#IGNORE ROME PLEASE

[m-for-now]

Does anyone have fun headcanons for some random events that happened at Camp Jupiter during the time of the Titan war? Because we know next to nothing about the Romans but I refuse to believe they didn't have any crazy weird events and quests.

Like, if the Seven were to talk about the time before HoO (or generally any Romans and Greeks) and Percy and Annabeth would go like "Oh and we went through the sea of monsters and ended up on Circe's Island that one time" or "and that's how Percy showed up to his own funeral", sure, that would be a crazy story. But Jason also defeated a Titan on his own and Reyna only ever went to CJ After Percy and Annabeth were at Circe's island, what was the crazy stuff that happened in between?

Also what did the Romans think Caused the Titan War since they obviously couldn't have known it was Luke?

[chronomally]

Time to put my big bitch hater hat on but if your restaurant has $50 entrees you have no business decorating with plastic flowers

[floralfemmes]

was talking to my mom about how white people ignore the contributions of poc to academia and I found myself saying the words "I bet those idiots think Louis Pasteur was the first to discover germ theory"

which admittedly sounded pretentious as fuck but I'm just so angry that so few people know about the academic advancements during the golden age of Islam.

Islamic doctors were washing their hands and equipment when Europeans were still shoving dirty ass hands into bullet wounds. ancient Indians were describing tiny organisms worsening illness that could travel from person to person before Greece and Rome even started theorizing that some illnesses could be transmitted

also, not related to germ theory, but during the golden age of Islam, they developed an early version of surgery on the cornea. as in the fucking eye. and they were successful

and what have white people contributed exactly?

please go research the golden age of Islamic academia. so many of us wouldn't be alive today if not for their discoveries

people ask sometimes how I can be proud to be Muslim. this is just one of many reasons

some sources to get you started:

but keep in mind, it wasn't just science and medicine! we contributed to literature and philosophy and mathematics and political theory and more!

maybe show us some damn respect

[hederasgarden]

Post tenebras lux

Summary: You are gifted to Lucius as a reward for his prowess in the arena. Pairing: Lucius Verus x F!Reader Word Count: 5.9 K  Rating: Explicit, 18+ only. Heavy angst with a HEA, dubious consent (reader and Lucius are coerced into having sex), public sex (PIV and f receiving), mentions of spousal death, and brief descriptions of blood/injuries from combat in the arena. A/N: I futzed with the timeline in this fic. Instead of coming home after conquering Numidia General Acacius is sent out on another campaign for the emperors. Also, fun fact — the Romans considered oral sex taboo. A HUGE thanks to @aliensupastar, my beloved B, @clairewritesandrambles, @ryebecca, and @faebirdie for their help with the fic. Please comment or reblog if you enjoyed this and want to see more. Or scream at me in my inbox. That always makes my day.

Gladiator Masterlist ♡ Masterlist

The warm steam of the bath clings to the air, thick and heavy, as you move past the large pools where gladiators soak and laugh. Their rough voices fill the humid air and the afternoon sun filters through the open atrium, casting a muted, golden glow across the water. None of the men bother you as you make your way to the quiet alcove at the far end of the room. If Lucius's reputation in the arena hadn’t been enough to keep them away, the man whose hand he took for daring to touch you certainly was.

You’d learned quickly that in this place violence was power, and your gladiator wielded it well. It was a far cry from your life as a fisherman‘s wife, and then as a slave in Macrinus’s household. When you were gifted to Lucius, you braced yourself for the brutal ways of his world, where strength ruled above all else, and men like him took what they wanted without hesitation. But he never did. Instead, Lucius treated you with something you hadn’t expected: respect and kindness. His touch only ever lingered long enough to offer reassurance, never to claim.

In time you both learned to play your parts to survive. By day, Lucius was the victorious gladiator, and you, his spoil of war. They were roles neither of you had chosen, but ones you took on to survive. The night became your refuge, a time where the weight of your reality could be put aside, if only for a while. Curled around one another on the thin cot the ghosts of your past weren’t silenced but shared through whispered admissions. You could speak of the people you had once been – before Rome twisted you both into something unrecognizable.

Trust came with time. And now, as you approach the alcove where he waits, you can feel some of the tension leave your body. You are safe with Lucius, a thought that would have been absurd to you just months ago. 

You shift the small wooden tray — laden with fresh bread, olives, figs, and a jug of strong wine — to your other hip. The soft scrape of your sandals against the stone floor alerts Lucius to your presence. His dark gaze lifts from the water, meeting yours with the quiet intensity that you’ve come to expect. Even in the haze of sweat and steam, his presence is impossible to ignore. 

Where others would let their gaze wander lower, drifting toward the rest of his bare form submerged beneath the water, you always look at his face. It‘s there that you find what you seek: the sharp edges of your own pain and anger mirrored in his dark eyes. It’s a reflection of the hurt you carry, of all that Rome took from you both. 

“You fought well today,” you say, settling beside the pool, the water lapping at the stone. 

The words come easily, practiced—part of the familiar routine you’ve both come to rely on. Though the bath is quiet and you seem to be alone, you know better. You’ve learned the hard way that the walls have ears. Every word, every glance, carries weight here, and even in the relative solitude of this alcove, your interactions could be reported back to Macrinus. Only when you’re hidden away in the cell you share each night can you let the pretense fall away. 

Lucius hums in response as he lets his head fall back against the cool stone. His muscled arm rests on the edge of the pool and you offer him a brief, gentle touch before withdrawing. The tension in his frame eases a fraction and his eyes flutter closed, but the sharpness of his presence doesn’t fade. He’s aware of every shift in the air, every sound around him. Even in the quiet comfort of this place, Lucius is never truly off guard. 

You pick up a ripe fig, its skin velvety and fragrant, and drag it slowly through the warmed honey. Gently, you bring it to his lips, offering it with a quiet gesture. Lucius sighs—softly, almost imperceptibly—and then his lips part, taking the fruit from your fingers. As he bites into it, you feel the heat of his tongue brush against your skin. You try to ignore the traitorous feeling that springs to life in your belly. That feeling has become a frequent companion, one you never asked for, and one that sits uneasily beside the grief you still carry for your late husband.

“You must eat too,” Lucius commands. “You will need your strength for later.”

His rough words carry no real threat, but you react like they do, tucking your chin to your chest in a subtle gesture of submission. At times, it feels like a performance—like you're both actors on a stage, with an unseen audience watching every move. You eat in silence until the tray is bare and the goblet empty. When he rises from the pool, water cascading from his sun-kissed skin, you reach for the fresh robe laid carefully over the stone bench. 

“Do you wish…” you begin, lifting your eyes to Lucius, only to falter at his expression. His eyes flicker briefly past you, and then, just as swiftly, return. He gives no warning before he pulls you forward and drags you into the water. Your cry of surprise is swallowed by the splash your bodies make as ripples spread outward. The wet robes cling to you like a heavy second skin and you sink deeper into the water.

“I’ll have you here,” Lucius announces loudly. He grasps your biceps and easily forces you to straddle him. Your face shields his from the outside world. His expression softens and even as his lips part to speak, you shake your head, stopping him before the words can leave his mouth.

You understand, without needing to hear it. The two of you are no longer alone.

He leans back, arms stretched along the edge of the bath. “Ride me,” he commands. 

You struggle out of the heavy outer robe and your knuckles unwittingly brush over his abdomen. Lucius tenses beneath you. You offer him a quiet apology before withdrawing and rising to your knees. Your hips shift forward in a facsimile of his request, meeting nothing but a swell of water as you keep a careful distance from his body. He groans and you answer him with a quiet moan of your own. You rise up and down almost mechanically, staring at the chipped stone above his head. His hot breath fans over your neck, the heat of it lingering on your skin. You shudder as a warmth that has nothing to do with the pool gathers under your skin, shame twisting your insides. 

Lucius grabs your waist urging you to move faster, and the sounds of his pleasure rise in intensity. The muscles of your thighs protest, burning with effort as you hold the distance between your bodies. The air around you shifts and the murmur of conversation in the other pools begins to fade as the gladiators are drawn in, listening to your performance. The silence grows almost suffocating, but you force yourself to push through the charade. This is just one of many indignities you’ve endured since Rome descended onto the sleepy fishing village you called home. It pales to what could await you if it were gifted to a different gladiator. 

“Fuck,” Lucius growls loudly, abruptly stilling your movement to feign his pleasure. 

After a beat you gather the courage to look over your shoulder, meeting Viggo’s stare. You tense. Calloused fingertips brush lightly over your jaw, drawing your attention back to Lucius. You stare down at him, taking in the light flush of his dusky cheeks and the steady rise and fall of his chest. His touch lingers for a moment more before his hand disappears beneath the water. 

“Use my robe to cover yourself,” he instructs roughly. 

It’s then that you realize how transparent your dress has become in the water. Your cheeks burn with embarrassment and you slide away, only to freeze when your thigh brushes over an unexpected hardness. Your eyes jump to his and Lucius’s throat bobs, the usual intensity of his features faltering for a brief moment.

"I will fetch more wine," you stammer after a pause, your gaze flicking nervously to Viggo still lingering at the edge of the bath, all too aware that Lucius cannot leave in this state. 

Wrapping your arms around your chest, you rise from the pool. The cool air instantly prickles your damp skin. You reach for a robe nearby and pull it around you quickly, grateful for its modesty. Viggo shoots you a brief, assessing glance, but it’s Lucius who commands his attention next.

"Come to admire what isn't yours?" Lucius taunts.

He leans back casually, as though completely unfazed by the situation. It’s effortless the way he slips into his confident, unshakable mask while you hurry away, eager to break the silence and escape the strange weight of the moment.

–

The clang and clash of metal from the arena become a distant hum, fading into the background as you clean the wounds on Lucius's body. Ravi is occupied, tending to the more seriously injured men, so it falls to you to care for your gladiator. You kneel between his thighs and the coarse sand scrapes against the soft skin of your knees. The heat of the day clings to you both, the air thick with the smell of sweat and blood. But beneath it all, there's a scent you’ve come to recognize as uniquely his — a mix of earth and salt that’s oddly comforting. 

You gently press a cloth to one of the deeper gashes, cleaning away the blood before you begin stitching the wound. Lucius hisses as you draw the needle through his parted skin, and you glance up at him in concern, but his eyes are closed, his breath steady despite the discomfort. His fingers curl into the edge of the cot, gripping it tightly. You smear the thick, fragrant paste Ravi left over the wound once you’re done. 

“You’re getting better at this,” Lucius observes.

“Flesh is not so different from cloth,” you reply.

“A far cry from mending fishing nets,” he says, and for a moment, your eyes meet and you share a small, pained smile.

“And you are a long way from a farm, gladiator,” you acknowledge, shaking your head. 

You help him stand, your hands steady as you support his weight, but you pause when you spot Viggo standing in the doorway. Lately, he seems to haunt your every step, his presence a constant shadow. On instinct you shift a little closer to Lucius, your body seeking the reassurance of his proximity just as he draws you near. The subtle movement doesn’t go unnoticed. A small, knowing smile tugs at Viggo’s lips. It’s a look that sends a trickle of unease down your spine.

“Macrinus is entertaining some important guests tomorrow evening, and you are required to attend,” he announces looking at Lucius. “They wish to see a real gladiator up close, to witness your strength and skill firsthand.”

Then, to your surprise, Viggo turns his gaze toward you. “Your presence is also required,” he adds. Although his tone is casual there's an edge to it that makes your stomach tighten.

Lucius doesn’t speak, but his fingers flex against your hip as he considers the other man’s command. You both know there’s little room for refusal when it comes to Macrinus.

“I understand-” you say at the same time Lucius’s voice cuts through the silence, low and firm.

“She is not needed. I alone will attend.” 

His gaze never leaves Viggo, and you can see the challenge in his eyes. It’s an attempt to shield you, one you appreciate but understand is futile. 

Viggo’s smile remains unchanged. “Macrinus insists.”

The matter is settled and you bow your head, waiting for the other man to leave. Once he is gone you look to Lucius, voice tinged with concern. 

“You should not challenge him.”

Lucius steps away, anger rolling off him in waves. “And you should not submit so easily.”

