@rigshak asked for a Brasidas paragraph and the words just kinda came (and you know I can't just write a single paragraph lol)
Brasidas x fem!Reader
The night is young, though Anthousa has already given you leave of the Porneion—a reprieve you’ll gladly take after the chaos that engulfed the city. Lighting lanterns and candles, you turn to pour a cup of wine but are taken aback by the Spartan general standing in the doorway—his dusty red cloak damp from the summer rains. “Brasidas,” you greet when he enters, barely able to hide your smile upon seeing him—unscathed by battle and handsome as he’s ever been. He’s only ever come for conversations in the past—to learn about the Monger’s dealings. His men were never so scrupulous, but Brasidas of Sparta is nothing if not honorable in every aspect of his life. But with the Monger dead, he must return to serve Lakonia elsewhere.
He says nothing, only strides forward and seizes your face in his callous hands. His grip is firm—that of a leader’s—but not unkind, and his thumbs run along your cheekbones, committing your face to memory. Brasidas. You aren’t sure if you’ve spoken his name aloud or if it is only a whisper on your tongue, lost to a sigh when he cranes down. You barely have time to catch your breath before his lips are on yours—urgent and unyielding, as though he’s warred with himself over this moment since he first laid eyes on you all those months ago.
His kiss is raw, filled with longing. Your hands find purchase on his sides, drawing him closer. The scent of rain and sweat clings to him, mingling with myrrh and beeswax. Brasidas deepens the kiss, fingers threading into your hair as he tilts your head, demanding, taking more—just like a Spartan. He pulls away too soon, his breath ragged, and his lust-darkened eyes search yours to gauge whether he has overstepped. “I should have done that sooner,” he murmurs, voice rough with restraint and regret.
Silence stretches between you for a long moment. The candle and lantern light casts golden shadows over his sharp features, catching the scars on his face and arms. You reach up, hand cupping his cheek, fingers carding through his beard. This night, sans armor, the warrior in him is softened into something almost tender. Almost. He is still Brasidas—unyielding, disciplined, just as the agoge and battle taught him to be—but now, there’s a glimmer in his tawny eyes, and it’s unbecoming of a Spartan general. “Then why didn’t you?” You ask.
His jaw tenses, his hands still cradling your face, slip to your shoulder and neck, unwilling to let you go as if afeared you’ll somehow vanish—especially when he gives his answer. “Duty.” The word is sharp and decisive, but there’s a wavering in it, a hint at the battle he has fought within himself. One that has finally brought him to you. “Sparta comes first. It must.”
You almost laugh, having expected that answer, but it does little to quell the ache blooming in your chest. His lips part as though there is more he wants to say but cannot bring himself to. His honor has always set him apart from all the others. Even now, you know his honor wars with the longing—unacted on—between you. “But not tonight,” you murmur, almost a hopeful question, daring to trace the edge of his jaw, the raised scar on his cheekbone.
Brasidas’s eyes darken, and, for the first time, you see something akin to a crack form in his Spartan resolve. “No,” he exhales, the word heavy with surrender—desire. “Not tonight.” And then his lips find yours again, slower this time—carefully—and deeper, too. Tonight, he is a man savoring his first and last taste of something he knows he will never have again.
