresh scars from your scratching, wild brown curly hair, his take tell scar on his left cheekbone and blown out dark eyes. He was terrifying as he observed your core, blood and cum and arousal just peeking through the swollen folds. “but I forgot something.”
No, you thought, too tired to protest as his fingers found your sensitive pussy once more. You shook your head as your hand attempted to grip his, but he looked at you as a warning.
“Need to make you cum.” He demanded, fingers slipping in way easily than before. “Quickly.”
It sounded like a promise, but it was his aim. Two fingers lodged inside you, a thumb in your clit and his other hand gripping your fighting wrists. Curling his fingers and rubbing you, was all it take. You felt the pleasure build up, and shame spread through your face as the faucet turned on and you sobbed once again.
If he was to rape you, that was one thing, but if he was to make you cum on his fingers, make you feel pleasure in all of this, that was twisted. That was a blow in your honor.
He wouldn’t stop, a bit more forceful that you would have desired, but he was a man on a mission. You suddenly felt as if you needed to pee, shame flickering over your body as you tried to shut your legs, but his hand was stern and no amount of pressure would make him retreat.
He managed to bring you to your climax, pleased smirk plastered on his face as your pussy begun shooting arousal. You cried harder, choking through moans from the pleasure he was forcing upon you, seeing how you soaked his softening cock and hand. He took his hand out, wet and crimson stained, and brought it to his lips. He hummed at the taste of you.
“Gotta taste this pussy some day, perhaps tomorrow in our wedding night.”
You were too gone to actually listen to his words as he used the scraps of your night gown to clean the blood on his body, and slipped into his armor once again.
He then walked over to you, picking once again the scraps and tearing them into long pieces. He grabbed your wrists and you allowed him, too tired to fight him.
He used the straps to tie you to the bedhead; then pulling another piece to go around your mouth. It was futile to attempt anything.
“A Numidian ship is embarking today, carrying your precious husband, let’s see if I can get to him first.”
And he left you, bound and naked.