You touch your throat, then turn away to busy yourself with the bloody scraps of cloth and scattered supplies. There’s no point in arguing. You know the truth: that sometimes submission is the only way to survive in a world ruled by men like Macrinus. As you work the silence between you stretches on, thick and charged before Lucius steps toward you. 

He sighs, his breath warm against the back of your neck. A moment later, his hand rests on your shoulder. The calloused pads of his fingers graze the nape of your neck, sending a fleeting sense of unexpected longing through you as they briefly sweep over your skin.

“I….” His voice trails off and you close your eyes.

“I know,” you say quietly. 

So much of what transpires between you seems left unsaid. You reach back, your hand finding his briefly as the two of you share a quiet moment before he must return to the arena. 

–

The bangles on your wrist are heavy and ornate, far too extravagant for a slave. They feel less like adornments and more like shackles. Beside you, Lucius looks equally as uncomfortable in his fine clothes. They’ve trimmed his beard and his tunic—lined with gold thread—glimmers in the dim light. From across the room, Macrinus raises his goblet to the two of you. All around you his guests mingle, sharing hushed conversation and knowing smirks that deepen your discomfort. 

The servants, once familiar to you from your time as a slave working in Macrinus's kitchen, all avoid your gaze. You spent years alongside them before you were plucked from that world and thrust into Lucius's service. Their hesitation, the way they look past you, is more than simple discomfort, it’s a warning you don’t yet understand. Your fingers tremble where they rest on Lucius’s arm.

“Something is not right,” you whisper, fear rising in your throat.

Before Lucius can reply, the conversation around you falters, and the air grows still as Macrinus moves to the center of the room. Then, with a sharp clap of his hands, the noise dies completely. 

“Our entertainment is about to begin,” he announces, beckoning you forward.

As you approach, his eyes drift between you and Lucius. His smile widens, though it never quite reaches his eyes. “I hope you enjoyed your meal. You’ll both need your strength for the show,” he says. 

“I am to fight?” Lucius questions, his voice edged with suspicion.

“No, not today,” Macrinus replies. “My guests are eager for a performance of another kind.”

Your brow furrows and Lucius stares blankly at Macrinus until two servants, moving in unison, pull a table forward. It is laden with the remnants of the earlier feast — half-finished plates, empty goblets, and discarded silverware. They work to clear away the table until it is left bare. 

“It is no bed, but it’s finer than your cot,” Macrinus assures.  

Lucius jerks back as if struck, his body stiffening in shock while cold dread settles over your shoulder as you both understand Macrinus’s meaning. He watches the small exchange between the two of you with amusement.

“Or, if you prefer not to,” he offers, watching Lucius intently. His voice is smooth with mock consideration as he continues speaking. “I’m sure another gladiator would gladly take your place.”

“No,” Lucius snarls. Before he can move, you dig your nails into his forearm, trying desperately to hold him in place.

Macrinus leans in close, his next words meant only for the two of you. “I expect a good show. Not like that mummer's farce in the bath.”

Ugly surprise washes over you as the full reality of your situation sinks in. Beside you, Lucius shifts and you see the familiar spark in his eyes. It’s the look he gets before a fight when the fire that lives inside him is ready to explode and consume everything in its path. You’ve seen it a thousand times in the arena, and it always ends the same way: with blood. 

You almost wish you could let him fight, but you know better. You step closer to Lucius, your presence a quiet plea for him to stop. It takes a moment before he meets your gaze and when he does you see the pain beneath the rage, the knowledge that this moment is slipping beyond his control. 

There’s no glory in this—only survival. Yet that truth doesn’t make it any easier to watch the fire in his eyes fade as he steps back. It’s the kind of defeat that no arena or battle could ever impose on him. 

“My guests are eager for the show,” Macrinus says and gestures to the table. 

You straighten your shoulders, willing your body to follow the courage your mind struggles to summon. Lucius follows with heavy footsteps. You stop before the table, heart pounding, and take a slow, steadying breath to gather your resolve before you turn to face your gladiator. You know the role you’re meant to play, this moment is just another part of the spectacle your life has become.

Without a word, Lucius steps closer and his hands come to rest on your hips, guiding you to sit on the edge of the table. When he moves between your legs, you can’t read his expression. Unexpectedly, one of his large hands cups the side of your face, his thumb brushing lightly over your cheekbone. He leans in, his forehead pressing against yours.

“Focus on me,” he urges. “It is just us here, no one else matters. Do not think of them. Do not think of anything but me.”

His words are a command and a reassurance all at once, grounding you in the moment even as your pulse quickens. 

When he speaks again, his voice is louder, carrying across the room. “Lay back.”

The table is hard and cold beneath you as you follow his instruction, the chill seeping through the thin silks you wear. Lucius pulls you forward until you’re at the very edge, your legs hanging loosely off the sides. Gently, your dress is peeled away until you’re bare to him. His broad frame blocks the crowd from seeing much but you still feel vulnerable and exposed. You curl your fingers into the palms of your hands, trying to remember Lucius’s words as you close your eyes.

The murmurs of the observers increase, and you feel them shift, edging closer. Then, a woman’s gasp cuts through the tension, followed by a wave of hushed surprise that ripples through the gathered Romans. When you open your eyes you can only see the top of Lucius’s head from where he kneels between your thighs. Guilty anticipation zips through you, followed by a spark of heat that flickers low in your stomach at the sudden realization of what he intends to do. 

“Barbaric,” a man utters, his voice thick with disdain.

“Now now,” Macrinus says with a slight chuckle. “Remember, our gladiator hails from Numidia. Their customs are not ours."

The first touch from Lucius is barely there, a whisper of contact against your inner thigh, but it grows firmer the higher his fingers climb. Instinctively, you hold your breath, waiting for him to reach the most sacred part of you. At the first touch of his mouth to you, the rest of the world fades away.

Lucius builds your pleasure with slow, steady strokes while his calloused hands knead your thighs. His touch is an anchor and spark all at once. There is little resistance when he curls a finger inside. A second joins the first a moment later and without thought, you thread your fingers into his curls. A long, shuddering moan leaves him, and the vibration tightens the coil in your belly. Lucius’s touch grows rougher and more demanding. He drinks from you like he’s starved for it, as if every drop is the only thing keeping him alive while his fingers work you open.

You come with a throaty cry, your hips leaving the table. Every nerve in your body is alight. You cannot help but hold Lucius against you until the mere brush of his nose against your center makes you quake again, sending waves of warmth through your veins. As much as you want him to stop, you’re desperate for him to continue and keep you in this moment where nothing but the two of you exist. 

Lucius pulls away and reality crashes in with starting clarity while the eyes of the crowd cut through you like a thousand sharp edges. Before it all overwhelms you, he climbs onto the table. He lowers himself onto his forearms and the weight of him presses against you.

“Eyes on me,” he murmurs.  

You open your mouth but the words you want to say seem to get caught, trapped somewhere between your chest and your lips. To your surprise, wetness gathers at the corner of your eyes. But even that feels like something you can't fully surrender to. You’re trapped in this strange, painful moment where nothing feels real and everything feels too real all at once. It’s all too much – his tenderness and the horror of the situation.

There’s a subtle, almost imperceptible shift in Lucius’s expression in response, but it’s enough to reveal something beneath the surface and allow you to see the guilt he bears. The lines around his eyes seem to deepen and the tension in his expression makes him look older, wearier, and more vulnerable than you've ever seen him. The desire to soothe him is enough to break the strange spell on you.

"All is well," you assure him, gently brushing your nose against his. “I am no maiden.”

“Fuck her already,” a voice shouts and Lucius pulls back, his handsome face twisting into a snarl. You feel the tension in his muscles, coiling like a spring, ready to snap—and a knot of anxiety tightens in your chest. 

You breathe his name, soft and pleading, and he stills, the clench of his jaw betraying the war within. “It is only us,” you remind him, repeating his own words back to him. 

He stares down at you, nostrils flaring and then suddenly he bows his head. You feel the fight leave him as he chooses restraint over the violence you both know he’s capable of.

"Only us," he replies, strained. 

You hold his gaze as you feel his knuckles brush against your inner thigh to line himself up. He pushes inside slowly and you lift your hips. Your body welcomes him with only the briefest flare of pain, eased by his earlier attention. 

“Oh,” you gasp.

Your eyes close as he fills you completely. The sensation is both comforting and alien all at once. You can’t help but think of your late husband, so different from Lucius in every way. You wonder fleetingly if the man above you is thinking of his lost love too. Does that unspoken grief weigh on him as heavily as it does on you?

Before your mind can wander further, Lucius begins to move and your thoughts fizzle out. He curls his powerful body over yours and keeps up a steady pace that makes your skin buzz. You wrap your arms around his broad shoulders and the smell of him surrounds you, familiar and comforting. As you move together each breath and shift of your body becomes a silent conversation between only the two of you. 

“Gods,” he groans into your ear. “You take me so well.”

His unexpected praise has you rocking into him, needy for more. The table creaks each time he thrusts back into you. His lips trail along your neck and you feel that familiar climb to ecstasy begin, like a delicate crescendo inside you. Your nails dig into his skin and his rhythm stutters. 

“Sweet girl,” Lucius sighs, pulling back just far enough to meet your gaze.

The tenderness in his eyes is unexpected. Since Macrinus gifted you to Lucius nearly six months ago, you’ve shared many looks; full of pain and grief, anger and understanding, but this is something new, fragile. You stroke his cheek and he surges forward, kissing you roughly.

His lips on yours are a revelation. A storm of emotion rolls through your chest, crystallizing into the realization that you want him. You long for him in a way that goes beyond the need for protection, or a desire for connection. You grasp his face in both hands, your fingers trembling against the hard line of his jaw, and return the kiss with urgency. It’s desperate, almost frantic, as though you’re trying to pull him closer, to merge with him in a way that makes the world outside of the two of you disappear. 

He responds with a sharp thrust, angled so perfectly that it sends a flash of heat up your spine. You taste yourself on him when his tongue delves into your mouth. He hardly lets you catch a breath as he pours himself into you over and over until another orgasm washes through you. It’s more intense than the last, bleeding into his own as he comes with a quiet moan. 

He gives a few more thrusts and stills, his lips hovering over yours as you share the same air. Your thumbs stroke the soft skin under his eyes and you hold his gaze. In the depths of it, you feel a thousand words rising in your chest, aching to spill out, but you are all too aware you’re not alone. 

Before you let the world back in you tilt your chin up, lips brushing over his in a slow, tender kiss that he returns with heartbreaking gentleness. When you finally pull apart, the applause from Macrinus makes you flinch, and Lucius’s expression clouds over.

“What a performance,” Macrinus exclaims.

A titter of applause follows from the audience as though they’ve witnessed something to be praised. Lucius pulls away and you wince as he slips from inside you. A trickle of his seed follows and cold air blankets your body. You curl in on yourself, feeling vulnerable and anxious. When Lucius moves to stand, he carefully pulls your dress to cover you. Then, he helps you upright, and draws you into his side, shielding you with his body. He lifts his chin and offers the crowd a sharp, almost vicious smirk that’s more a baring of teeth than a smile. 

“I thought you might fuck like you fight,” Macrinus says. He lays a hand on Lucius’s shoulder like they are old friends and leans close. “I’m pleased to see that I was wrong.”

There’s some other meaning in his words that you don’t catch but Lucius seems to understand. Anger flickers across his face, but beneath it, you see something more unsettling, something you’ve never seen before. Fear. 

“We will do a great many things together, I think,” Macrinus continues in a pleased tone, his gaze lingering on the hand Lucius settles possessively on your hip. “A great many things.”

This time when he smiles it reaches his eyes; cold, calculating, and full of something far more sinister.

You spend the rest of the party seated on Lucius’s lap, his arm banded around your waist while the other rests on your thigh. He’s tense and angry as you expect but his focus seems distant, lost somewhere far beyond the room. He rubs the fabric of your dress between his thumb and forefinger, the motion almost absentminded. The wine you sip is overly sweet and sits like a sour stone in your belly. Neither of you speak. Occasionally, some guests, perhaps emboldened by drink or bravery, approach, but Lucius quickly sends them on their way with nothing more than a look. 

Only once the party dies down are you dismissed by Viggo. On the journey back to your cell Lucius’s grip on you remains firm, as if he's afraid you might slip away. He doesn't speak, and you notice every so often, his free hand curls into a tight fist at his side, his knuckles turning white from the pressure. It’s not until the door closes behind you, locking you both inside the small, dimly lit space, that Lucius finally speaks. 

"You know my true name,” he begins pacing the length of the cell. “But there are things I have not told you."  

He speaks slowly, each word carefully measured, as though he’s weighing the cost of revealing what’s hidden. He tells you the truth of his origin, and with each sentence, you sink deeper into the thin cot you both share, the weight of his words pressing down on you. When he finally falls silent, you remain there, frozen. A thousand thoughts flood your mind, but none of them seem to form into anything coherent. 

"Does this mean-" you begin, words faltering as you try to process the magnitude of what he’s revealed to you. “Does this mean… you are the rightful emperor?”

“I am.” There’s no pride in his admission, only worry. He releases a harsh breath through his nose like he’s trying to clear something from his chest before he speaks again. “There is a plan in place, with my mother and Acacius, but he will not return from Persia for several weeks yet. We cannot wait for them.”

“What has changed?”

“Surely you must know,” he whispers, regarding you softly.  

You shake your head, a quick, instinctive denial, but a deeper part of you already understands. Or perhaps, hopes you do.  

“You," he says simply. 

It’s the way he says it, so certain and knowing, that makes your breath catch. You stare at him and your heart throbs in your chest, low and sweet like a song.

“I never thought I could want someone again,” he admits. His unexpected words summon the ghost of all you've both lost, and they rise between you like a shadow, lingering for a long painful moment. "I thought it would feel like..." His words trail off.

“A betrayal,” you finish for him, keenly aware of what he must feel. 

The vulnerable look on his face awakens something deep and real inside you that you never expected to feel again. You rise from the cot without thinking and move to stand before him. ��

"It feels right," he continues, his voice softer now, but no less certain. "As easy as breathing." 

And then he kisses you, tentative at first, before he grasps your jaw, seeking more of you. The way he holds you, possessively, protectively, makes you feel like you’re the only thing that matters, like you're his lifeline in a world that’s about to crumble. It fills you with such longing that you chase his lips when they part from yours.

"Macrinus knows now. And he is planning something," Lucius says, his voice tight with urgency, "and whatever it is, it will be at odds with the good of Rome. He will use you to get to me. And I cannot lose you."

“What will you do?” You ask.

"I'll send word to my mother in the morning," he replies. "You and she must leave Rome. It’s the only way."

You shake your head, unwilling to part from him.

“I will come for you when it is safe,” he promises, capturing your lips in another kiss before he pulls away and rests his forehead against yours. "But tonight… tonight, I need you again. Will you have me?” He questions.  

You answer him with your lips and he gathers you in his arms. The coarseness of his beard against your chin and the firm press of his lips to yours ignites a bone-deep need within. Suddenly all the danger, the uncertainty, and the inevitability of what’s to come fades into the background. It's just the two of you, the heat of his touch, the depth of his kiss, and the unspoken promise in his embrace. 

When he pulls you down on the cot, urging you on top of him, you let his momentum carry you. 

“Ride me,” he pleads desperately, framing your hips with his hands. 

He gazes up at you with such a mix of desperation and love that you couldn’t deny him, even if you wanted to. The shudder he gives when you take him in hand emboldens you to stroke his length. He groans and pushes his head back, exposing his thickly corded neck. You rise up and sink down on him slowly, savoring each inch. It’s near perfect how he fills you, and even though you’re still sore from earlier, the blend of pain and pleasure thrills you too much to stop. 

“Your dress,” he pants, “remove it. Please. I want to see you. All of you.”

You pull the fabric from your body and shed the bangles on your wrist while Lucius removes his tunic. You’re familiar with every inch of his body from tending to his wounds and time in the bathhouse, but you gaze down at him now with renewed appreciation, resting your hands on his firm shoulders. His eyes are filled with affection and desire as they roam your body. 

“You’re beautiful,” he praises. 

He cups your breasts and draws his thumbs across your nipples until they grow hard. The touch sends sparks of pleasure along your nerves and you twitch around him. He moans and rolls his hips. His arms encircle you, holding you close while he fucks you with strong, powerful thrusts. You bury your face in his neck and drag his skin between your teeth. He answers your action with a groan. 

“Gods, the way you feel. You’re perfect,” he praises. 

You sit up and plant your hands on his chest, moving your hips to take him deeper. You gasp his name and arch your back, rocking forward with an urgent need that eclipses everything else. For the first time in what feels like forever, you close your eyes and let yourself simply feel. There’s no need to shield yourself, no barriers to maintain.

“Look at me,” Lucius begs, grasping your waist to take control of your movements.

Your eyes flutter open and meet his, the beginning of your orgasm rising to the surface like a tide pushing its way to shore. It grows steadily until it finally crashes over you, flooding your senses and leaving you breathless in its wake. Lucius finds his own end moments after with a low, shuddering gasp. It takes several moments for your breathing to return to normal and when it does Lucius sweeps his hands up your sides comfortingly.

"Stay with me like this,” he asks. 

You acquiesce and he gently guides you to rest your cheek against his chest. His hand slides to the middle of your back, his palm warm and steady as he holds you close. Even though he remains inside you still your body relaxes, pooling in his. You close your eyes and listen to the steady drum of his heart, feeling a profound sense of stillness. 

You’ve always felt safe in Lucius’s arms, but now, you feel loved in a way you never dreamed you’d experience again. It’s a kind of peace that settles into you, filling all the broken, hollow spaces in your heart where your grief and pain have lingered for so long.

Whatever comes next, his love and strength are something you can hold onto. And for now, that is all you need. 

♡

Also part of this series:

Ab Initio

Finis

Protego te

My inbox is open for your thoughts on this story, requests for drabbles with Lucius and further scenes with Lucius and the Fisherman's Wife.

[stylesispunk]

'Hands in the hair of somebody named Marcus'

Marcus Acacius x f!reader

next part

summary: the cursed blood of Geta and Caracalla runs through your veins sealing your fate. However, the General Acacius is willing to fight for you.

w.c: 5k>

warnings: angst, violence, power imbalance,and fluff.

a/n: I had this one in my drafts but after watching gladiator ii twice. I had to finish it and write about my beloved General Acacius because he deserves it. I hope you like it. This may have a part ii depending on its performance. PLEASE DON'T BE MEAN. Reblogs and comments are always. appreciated 💌

| dividers by @/saradika-graphics |

Inhale.

Exhale.

Breathe in, breath out.

There was it, the rattle breathing inside Marcus Acacius lungs. The way life has turned out for him felt like cuts all over his skin.

Sometimes he felt he could even breath from how bloody his hands were. How dirty his name felt to his own honor. How salty his tears felt down his cheeks every night. Every time he closed his eyes at night, the screams pierced through his ears.

Mothers mourning their children.

Men mourning their wives.

Families destroyed.

All because of him.

All because he must have served those two spoiled kids so called emperors of Rome.

And he still couldn't wrap his mind around the idea of you, someone so pure and kind was cursed to share the same blood as them.

Every time he came back to the city. He witnessed on first hand, how badly you were treated by them.  The laughs, the humiliation, the segregation, and how your voice had been silenced just for you to be unwillingly part of a legacy that felt like your back being split in two.

Marcus was aware of the adoration people felt for you, how your kindness had reached to every single person in the empire. People loved you, but you were nothing more than a puppet under their fingers.

And he felt pity for you.

He could see the way your eyes seemed lost in the arena, in the way your hands trembled where Geta or Caracalla looked at you with disgust when you didn't approve of the madness they had arisen under their control.

You were the opposite of them.

You were Kind.

Kind as no one had been on here for so many years. You shared the same dream of Marcus Aurelio.

An empire for the world and a refuge for those in need.

and Marcus looked at you with tenderness in his heart from afar.

Most of the time you didn't acknowledge him. He knew you weren't really fond of him or the idea of him leading armies to claim cities under the glory of Rome.

For you, he was just a general repeating the same cycle of madness.

And you didn't acknowledge him until Geta slapped you on front of him for not showing your gratitude towards him after his returning from battle.

The sting lingered on your cheek after his slap, not from the force but from the humiliation of it. The room fell silent, the tension arose like flames to the fire. Geta and Caracalla, with their arrogant disdain, seemed to punish your perceived disobedience.

But Marcus? His expression shifted, subtle, yet profound. His sharp gaze, so often unreadable, burned with an intensity that wasn’t anger but something close to defiance. He stepped forward, his towering presence demanding the attention of everyone in the room.

“Enough,” Marcus said, his voice calm and gentle, the command laced with quiet fury. The word carried weight, a warning not to be ignored. Your brothers exchanged a glance, clearly displeased but unwilling to challenge the general directly. They turned and left, leaving muttered curses in the air.

The room fell silent once again, and you found yourself standing alone with General Acacius. Your hand hovering your cheek, the skin still warm from Geta’s punishment. You didn’t look up at first, embarrassed not just by the slap but by the realization that Marcus had witnessed it. You had worked so hard to ignore him, to keep him at a distance, but now, there was no avoiding him.

“You didn’t deserve that,” he said softly, his voice a startling contrast to the authority he had wielded moments ago.

You finally raised your eyes to meet his, expecting pity but finding something else entirely different, something softer. “It doesn’t matter,” you murmured, attempting to dismiss it, but he shook his head.

“It does,” Marcus said, taking a step closer. “You shouldn’t have to endure this, least of all from them. They’re your blood”

His words hung in the air, and for the first time, you saw him not as the general who commanded armies in your brothers’ name but as a man standing apart from their cruelty. He wasn’t like them, not entirely.

And perhaps, you thought, he never had been.

Your gaze lingered on Marcus for a moment longer, his eyes searching yours as if waiting for you to say something—anything. But you couldn’t. Your throat tightened, and you turned away, moving to the window to avoid the weight of his attention.

“I don’t need your protection,” you said, though the words came out softer than you intended. “You’ve done enough by speaking against them. They will get under your skin for it.”

Marcus hesitated, his heavy footsteps echoing as he approached you. “You shouldn’t have to thank me for doing what’s right.”

His words made your chest ache. When was the last time anyone had done what was “right” for you? You stared out at the gardens beyond the window, their beauty feeling distant, unreachable. Your brothers had never cared about right or wrong, only power.

“I don’t understand you,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “You fight for them. You serve them. And yet…”

“And yet I see who they truly are,” Marcus interrupted gently. “I serve Rome, not their cruelty. There’s a difference.”

You turned to face him, his nearness almost startling. For the first time, his presence didn’t feel overwhelming. Instead, it felt… grounding. Safe. He stood tall, but his expression was open, waiting for you to respond.

“They’ll hate you for standing up for me,” you said, your tone cautious. “They don’t forgive things like that.”

“Let them hate me,” Marcus replied without hesitation. “I won’t stand by and let them treat you as they do.”

The conviction in his voice sent a shiver through you. You wanted to argue, to remind him that opposing your brothers would bring nothing but trouble, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, you found yourself studying him. His broad shoulders, the sharp lines of his face, and the way his eyes softened when they rested on you.

“I don’t need anyone fighting my battles,” you said, though even you weren’t sure if you believed it. “I’ve survived this long on my own.”

“You shouldn’t have to,” he replied, stepping closer, his voice low but steady. “You deserve better than survival.”

Your breath hitched, the weight of his words pressing against you. Before you could respond, Marcus straightened, his demeanor shifting as if sensing he had said too much. He nodded once, a gesture of respect, before stepping back.

“I should leave you to rest,” he said. “You’ve been through enough today”

Your breath caught at the sound of his voice, so steady and sincere, the words lingering in the air like a balm to your frayed nerves. You wanted to reach out, to say something and stop him, but you hesitated, unsure of what held you back.

Marcus took another step away, his broad shoulders tense, as though leaving you was harder for him than he let on. His words, though respectful, carried a tone of finality that made your heart twist.

“I’ll see you soon,” he murmured, his voice softer now, almost reluctant. He bowed slightly, taking your hand in his, and kissing it as his dark eyes met yours, “My lady.”

As if his words had worked as a kind of manifesto, the “soon” came no long after.

There you were in the gardens, barefoot, with your wild hair looking at the moon shining over the town you had been forced to call it home.

Marcus could see from your posture to your void eyes when you were there in the middle of your brothers, faking enthusiasm, while inside your bones you hate with passion this torturous show.

You didn't wish to be cruel to the world but kind.

You didn't wish to see blood coming out from innocent men who had fallen prey under the hands of the cruelty of the roman empire.

And you were exhausted of seeing and hearing the cheering of people celebrating death as a spectacle.

You didn't want this to be your life but just a nightmare you were going to wake from too soon.

And now, as Marcus could see the moon reflecting on your face. He was able to see through the golden jewelry and the soft material of your dress, he could see a soul pleading to the moon to set her free.

Something must have alerted you. You turned around facing him hiding under his cloak.

"General Acacius?" You whispered, closing your eyes a bit to take his form under the soft light of the moon.

"My lady" he replied softly, with respect to his tone.

“What are you doing here?” you breathed, your voice trembled under his gaze.

He hesitated for mere seconds, his gaze intense as it locked onto yours. “I could ask you the same, my lady,” he replied, a trace of sweetness in his tone. “It seems even those closest to the emperors need to escape from time to time.”

A silence fell between you, charged with a tension that both thrilled and unsettled you. The few stolen glances you’d shared over the past days had spoken volumes, but you had never dared to hope his heart could be beating as fast as yours in your presence.

You turned around again, your back to him. "I love coming here to look at the moon. " You spoke, breaking the silence "This seems to be the only place my brothers haven't tainted yet."

"How they don't know about this place?"

"My father sent this place to be built for his only daughter." You replied, and Marcus could notice how the corners of your lips graced with a smirk, even from behind. "A place for her to be a girl."

"What do you mean?"

"You know, General. Women seem to be useless for having a voice, less for ruling an Empire. Everything I can do is stay here and feel like I own something." You hold your voice for a minute, “I’m just a statue waiting to crumble.”

Marcus didn't reply to your words and if it wasn't for the sound of his steps getting closer you would have thought he left.

You could see his outline from the corner of your eyes, the way his face had been marked by cruel events you despise. A red mark on his cheek, a few scars on his neck and for brown eyes that contrasted from his hard exterior, shinning under the same moon as yours.

"How did you find this place, General?" You asked, bow fully looking at him. You were wondering how your brothers never knew about this place but him had been the first man to find it, just after his return.

He took a brief look at you from the corners of his eyes. "I would say that something brought me here," he paused for a moment, "but it seems like it was you, my lady."

You had to hold your breath for a moment. You didn't expect such words from Marcus. He was the beloved general of Rome. But to your eyes he was still a man who had built his honor from cruelty or that was what you thought.

"I don't believe so." You replied, despite the rapid beating of your heart, you didn't want to be fooled by a man with soft brown eyes and a heart that seems to be kind. "I do not desire a man to follow me, not less one who is the puppet of the cruelty of all this cold nonsense."

"My lady…"

"Please, you may go now." you said, turning your gaze back to the moon.

Marcus didn’t leave immediately. Instead, he lingered in the doorway, his silhouette framed by the faint torchlight flickering in the hall. His hand rested on the edge of the door, his knuckles tight and pale as if he were restraining himself from saying something he would later regret.

For a moment, the only sound in the room was the crackling of the embers in the hearth. The tension between you felt almost unbearable, a quiet battle waged in silence.

“I know what you think of me,” he finally said, his voice softer now, like the hush of a secret shared in the dark. “You see a man of blood and iron, one who serves an empire that devours cities for the Glory of Rome.” He exhaled slowly, almost as if gathering the strength to continue. “You’re not wrong to think that. There are nights when I wonder if all of this is worth it, if I am worth anything beyond my sword.”

His admission struck something deep within you, though you kept your face turned toward the moon. You refused to let him see the small crack forming in your carefully constructed armor.

“Then why stay?” you asked quietly, your voice carrying an edge of challenge. “Why continue to serve a cause you doubt?”

“I stay because I must,” Marcus said without hesitation. “It is all I have known, and it is all that has been asked of me. But you…” His voice faltered, and you felt the weight of his gaze, though you didn’t dare meet it. “You are different. You are everything this empire is not, kind, unyielding. Someone like you should be the one ruling Rome, the princess.”

You chuckled at the statement “My brothers would send me to death before I’ll have the chance to sit on that throne.”

Your fingers tightened around the fabric of your dress. His words shouldn’t have this effect on you, yet they lingered, stirring something unfamiliar.

“And that is why you should go,” you said, more firmly now. “You’re talking nonsense”

Marcus took a step closer, his steps echoing faintly against the cobblestones “Perhaps I do not belong here,” he said, his tone unwavering, “but that does not mean I will walk away so easily and let this empire fall under your brother’s madness.”

You turned to him then, unable to ignore the quiet determination in his voice. His eyes, those soft brown eyes that had once seemed so dangerous, now held a sincerity you hadn’t expected. For the first time, you saw not a general, but a man, a man who carried the weight of his choices and the burden of his doubts.

“You think you can change my mind?” you asked, your tone sharp despite the unease stirring in your chest.

“No,” Marcus admitted, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “But I hope, one day, I can show you what I am talking about.”

Before you could reply, he bowed his head slightly, as a gesture of respect rather than submission, and turned to leave.

As the door closed behind him, you stood in the quiet of the garden, your heart beating fast while his words played over in your head.

The arena buzzed with the deafening roar of the crowd, their excitement spilling into the air as dust kicked up from the floor below. You sat stiffly behind Geta and Caracalla, their laughter and sharp whispers grating against your ears. This was how it always was, trapped in their own world, watching their cruelty unfold.

Today, the games were bloodier than usual, the violence more drawn out, as if they relished every clash of blades and every cry of pain. You tried to ignore the chaos, your gaze drifting to the far horizon, where freedom felt like a distant dream in the blue sky.

But then, a movement to your right drew your attention. You turned your head just slightly, your breath catching when you saw Marcus approaching. His expression was calm, unreadable, though his eyes softened ever so slightly when they met yours. Without a word, he settled into the seat next to you.

“General,” you greeted, your voice low.

“My lady,” he replied, his tone equally soft, though there was a subtle warmth in it.

For a while, neither of your spoke. The sounds of the crowd and the clash of weapons filled the silence between you, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable one.

“They love this,” Marcus finally said, his voice barely audible over the noise.

You didn’t reply, too focused on fidgeting with the material of your dress, your fingers twisting the fabric in small, anxious movements. The tension in your shoulders was noticeable, your gaze fixed on the arena below, though it was clear your mind was far from the bloodshed.

Marcus noticed. He always noticed. After a moment of hesitation, his hand moved, gentle, placing it over yours. His touch was warm, steady, and it stopped the restless motion of your fingers.

Startled, you glanced at him, your breath catching as you saw the softness in his expression. There was no judgment, no pity, only quiet reassurance. For a moment, you forgot where you were, the chaos of the arena fading into the background.

But the moment didn’t last.

“Ah, what’s this?” Geta’s voice cut through the din, sharp and mocking.

You flinched, quickly pulling your hand away as Geta turned in his seat, his eyes narrowing as he looked between you and Marcus. His lips curled into a sly grin, the kind that sent a chill down your spine.

“Well, well,” he drawled, leaning closer as if sharing a secret. “Our dear sister has caught the attention of the great general. How… intriguing.”

Marcus’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing, his gaze unwavering as he stared ahead.

Geta leaned back in his seat, his grin widening as an idea seemed to spark in his mind. He turned to Caracalla, nudging him with an elbow. “Brother, I think we haven’t been too generous with our sister, have we?”

Caracalla raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Oh? What do you suggest we could do for her?”

Geta’s grin turned wicked, his eyes gleaming with malice. “A little incentive for the games. Let the gods decide her fate.”

Your blood ran cold as you realized what he was suggesting. “Geta, don’t—”

He ignored you, standing abruptly and raising his arms to address the crowd.

“Citizens of Rome!” Geta’s voice boomed over the noise, silencing the arena. “Today, we have a special reward for our brave gladiators. A prize worthy of their strength and valor.”

Caracalla caught on quickly, his laughter echoing through the stands. “Indeed, a prize unlike any other,” he added, his voice dripping with amusement.

You shot to your feet, panic rising in your chest. “Geta, stop this!”

He turned to you, his smile cruel. “Sit down, sister. This is for the glory of Rome.”

You didn’t move, but your voice faltered, your protests drowned out by the cheers of the crowd as Geta announced his decree.

“The victor of this fight,” he declared, “shall win not only their freedom but also the hand of our beloved sister.”

The crowd erupted in applause and cheers, their excitement deafening.

Beside you, Marcus remained seated, his expression unreadable. But you could see the storm brewing in his eyes, the muscles in his jaw clenching as he processed what had just happened.

And for the first time, you saw something in him that you hadn’t before, a quiet, burning fury, one that made you wonder just how far he would go to defy your brothers.

"They offered me as a price." You whispered to Marcus who was offering his arm for you to hold, as you tried to keep your composure.

You felt humiliated.

You felt that men owned you and despised the feeling.

Marcus didn’t respond right away. His arm remained steady, extended for you to hold, a silent offer of support. His face, though unreadable, betrayed hints of a restrained anger—anger that wasn’t directed at you, but at the cruelty of your brothers, the twisted spectacle they had made of your dignity.

“They did,” he finally murmured, his voice low but firm, so only you could hear. “And they will answer for it.”

You hesitated, your hand trembling slightly before resting on his arm. The gesture was subtle, almost imperceptible to anyone else, but between the two of you, it felt like a silent pact. Marcus guided you to sit back down, his movements deliberate, as if shielding you from the prying eyes of the crowd.

“Hold your head high,” he said quietly, leaning just close enough for his words to reach you. “You are not a prize. You are a queen in all but name.”

His words, though softly spoken, struck a chord deep within you. They carried a weight that steadied the storm of emotions threatening to overwhelm you—humiliation, anger, and a raw, aching vulnerability you despised feeling. You clenched your jaw, forcing yourself to sit straighter, your gaze fixed on the arena even as your chest burned with resentment.

The fight began, the clash of swords and the roar of the crowd filling the air. The gladiators fought with a ferocity that was almost unbearable to watch, knowing that your fate hung in the balance of their blades. You despised every second of it, despised the men in the arena who saw you as a reward to be claimed, despised the crowd who cheered for your subjugation, and most of all, despised your brothers for orchestrating this humiliation.

And yet, as the fight dragged on, your attention kept flickering to Marcus. He hadn’t moved, his posture rigid, his gaze fixed on the arena with an intensity that made your heart race. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, fingers tightening with every blow exchanged below.

“They cannot do this,” you whispered, your voice trembling with barely contained anger. “They cannot decide my life like this.”

“They can try,” Marcus replied, his tone like steel. “But they will not succeed.”

His words were cryptic, but there was something in his voice, a quiet, unshakable resolve that made you glance at him. For a moment, you wondered if he already had a plan, if his mind was racing with strategies to undo the cruelty your brothers had unleashed.

The fight ended abruptly, the crowd roaring as the victor emerged, bloodied but triumphant. Your stomach churned as the man was announced, his grin wide as he looked up to the podium where you sat. You felt Marcus tense beside you, his hand gripping his sword so tightly you feared it might snap.

“Don’t,” you whispered urgently, sensing the storm about to break within him. “Please, Marcus.”

But he didn’t respond, his gaze locked on the victor below. And for the first time, you wondered just how far Marcus would go, not just to defy your brothers, but to protect you from their cruelty.

The victor's triumphant roar echoed through the arena, and the crowd erupted into wild cheers. You couldn’t bear to look at the man below, his eyes alight with the promise of his prize—you. Your stomach churned with revulsion, and your breathing quickened, panic clawing at your chest.

“Come,” Marcus said quietly, his voice cutting through the noise. His hand found yours again, firm but not forceful, and this time, you didn’t hesitate to take it. The heat of his palm against yours grounded you, gave you a tether to hold onto as you stood on unsteady legs.

You didn’t wait for your brothers’ gloating remarks or the smug expressions on their faces. Without a word, you let Marcus guide you away, his presence shielding you from the leering eyes of the crowd. The noise of the arena began to fade as you descended the steps, replaced by the rapid beating of your heart.

The corridors beneath the stands were dimly lit, the cool air a welcome reprieve from the suffocating heat of the arena. You kept your gaze forward, refusing to look back, refusing to give your brothers or the victor the satisfaction of seeing your fear. But inside, you were trembling.

“Marcus,” you finally whispered, your voice breaking. “Where are we going?”

“Somewhere they can’t touch you,” he replied, his tone low and steady. His hand tightened around yours, a silent vow that he wouldn’t let you face this alone.

The two of you emerged into the open courtyard behind the arena, the setting sun casting long shadows across the stone walls. The sounds of the crowd were distant now, muffled by the heavy doors that closed behind you. You stopped walking, pulling your hand from his and turning to face him.

“They’ll come for me,” you said, your voice laced with frustration and fear. “They won’t let this stand. Geta and Caracalla—”

“They’ll have to go through me first,” Marcus interrupted, his tone sharp, his brown eyes fierce. “And I promise you, my lady, they won’t succeed.”

You stared at him, his words sinking in. He looked every bit the general now, strong, resolute, and unyielding. And yet, there was something else in his gaze, something softer that made your chest tighten. He wasn’t just protecting you out of duty or honor. There was something personal in the way he looked at you, in the way he stood so close, as though shielding you from the world.

"I can fight in the arena" he said, "for you."

You stared blankly at him, shocked at your core.

"What would you win from that? Do you want to own me like those men?" You asked.

"I do not wish to own you, my lady. You're not property. You're a free woman, and If I win, I'll become your husband and you would never have to endure those humiliations ever again."

"Just because I would be yours." You whispered, still broken at the thought of not being enough.

"You would be my wife, not my property." He clarified, "I will live and fight to keep your honor just as you deserve"

You looked away, heart pounding, his words washing over you like laurels over your skin. A part of you longed to believe him, to let his offer pull you from the grip of your family’s ambitions. But fear clung tightly, rooted in years of being nothing more than a pawn in your brothers' power games.

"General…" you murmured, voice wavering. "If you fight for me, you put yourself in danger. And if you fall, my life will only become darker, lonelier. I don’t want your blood on my hands."

He stepped closer, his eyes steady, fierce. "I would rather risk everything than stand by while you suffer. You deserve a life where you choose, where you're loved, not used."

Your throat tightened, emotions swelling. "But if you fight and lose, you’d be at their mercy. They’d make you a symbol. A warning to anyone else who dares to defy them."

He lifted your hand, pressing it to his heart. "Then let them try," he said, his voice unyielding. "For you, my lady, I would face even the wrath of the empire."

His touch was gentle, but his resolve was unbreakable. In that moment, you realized he wasn’t just a man willing to fight for you, he was someone who saw you as more than a title, more than a sister to emperors. He saw you, truly.

“Why?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. “Why would you risk this for me?”

For a moment, he hesitated, the stoic mask slipping just enough for you to catch a glimpse of the man beneath. “Because you deserve more than to be treated as a pawn in their games,” he said finally. “And because I…” He stopped himself, shaking his head as if the words were too much to say aloud. “You don’t deserve this.”

You swallowed hard, your throat tight with emotion.

"Acacius… if you truly wish to do this," you whispered, your fingers trembling in his, "then I will stand by your side, come what may."

He smiled, a rare softness breaking through his stoic exterior. "Then we’ll face them together, my lady. And if they stand in our way…" His eyes darkened, a spark of defiance glinting within them. "They’ll learn that love is a force they cannot control"

"Do you believe you could come close to loving me?" You asked, heart pounding.

His reply didn’t come from words. Instead, he squeezed your hand over his heart.

His words lingered in the air, hanging between you like the delicate balance of a fragile moment. You searched his face, his steady eyes holding yours as if daring you to see the sincerity in them. For all his strength, for all his might as a general, Marcus stood before you as something else entirely. A man laying his heart bare.

Your breath hitched as his hand moved from yours to gently cradle your cheek, his touch warm and careful, as if he feared you might pull away. You didn’t. You couldn’t. Instead, you leaned into his palm, your heart pounding so loudly you thought he must hear it.

“May I?” he murmured, his voice soft and hesitant, as though you were something precious, he was afraid to break.

You nodded, unable to speak, your eyes fluttering closed as he leaned in. His lips brushed against yours, tentative and light, testing the waters of your comfort. It was not the kiss of a conqueror or a man accustomed to taking what he wanted. It was the kiss of someone who had been waiting, who had held back his own desires out of respect for you.

The first touch was fleeting, but when he felt you relax into him, he deepened the kiss, his other hand settling on your waist to anchor you against him. The world around you faded. The distant noise of the Coliseum, the threat of your brothers, even the weight of your own fear. All that remained was the warmth of his lips, the steady beat of his heart beneath your other hand.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested gently against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the quiet that followed. “Loving you,” he whispered again, his voice thick with emotion, “would be the easiest battle I’ve ever fought.”

[intoanotherworld23]

His Delicate Flower Of Rome

Summary: when Lucius found out you were Marcus Acacius’s daughter he knew he had to have you, and when the opportunity was right he wasn’t holding back

Warnings: explicit content, mature themes, smut, unprotected sex, slightly dom Lucius, submissive reader, smidge of spanking

A/N: hello my lovelies! I was genuinely surprised that there isn’t more fics of Paul or Lucius out there so I wanted to write something for him, and hope everyone likes it and share your thoughts on if I should keep writing for him! If you wish to be added to a tag list please let me know! Or if you have any requests do not hesitate to submit it to my inbox! Don’t forget to reblog and comment! Thank you! XOXO

Hall Of Hunks

Tag list for everything: @iam-laiya @rosie-posie08 @madzleigh01 @alwaysclassyeagle @mytbel0st @shanimallina87 @marvelstarker-mha98 @powellssugarbaby @lora21 @kmc1989

"That's it flower, that's a good woman." Soft praises echoing in your ear as you sank down on Lucius's erect length. His calloused hands caressing your skin so tenderly. "Are you feeling all of me?"

"Mhm." Struggling to find the right words as you concentrated more on adjusting around his cock. Twisting your face in an unusual manner he couldn't resist as he leaned forward to place light kisses on your heated cheeks and temple.

"Do the gods hold your tongue? Can you not speak?" Keeping his voice deep and low as his words teased you.

"Lucius please." Whimpering pathetically as you continued to grind your hips back and forth. Lucius chuckling at how eager and desperate you were for him.

"Do you enjoy fucking gladiators? Does that moisten your thighs? Does your father know what a whore you are?" He taunted you as you bit your bottom lip realizing that his words held more truth than you wanted. Soon as Lucius found out you were Marcus Acacius's daughter he wasted no time in seducing you. "I've been longing to feel this cunt around me for too long."

He loved the feeling of your skin touching his. The way your body had molded into his so perfectly. A fierce bloodthirsty champion of the arena was holding you like a delicate flower. Lucius was enjoying this way more than he intended, and was already planning on never letting you go.

"Gods you are tight." Large hands holding the fat flesh of your thighs his thumb stroking your skin soothingly. Feeling so warm and incredibly deep. "You have not been fucked the way you should be."

Nodding your head in agreement unable to speak as you wrapped your hands around his thick neck. Beginning to tremble as you moved your legs to raise yourself better. Lucious guiding your hips now as he looked down to where you two were connected.

"Take it easy I wouldn't want you to hurt yourself." Noticing how aggressively you were bouncing on his cock. Even as his hands swatted your backside in warning you still continued to ignore him. So lost in the clouds you didn't want to come down.

"I can do it Lucius." Assuring him with such innocent eyes he couldn't help but smirk at how badly you wanted this. "Gods you are so big."

"Fuck." He grunts before pulling your body on top of his as he laid along the bed. He was surprised how soft it was considering he had been sleeping on stone for so long.

Gasping as he lifted his knees and started to pound into your cunt with absolutely no mercy giving you exactly what you wanted. His lips warm and desperate as they peppered kisses along your neck and shoulder. His hands keeping a firm grip on your ass using it as leverage.

"Oh gods." Crying out as he growled in your ear with such animosity it had a shiver running down your spine.

"The gods will never make you feel like this." Hissing into your ear and in just mere seconds tears are glistening in your eyes with such intensity. "Only my cock can bring you to such pleasure."

"Yes, my champion." We're all the words Lucius needed to hear before he suddenly flipped you on your back his cock never slipping from inside you. Grabbing your legs and placing them on his shoulders, as he got right back into the same rhythm.

Drilling into your sweet spot as he leaned forward slightly his face right above yours. Lucius was oozing with confidence in everything that he did. Whether it was in the colosseum or the bedroom. Bit surprised that a man like him would want anything to do with the generals daughter.

"I'm close." Informing him as your body started to shake a fire igniting in the pit of your stomach. Head tossed back in complete ecstasy as you couldn't hold back anymore.

"Let go I am right here." Cooing into your ear like he was revealing his secrets. His deep and seductive tone was sending you right over the edge.

"Oh gods." Crying out as your orgasm was swiftly approaching still sensitive from your previous release by his tongue. Lucius looking down at your remarkable expression unable to look anywhere else. Loving that he was the one in control, and held all this power in your pleasure. It made him feel like a god.

Your senses were extremely heightened, and feeling overwhelmed and vulnerable. Not sure how much longer you could hold on. Lucius could sense this, and he knew what would help relieve you.

"Let me see those beautiful eyes." He instructed to which you immediately followed not seeing that he was reaching a hand down between your bodies to your puffy clit. Rubbing rapid circles making you scream hands scratching along his back surely leaving marks.

Your ribcage rising and falling with each quick breath. Hands falling down to your side feeling loose and numb. Stomach trembling from the resounding orgasm you just experienced. Your battered cunt was so sore from being stretched and abused. Feeling his hands gently caressing your trembling thighs as he stayed still inside of you.

“The gods have surely blessed me on this night.” Speaking trying to catch his breath as he smiled down at you.

“Seems the gods bless you every night.” Moving from underneath him his cock slipping out as he laid next to you. The only sound you could hear was the water fountain outside of your room, and the crackles from the fireplace. Expecting Lucius to gather himself, and never speak to you again.

“Take comfort in my arms, and I will hold you while you sleep.” Pulling your body against his before you could say anything. The unexpected gesture made you feel something that you’ve never felt before. “Sleep my delicate flower.”

[sadprose-auroras]

'Dulcissima' - Lucius Verus x Fem!Reader SMUT

dulcissima: Latin; my sweetest

A/N: My god. I saw Gladiator 2 yesterday, and this utter filth just came pouring out of me. A major shoutout to everyone who has BEEN writing for this character, I just had to contribute my little part. Reblogs and feedback are greatly appreciated!

Also take a shot every time I mention his big blue eyes and massive arms like hello I'm sorryyyy can you blame me!!! Also it starts off a bit shaky but trust me stick with it! I just can't not have some kind of backstory y'know

Word count: 3.3k

CONTENT WARNINGS: smut, breeding kink, brief size kink, cumplay, vague oral fixation, brief mentions of colonisation and injury

RATING: 18+. By clicking 'read more,' you are confirming that you are 18+

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Pressing the cloth against his skin made him wince, the muscles in his arm jump, and though you typically would not, you pulled it away.

“I’m sorry, but I must,” you said gently, and it occurred to him that nobody had treated him with such humanity and sweetness in such a long time. “It will be over soon.”

You continued to clean his wound as gently as possible, trying to ignore the heat emanating off his body simply due to your proximity. To distract him, you decided to make conversation. You were no stranger to what it felt like to be a slave. For your home to be destroyed, to be dehumanised in such a monstrous way.

“Hanno, where is your home?” you ask, as you continue to work.

“My home no longer exists,” he said with a level of defensiveness, eyes lowering to the floor. “Not as it once did.”

“My ancestral lineage hail from Aduatuci. My parents, my parents’ parents, have all been slaves. We do not know any different,” you said. “But I have dreams of a free Rome, one of hope. I have heard of it, and I know it can exist. If not for myself, then maybe for my future children.”

The lilt of hope in your voice softened his shoulders immediately, and he finally made eye contact with you.

“Numidia. Numidia was my home. I was taken as a slave as they took our land. I will not know peace until I see the world you speak of.” You nodded with understanding, carefully placing your hand on his knee. His demeanour was completely different to the survival instincts you witnessed in the stadium. He was kind, gentle.

“I believe we can fight for that kind of world,” you reassured.

Once you finished tending to him, you gathered your supplies and stood up to leave.

“May the Gods bless you, Hanno,” you said. He reached out to grab your hand as you turned to leave, a lightning bolt of electricity shooting through you. You turned back.

“Wait,” he said, letting your hand go. “Will you come and see me tonight? Please? I could do with some company.” The vulnerability in his bright eyes made your heart melt.

“Of course.”

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Somehow, yourself and Hanno developed a bond. It became a cycle. Each time he was forced into the arena, you watched with a pit in your stomach, tears welling in your eyes. Each time he was victorious, the relief that flooded through you was incomparable. Afterwards, you would tend to his wounds, talking about your hopes and dreams for the future. He would speak of his life back home, tell you all about his childhood and his father.

Each night, you would sneak into his cell to talk more. It had dawned on you that he was your only friend. The only person who had ever understood you.

One night after a horrifying battle in the arena, you snuck in to see him. Drawing your hood down, you nodded to the guard at the door who allowed you through. He had also become an ally to you both, closing the door behind you and moving away to give you some privacy.

Hanno, or Lucius, as he had recently revealed to you was his name by birth, was sitting with his hands clasped together, gazing thoughtfully at the floor, a crease between his brows. When he saw you, his leg ceased shaking and he stood up to embrace you. His strong arms engulfed you, and you immediately relaxed at the familiar feeling. The prospect of losing the familiarity between you was becoming more and more frightening to you. An air of heaviness clouded this particular visit. It felt different this time.

“I am so happy to see you,” he breathed out, pulling away, caressing your arm. Casual touches between you were comfortable and common, especially considering you were required to touch him all the time when tending to his injuries. And yet, every single time, a shiver ran down your spine. Likewise, every time he pulled away, you could feel yourself physically tense once again. He made you feel like you could breathe.

“I thought I was going to lose you,” you murmured, your bottom lip trembling, with what you weren’t entirely sure. It was like every time you saw him, your inhibitions were lowered more and more. You spoke without thinking, acted without speaking. It was dangerous.

“Oh now, dulcissima.” His hand caught at your chin, raising your head to look at him. Your heart immediately began racing rapidly, face flushing. The endearing term all the permission you finally needed, you gently cupped his face, gazing into his stark blue eyes, his long lashes. They stood out against the dirt on his face, the stained red blood smeared across his forehead. A shiver ran through you as his eyes flickered in pleasure.

“Han-“ you began. “Lucius,” you settled on for now. You could never decide what to call him. Either way, he was still the same. Strong, tender, solid, beautiful. Yours.

“I will always be yours, can you not see? This life and the next. You cannot lose me.”  

Unable to come up with any eloquent answer, you decided actions were more powerful. As if your lips had a mind of their own, you raised up ever so slightly on your toes to kiss him, your lips slotting together perfectly. His kiss was soft and gentle as you tested out the feeling with one another, his hands moving to protectively cup the sides of your face, thumb stroking your cheek making you exhale through your nose. Your lips explored his, moving together in perfect harmony, coming up for air every few moments.

Your head was spinning with desire, everything else in the world fell away when he kissed you. His hands had moved into your hair, fingers threading through it, not quite pulling. Your hands seemed to have a mind of their own, running all over his bare back, sides and chest. The feeling of the hard muscle underneath your fingertips, especially when you could feel it jump with sensitivity, made you want to lick your wet tongue all over his body. You wanted, needed, to devour every inch of him.

Hanno’s kisses grew hungrier by the minute, hands massaging and tugging your hair now, pulling it free from its style. You moaned into his mouth, which made him pull away for a moment and press a finger to your lips.

“You must be quiet, dulcissima.” You fought the urge to buckle your knees at the sound of such a sweet term in his rough voice.

“I know,” you murmured against his finger, absentmindedly scratching your nails down his back as you spoke, revelling in the way his mouth opened slightly at the feeling, eyelashes fluttering. “I will be, I promise.”

“Do you?” he asked, finger now teasing at the entrance of your mouth. You nodded ever so slightly, taking his finger in your mouth, swirling it with your tongue. You closed your eyes, coating his finger in wetness, moving your mouth up and down exploringly.

“Mmmhmm,” you moaned as an answer around his finger. The way he was watching you with hooded eyes, bottom lip taken between his teeth, was making the wetness pooling between your thighs impossible to ignore. He gazed at you as if you hung the stars, as if you were a goddess he was worshipping.

You took your mouth off his finger with a pop, and he began to trace it down your throat slowly, leaving a trail of your own spit. You trembled under his touch, lifting your chin to allow him more access. He reached the swell of your breasts, continuing down between them. You pushed your garments down off your shoulders, arched your back to close the gap between you, chest heaving in desperation. You would feel pathetic if it was anybody else. But he made you feel so safe. You could completely be yourself, express your desires.

“My Lucius, my strong one, please,” you breathed, hungry hands now tugging at his hair. “I need you to take me. Make me forget everything. I want to only remember you.”

Without warning, he swept you up in his arms, a gasp escaping your lips, as he expertly laid you down, hovering above you. You took a moment to take him in; his pink, pillowy lips, tousled hair, scruff beard, shining eyes. Not even the midnight sky, nor a sunset, or a shimmering ocean, was so breathtaking.  

“My love,” he scanned your face, causing your heart to skip a beat. “My love,” he repeated himself, beginning to kiss down your neck over your shoulder, across the top of your breasts, sucking and nibbling. Your entire body filled with goosebumps, and you briefly considered that you were not being nearly as quiet as you had hoped. It was so difficult when he was making you feel this overcome with ecstasy.

“I need to feel your skin on mine,” you whispered, tugging at his clothing. He lifted himself off you, standing before you. He removed his loincloth, tossing it aside, his erection standing before you. Your mouth watered as you took the sight of him in, face becoming impossibly hot. His manhood was proportionately large and thick, much like the rest of his broad, toned body. It made you feel so delicate in comparison. Various images flashed in your mind’s eye. A large, strong hand coming down hard on your ass. The other wrapped around your throat. His back muscles flexing as he pounded into you from behind, his hand over your mouth to keep you from screaming.

“You are so-“ you began to say, but couldn’t find the right words. Before you could finish your thought, he moved towards you again.

“Can I undress you?” he asked, hands moving steadily down your clothed body. You nodded vigorously.

“Please,” you squirmed, fluttering your lashes at your love. He motioned for you to sit up so he could pull your tunic off your head, placing it on the floor. You were left entirely bare, and if it were anybody else in front of you, you would feel self-conscious. But the way his fingertips gently stroked your sides, his big blue eyes bore into yours with care and understanding, made you feel like a goddess yourself.

“I want to worship you,” he began, covering his body with yours, mouth covering one of your breasts. “Lay you on an altar and pray over every single part of your body,” he murmured as he took your nipple in his mouth, swirling his tongue. You gasped, hands gripping his shoulders for stability.

“Tell me what else,” you whispered.

“Well,” he said between wet kisses over to your other breast. “Once I worshipped you, my goddess,” he said as he began to suck on your other nipple, tweaking the first with his fingers, making you arch your back. “I would then ravage you,” he said, not giving you a chance to respond except to moan into his mouth as he kissed you, the kiss all tongue and desperation. His beard was scratching at your delicate skin deliciously. You ached to feel this on your thighs.

You began to grind against his body as you kissed, attempting to relieve some frustration. You could feel his hardness pressing into your stomach, and it made your mouth water.

“Lucius,” you groaned into his mouth, perhaps a little too loudly.

Shhhhhh, he placed his hand over your mouth, tutting at you. He kept his hand there, his other one tracing a line down your stomach. Your entire body was shaking as you spread your legs apart, drops of wetness falling down your thighs.

“Quiet, my love,” he whispered, one singular finger finally, ever so gently, tracing your folds. Your eyes rolled into the back of your head, bucking up into his hand. You needed more.

He noticed his reaction, groaning to himself. He couldn’t help but give you what you wanted. He used two fingers to apply more pressure, running up and down your soaked folds, hitting your clit and making your body twitch each time. He watched in amazement as you writhed in both desperation and pleasure, guiding his hand with your bodily movements.

Something switched in you at that moment, and you pushed his hand off your mouth, flipping yourselves over so you were now hovering above him.

“I need you in my mouth, lest I die,” you said breathlessly. He looked amused at your dramatics, but you felt his cock twitch against you.

“We wouldn’t want that, would we?” he said, and you both chuckled. Wordlessly, you turned yourself around so your pussy was over his face, his cock standing proudly in front of you. It was throbbing, looking almost painful. It made you love him even more, that he wanted you this badly.

“So beautiful,” you murmured, using your thumb to swipe the precum dribbling out of his head, licking it curiously. His deep growl was animalistic, and you felt his nails digging into your ass as he took you in his mouth, devouring you just as he promised. Simultaneously, you moaned as you licked a stripe up the underside of him, spitting a generous amount before slowly taking him into your mouth.

Being unable to see him only made you feel closer, as you could feel his mouth reacting to what you were doing. At the same time, his suctioning and licking of your pulsing clit, licking up and down your folds, was making you groan against him, the reverberation contributing to his pleasure. You began to grind your hips against his face in rhythm with your head bobbing up and down, eyes fluttering open and closed in bliss. His beard scratching against your inner thighs was painfully delicious, even more so than your imagination. You could barely breathe with how fast you were taking him in your mouth, but you did not care.

When he took your clit between his teeth and gently tugged, you gasped in pleasure, making you gag. You pulled him out of your mouth, a line of spit following. You felt the vibrations of him laughing against you. You turned around so you were face-to-face again, your legs trembling.

“Did that feel good, my darling?” he asked, unable to help himself from drawing circles on your bundle of nerves with two fingers as he spoke.

“I-Oh-So-G-Good,” you choked out.

“Would you like me inside of you?” he asked, teasing your entrance with his fingers.

“Yes, please,” you begged. He wasted no time in flipping you over once again, using his strength to pull your legs up onto his broad shoulders, your ankles intertwining behind his neck.

“I am yours, yours, yours,” he repeated like a mantra. “Yours,” the last one came out with a groan, as he swiftly entered you halfway. Your breath was taken away in the best possible way, his thickness impossibly stretching you out.

“You’re so big,” you moaned, shaking your head, inadvertently clenching around him. He gritted his teeth.

“It feels so right. So right to be this close to you. I need you every day, every night, all the time,” he rambled, as he pushed all the way into you, bottoming out. You nodded rapidly in agreeance, finding it difficult to speak.

“Is that okay?” he asked, intertwining your fingers together above your head. You nodded again, licking your lips. Your mouth had gotten a little dry from hanging open in pleasure.

“I want you to fill me up like this forever,” you answered, tossing your head side to side deliriously. “I will always need you.”

Something flickered in Lucius’ eyes. He dropped one of your hands, instead pinning both of your wrists down with one hand. He used the other hand to draw circles on your clit, as he began to move inside you. Slowly, gently at first, but not for long.

Before you knew it, it felt as it he was going to split you apart. He was grunting with each thrust, your promises to keep quiet entirely forgotten. The rhythmic sound of your wetness as he moved in and out of you echoed throughout the cell, and it was quite possibly the most melodic sound he had ever heard. You could feel him deep within you, hitting your cervix which took your breath away each time.

Beads of sweat were forming on his forehead, the veins in his arms protruding out. You moved your hands so he was no longer holding your wrists down, and he complied immediately. You needed to touch him. With shaking hands, you ran your fingertips all over his chest and stomach, feeling the muscles flexing with each thrust. You worked your way up over his shoulders, up his neck and into his hair, then back down to his arms. You dug your nails into his biceps, surely leaving marks.

“Fill me up with your seed, dulcissime,” you echoed his sentiment from earlier. “Make me ripe with a child so that we may carry on a hopeful legacy for generations to come.”

He groaned, profanities escaping his mouth in a deep, guttural voice.

“Say that again,” he demanded, fingers still circling your swollen, aching clitoris.

You gripped his hair in your hands, pulling him close to whisper in his ear.

“Get me pregnant, dulcissime. I need your hot, sticky seed inside of me.”

This undid both of you. You reached for one another, mouths slotting together in harmony. You stifled your moans with kisses, as you felt him spill inside you and warm you up. The feeling sent you over the edge, as you pulled his hair even harder to steady yourself. A warmth flowered all the way from your sternum to your extremities, your pussy pulsing around him as you rode out the high. Your entire body felt like it was floating, spots clouding your vision.

“My love, my darling,” Hanno murmured, his stomach rising and falling rapidly as he tried to catch his breath. You kissed again, as he cupped your face gently.

Wordlessly, he gently, achingly, pulled himself from inside of you, and you both watched in awe as the point where your bodies met were no longer together. His seed was dribbling out of you, coating you and making you itch.

“Can I clean you up?” he asked gruffly, barely waiting for an answer as you sighed out, “God, yes,” as he moved down your body so his face was crowding between your thighs. He licked a swipe up you, making your entire body twitch with aftershock. You practically screamed, the overstimulation almost too much to handle. Almost. You shoved your fist into your mouth to stifle the noises.

You watched through hooded eyes as he licked up every drop of his own seed, grinding onto his face, chasing the pleasure. You were delirious, not a single thought in your mind beside Lucius. When he was finished, he wiped the corner of his mouth with his thumb, and you moaned out loud at the sight. He returned to kiss you once more, and you could taste the familiar taste on his tongue, making your stomach swoop with desire.

Pulling away for a moment, he rolled over onto his back, pulling you with him so you were folded into his side, leg draped over his, his large arms engulfing you. He pressed a gentle kiss to your sweaty temple, wildly juxtaposing his actions from mere moments ago.

He gazed down at you with those incredible eyes, sighing blissfully. He moved a piece of hair from your face as he spoke his next words.

“I hope you know I meant every word, dulcissima. I want to build a future with you, for you, for our children. I vow to always protect you.”

You pressed a sweet kiss to his lips.

“We will build our home together,” you replied. And for the first time, the future you imagined, a future full of hope and possibility, felt closer than ever before.

[ay0nha]

Don't Bite the Hand That Feeds | Lucius Verus Aurelius

SUMMARY: "Your brethren trust you, you are the embodiment of redemption.” They spoke around Lucius, spewing anything in hopes of saturating his mind.  “Where is your image of hope? Where is the person who will relieve you of the grief you share with your people? Where is your Empress?"

PAIRING: Lucius Verus Aurelius x f!reader (arranged marriage for political reasons)

WORD COUNT: 2.4K

WARNINGS: canon-typical things, not much, mentions of alcohol, old-timey language, Google-accurate Roman empire things, dancing, arranged marriage, talks of lineage, angsty-ish, quotes from various people like Nina Simone and Octavia Butler sprinkled into dialogue,  etc. 

A/N:  I quickly wrote this in a few days with the amazing help of @astrd00. This is just sort of an introduction to my fic idea so apologies if it's a little boring. Arranged marriage trope sort of colleagues to friends to lovers. Let me know if you'd like to be tagged for future parts. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE comment it really helps me to keep going! More to come, enjoy!

The Latin translates to: a water drop hollows a stone, not by force but by frequent falling.

Everyone clung to the fog of death in the air with stiff fingers, unwilling to let their proof of newly promised freedom go. They celebrated in the streets, disregarding the savagery that occurred only months ago. The public enjoyed the amnesia, looking to Lucius not solely for responsibility but as a new object to place culpability. 

Yet, the heaviness permeated Lucius’ marrow. He hid it well behind the mask of authority. Even a sharp eye would miss the way it restrained him, intentionally ignorant of a flaw in their new leader.

It might have even been seen as a strategic move, a way to humanize the gladiator who seemed to defy the Gods. Strategy outside the arena was new, different from the portrayed brute that dusted his hands with sand. What lay in his palms now was similar to that of a child’s heart, beating rapidly with a not-yet-known burden of life. It was heavy and warm, begging for unwavering loyalty from its possessor. 

Lucius remained delicate with his hold, but the heart wanted more from him. Strength and honor would soon no longer suffice. It needed sustenance worthy of devotion and destruction. His eyes were steady on this phantom heart until those around him required his attention. 

“Emperor—” A magistrate repeated, voice raising enough to tease an echo. The new title sat heavily on Lucius’ shoulders, contorting his body into a position that mimicked Atlas.   “Our suggestion should not be taken lightly, it is for the prosperity of your Rome.”

Scrutiny wasn’t found in his tone or bitterness behind the remark but rather in genuine regard. However, there was an intention behind the ownership of Rome, a hint at the generational promise.  

“The public can wonder, speculate, but they do not see beyond the issue.” He continued, watching the twitch on Lucius’ face. “You may not like the mere thought, but gutta cavat lapidem, non vi sed saepe cadendo.” The magistrate paused, his words lingering. “How much longer until Rome is hollow once again?”

“This order is a fallacy.” Lucius finally made contact, eyes surveying those around him. “There is a need for trust, yes. And yet, you ask for deception?” 

“You misunderstand us, Emperor.” Another member of the senate spoke, hoping to alleviate tension. “There would be no deception in this union, only fortification of the reigning; an image for the people to find themselves in.”

 “Your brethren trust you, you are the embodiment of redemption.” They spoke around Lucius, spewing anything in hopes of saturating his mind.  “Where is your image of hope? Where is the person who will relieve you of the grief you share with your people? Where is your Empress?”

—

You smiled through the wine-fueled chattering of the ceremony, appeasing those who had just witnessed your union, but your focus moved beyond the conversation and revelry.  Above you was a darkened sky that mimicked night. Rain poured down, tempting you to fall prey to its numbing hold. 

The Gods are favoring your union, you were told when the sky opened. Divine intervention.  

But you knew the Gods were fickle, always testing your will against temptation. It was a test sent for you, one that an elaborate wedding and an emperor declaring your shared existence hid well. 

So you ignored the call of the humidity, being dutiful to your new role as empress. People bowed to you and nearly cried at how beautifully you paired with your new counterpart. Even as you sat on the marble throne beside Lucius you couldn’t deny their exactness. 

“Don’t worry, they’ll soon pass out from the wine.” You spoke softly, eyes ahead at your guests as you spoke to your husband. His grip on your hand fidgeted exposing his anxiety.  

Lucius paused, determining if honesty was worthwhile. His self-awareness was enough to remind him how unfamiliar he was with the environment that consumed his senses. 

“It is for them.” You nodded ahead to the crowd. The room was hot from the amount of bodies swirling around.   “Remind yourself of this when their faith falters.”

Lucius looked at you, attention trained on your profile. Even with a soft veil over your features, you were so absolute. 

“I know my purpose here. You are still learning yours.” You continued. “All I ask of you is that when they falter you place your trust in our bond.”

“I will place it where it is due.” There was your gladiator. The defiance comforted you. 

“Those around you are untroubled by that; all they crave is to spit on the fallen. It doesn’t matter if you are one of them, they are quick to turn.” You sharpened. “Be careful; join the sinful and you will be remembered with spite and desperation.”

You spoke of hidden things, of politics that lingered like venom in the bloodstream of the empire. Lucius knew not to mistake your words for ulterior motives. You were direct in your vows to further his image of a new Rome, it was why you were chosen to be by his side. Your mind was clear. You read the room perfectly, unraveling every detail of what was inherited. 

“My legacy does not motivate me,” Lucius stated. His ears attuned to you and you only, enraptured in how deeply you spoke as if it was a common thought. “I will not look to them for fame.” 

“You will, conscious or not. And once you do, you will not be able to look away.” You smiled pitifully as though you knew something he didn’t. “Just as they watched you fight, you misunderstand the impact of what is before you.”

“You believe that little of me?” There was a swirl of censure in his chest despite the small smile pulling at his lips.  

“There is opportunity to win, but that is a fool’s goal—

“To win?” Lucius scoffed. “Even you have been mislead, then. Thinking that there is a conquest waiting to happen.”

“I do not wish to insult you.” Your thumb adjusted against his fingers. It was in your nature to be candid, but at times you placed your frustrations unfairly. You softened. “Your promise of growth will help amend this.”

Lucius wished to pull away from you. He needed to think, to be separated from the feigned festivities adjoined to love. This was love; love created not between two people, but shared by you and him for Rome. 

That was not to say you were birds of a feather. 

Your strengths were found in your experience. Although young, you were no novice to how to hold your chin high while delivering truths to the senate. You learned from your uncle, an official who raised you on the true meaning of government. You were clever. The public viewed you as such. You were of noble status and fit to stand before them. 

What you lacked was a specific connection that Lucius brought to the people. He was one of them, raised humbly, hands worn from the earth’s harvest and war forced upon him. Lucius spoke well to them, building comradery with every way of life. 

“I would never ask you to compromise your beliefs. I know better than to think you’d behave.” You teased at his rebellion, hoping the guard that was up would calm. “Besides, a well-mannered lover is an offense.”

 “We are not lovers.” It was sterile in tone but revealed emotions long since buried.

“And we are not enemies.” You were quick, reading between his words to find the insult. 

“My lord!” A raspy voice begged for attention. “My lady!” 

You stood, bowing politely to the affluent man before you. He took advantage of the night; jewels adorned every finger that pulled at the elaborate fabric of his outfit. 

“It is time.” The rasp withered when he lowered to speak to you directly. His arms went wide as if inviting a hug, but he spun skillfully to face the audience. 

“Time?” Lucius looked to you. 

The man boomed over the forgotten rain. ““It is time!” 

Standing, you didn’t release Lucius’ hand. There was resistance on his end, wanting to remain sedentary and silent to wait out the rest of the night. 

“Our dance.” You answered to his wide eyes. Your guests cheered, clearing space. “It is customary to rise together and move as one. It will complete the ceremony.”

He rose at your words, not much of a choice otherwise than to follow. 

The fabric of your dress swam behind you, kissing the floor with each step toward the middle of the marble floor. The dress looked like water cascading down your body, hiding each bend and swell of your body. Yet, it highlighted something else, something deeper. It was subtle but powerful, like the way a garden seemed to breathe life into a space. 

“May the rain create a river to fertility.” The man held a contagious grin that spread around the room. 

Prosperity and posterity.  This is what they wanted. Lucius alone was not enough. The bloodline was more important than a single figure. It hadn’t needed to be discussed as it was the obvious forethought for your unification. 

The officials of the republic were more concerned about your fecundity and frame than the knowledge you held. It was a typical belief, one that you expected. Your fingers itched to bring your willingness to support the new decree to play and if this was your path to it, so be it.  

You remained clinical at the thought. It was a means to an end rather than something to be meditated on. The way Lucius hardened at the man’s words told a story from another perspective where the political became personal. You did not miss the ring on his pinky that rubbed against a new gold one. 

“Does the great gladiator know how to dance?” Your voice flowed to Lucius only knowing the opportunity rarely presented itself. 

The music shifted from something fast-paced to something more melodic that would encourage you both to move swiftly but attractively. You knew your words would hit a nerve, but it was strategic to motivate Lucius’ hesitant hands. 

“It is a back and forth. A push and pull.” You guided your hand to press against his palm, meeting together as if you were to pray. “Just like the arena, no?”

Lucius’ eyebrows pinched together. Not out of curiosity or frustration. He was genuine in his response. 

“Rarely is a touch this…subdued.” Soft.  

“Shall I spin you in circles, then?” Your painted lips were easier to see now that Lucius was close. He saw as they rose through your veil with the quip. “Disorientate you to the point of submission?”

Your arms weaved behind your back still connected to Lucius’. The dance was simple, one practiced as children. There were very few steps and wistful gestures that even the familiar still enjoyed. 

“Those are my only options? Coercion or blind fealty.” 

It left little room for interpretation or defiance. The statement came without hesitation but held pent-up sentiment veiled by familiar poise. You vetted his blank gaze for proper determination of his upset. 

It was odd to see Lucius so close, your memory had failed to cast such a strong light on him. Once overgrown hair had been trimmed to only curl at the nape of his neck. Dirt was cleared from every line of his face.  He was still rugged, but you saw through the exterior to find a boy.  

A boy who had been stripped of child-like wonderment and care. Instead, he held his broad shoulders high and an expression that lingered from his exile. Lucius’ skin perked every time your dress acted as a barrier between the two of you, a warning that whatever you offered had to be earned.  

“I do not ask much of you, Emperor...” You put it simply, knowing your worth and wisdom. You needed to be promised his word that against anything you would be beside each other.  “...so I will not ask again.”

“You are not satisfied with the trust of the marriage alone,” Lucius stated his question like an observation. “You wish I promise myself to you in ways which I may not be able to provide.” 

“Able or willing?” 

Your faces were close, noses mirroring each other as you turned on beat.  You could feel the warmth of your frustration start in your chest, only to spread across your skin as goosebumps.  

“The past and the future press so hard on either side that there’s no room for the present at all.” You spoke again before he could answer.  “You must decide where you belong.” 

The music returned to Lucius’ ears. Its melody weighed down your words, letting them settle deeply in his mind. His head spun with thoughts busy on reasoning.  Perhaps he was too guarded for his own good, but he’d gotten himself this far relying only on himself. He had held in a great deal. Often he felt he couldn't speak until the waters overflowed their banks and broke through the dam. 

Those around him garnered support, but this was different. You understood what freedom was; it meant no fear. Fear rolled right off of you. Fear was like a pet to you: something you picked up to get a better look at but that you soon grew tired of.

The music slowed coming to an end. Lucius removed his hands from your body but didn’t venture far. His calloused fingertips followed the seam of your soft veil to meet the laced end. Once there, he gently revealed your true manner. 

Your features were accentuated by an internal glow. There was no modesty in your gaze, it shattered any notion of strength. There was no insight into your emotions. What Lucius found was someone gifted. It was a marvel he hadn’t heard of you until you presented yourself as the wise option for him to marry. 

Although you ran in many circles, your name wasn’t whispered among the council. They didn’t believe beauty and wit could fit within the reach of a woman. Yet, here you stood. A new challenge to be accepted. Lucius resisted the urge to swallow quick breaths as if he were going to endure a blow from Viggo. His body agitated in preparation, but looking at you so wholly all he could muster was concession.

 “You have my word.”

[missadangel]

⊱ AMOR MEUS AETERNUS ⊰

(Marcus Acacius x Ofc)

III. Amor Primus

prev chapter series masterlist next chapter

Chapter Summary:  You realize that Marcus is more than just a brutal man, and it's hard to ignore your anger over his push for marriage. Julius reveals Marcus's past, while Marcus finds something in your room that will change everything. Chapter W. Count and warnings: 12k; angst, brothels, sex workers, romantic comedy, ancient rome, using drugs (tranquilizer), anxiety attacks, violence, power imbalance, mention about marriage, periods. authors note: Vestalis Maxima: The Chief Vestal of vestal virgins. Pilus Prior: A centurion in command of the first century of a cohort, making him the senior centurion of the cohort. Pairing: Marcus Acacius x Ofc!Reader (Her name is Rose, and her hair is dyed) Rating: Explicit, 18+ MDNI, Smut General Warnings: Harsh, cold, grumpy Marcus, and the reader is NOT innocent a little bitchy, Lucilla is mean, Lucius is a jerk(but falls in love with reader), its Septimius Severus' era but Geta and Caracalla are the prince of Rome, time travel, modern-ancient era travels, falling in love, slow burn, rough sex, smut, sex, oral sex (both f&m receiving), all sex, dirty talk, gladiators, battle, war, violence, blood, ancient time language, fluffy, injury, forced marriage, arranged marriage, sexism, haters to lovers, first love, angst, vestal virgins, vestal priestesses, age gap; reader is 25 Marcus is 42, reincarnation my masterlist

...Chapter Theme...

Soft wedding music played in the background, blending with whispers and laughs all around. Everything was white—white flowers, white decorations, and even the guests were decked out in white. The priest at the front looked like a vision in his white robe, but honestly, it felt a bit much.

Way too much white.

So fucking white.

Standing at the altar, your heart raced, but something felt completely off.

“Here comes the groom,” came the voice, breaking the awkward silence.

Wait, what?

Shouldn’t the bride walk in after the groom?

What kind of shit was this?

Glancing back, you felt your heart drop—there was nobody coming. You squinted, searching the crowd until you finally spotted your sister, your relatives, even your aunt, who had been MIA for years.

This was your wedding day; it felt like a twisted replay of the day you got ditched at the altar.

Suddenly, someone stood up and chuckled, “Looks like the groom isn’t coming!” Laughter rippled through the crowd, and you felt heat rise to your cheeks.

What’s so funny?

In a fit of frustration, you threw back your veil and shouted, “Who wants to get married anyway?”

The priest, looking annoyingly calm, responded, “Now, now, dear. We’ve found you another groom.”

Your eyes nearly bulged out of your head. “Father, have you been drinking before the wedding?” 

“Jesus Christ! You can’t talk to the priest like that!” your aunt barked.

Oh, right, she was a devout woman.

The music kicked back in, and everyone shuffled back to their seats. “Here’s the groom!” someone announced again.

You turned around and felt your jaw drop. It was him—the psycho in armor, sword at his side, walking toward you with a serious look that sent chills down your spine. You stepped back, hiding behind the priest. “Please, Father! I can’t marry this guy. He’s rude and brutal, with a fierce temper—not exactly husband material."

“This is what the heavens have decreed, my child,” the priest said without an ounce of empathy.

“Heavens? Really? Can we go over this one more time?”

The priest frowned. “You are going to marry this man.”

The armored man -Marcus- reached for you, extending his hand while keeping a stoic expression.

Just perfect—this was who you were supposed to marry?

Then, out of nowhere, a psychic woman appeared, her tarot cards clinking together as she flashed a grin. “See? I told you this was the one!”

What the fuck?

If this was a dream, it was so ridiculous that it barely made any sense.

"If you don't marry me, I'll cut down all of them," Marcus said in a cold tone.

Instead of panicking, the crowd erupted in applause. "Marry him, marry him!"

Seriously?

Marcus angrily sheathed his sword, grabbed one of the guests, and you screamed.

"NO!"

You jolted awake, your heart racing, drenched in sweat. As reality sank in, laughter bubbled up nervously from your throat. “Thank goodness it was just a dream. Man, what a dream…”

But as you took in your surroundings—the wooden furniture, the table against the wall topped with a jug, the flickering oil lamp casting shadows, the rough animal skin sprawled across the floor, the long, heavy curtains, and that Roman lectus where you had been lying—the laughter faded.

A familiar wave of anxiety crashed over you again.

The last thing that stuck in your mind was, “I will petition the Emperor for special permission to grant her conubium.”

Damn conubium.

You ran your fingers through your messy hair, panic rising.

Congrats on your anxiety attack.

“No, no, no. I can’t do this. Why, God? Why?” You struggled against the sheets, frustration boiling inside you until suddenly, you lost your balance and tumbled off the bed, landing unceremoniously on your backside. Wincing, you rubbed your aching butt and glanced up at the intricate mosaic paintings on the wall. “I hate ancient Rome,” you sobbed.

Crawling across the floor, you made your way to the chair to reach for your bag and pulled out your dwindling supply of pills. You popped one into your mouth, feeling a wave of worry about the decreasing number. What would you do when they ran out?

You should go back, you should go back now.

The thought of that glowing portal or a riff whatever it was, a possible path, an exit from this maddening reality, filled you with longing.

You had to do something, you had to give it a shot.

You were desperate.

“What? He’s going to marry me? Ha. Good luck with that,” you muttered to yourself. 

With a determined huff, you flung your bag over your shoulder and glanced around the room  that had been prepared for you. Larger than the previous one, maybe—sure—but nothing could compare to the your own room back home.

You had to get out.

You peeked out into the big corridor and saw no one around. Just a few slaves who were too busy to notice you. Scanning the courtyard to figure out your escape route, you felt hopeful. Once you made it outside, no one would come after you. With a quick glance around, you descended the stairs, heart pounding with a blend of fear and exhilaration.

When two girls approached, you ducked behind the fountain, holding your breath until they passed. A triumphant smile crept onto your face as you continued toward the exit. You had done it—you were finally breaking free from this suffocating prison.

“Just a few more steps, Rose. You’ve got this,” you mumbled to yourself, feeling your heart race. As soon as you slipped out of the courtyard, you spotted two soldiers in shiny armor you’d never seen before. Luckily, they were facing away from you, deep in conversation. You crouched down and made your way along the wall, focusing on the ground instead of looking up.

Please don’t let them see me.

Please.

Your awkward shoes hampered your movement, but you pressed on, determined. Just when you dared to glance back, your heart nearly stopped—were they actually looking your way?

You picked up your pace, only to collide suddenly with something solid.

"Ow!" Rubbing your head from the impact, your eyes drifted down to two sandaled feet before rising up to meet the piercing gaze of a man clad in black armor, chest was adorned with a striking embossed design of a golden medusa, right where you had been hit on the head.

Damn.

It was him.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he asked.

You widened your eyes, feigning innocence as you batted your eyelashes, quickly regaining your composure. “I just needed some fresh air."

With unwavering intensity, Marcus shifted his attention to the two soldiers beside him. “You two, get over here at once.”

“General,” they stammered, fear evident in their voices.

“This woman just wandered out here, and you didn’t even notice? Is this how you conduct your watch?”

"Forgive us, sir."

"We made a mistake."

You took a step backwards. “You guys keep talking. I’m going for a walk.”

But before you could turn away, he seized your arm firmly. “Let go of me!” you exclaimed, pulling against his grip.

“You are not permitted to go outside at this time.”

"I can go wherever I want! Just let me leave!"

His demeanor shifted slightly, and he continued in a more measured tone, “I understand that what you heard earlier was astonishing. Allow me to clarify.”

"Let go of me now, or I'll hit you with my bag," you shouted, tugging at his arm in a desperate struggle. "Let go! Let go! Let go!"

With an exasperated sigh, he finally released you, but not before you stumbled backward and crashed to the floor, a cloud of dust rising around you. The shock of the fall gripped you both—caught off guard by the awkard situation.

The soldiers shot each other looks, trying hard not to burst out laughing.

With a sharp glare from Marcus, they quickly averted their eyes, bowed their heads, and stepped away.

As you struggled to regain your composure, humiliation flooded over you. Marcus stifled a laugh, clearly trying to suppress the amusement dancing in his eyes. He didn’t even bother to help you up, leaving you to dust off your clothes.

You glared at him. “Why did you just let go of my arm like that?”

“You insisted.”

You muttered as you cleaned up your clothes. "Whoa. I can't believe it. You're unbelievable, you know that?" Then, as you walked forward, soldiers crossed in front of you.

You've turned into Marcus.

"I said you can't leave, not in the daytime at least.”

In a fit of frustration, you hurled your bag at the soldiers, landing a glancing blow. “Get out of the way! Now!” They exchanged bewildered looks, their confusion directed at Marcus.

"Please stop," Marcus said firmly as he moved closer. "Can you not follow my instructions? I don't understand why you're acting this way."

You let out a hysterical laugh. "Seriously? Why am I acting this way? Is that what you're asking right now? You're the one who forced me to come here, remember? I was living an ordinary yet happy life. I finally landed a job as an assistant designer on a film set, which meant I could earn the money I needed to cover rent and bills. Maybe my sister wouldn't even have to work over the summer to pay for school. But now, because of you, I've probably lost that job, and I don't even know if I will ever see my sister again. This is incredibly tough, and you’re making me feel trapped. So, are you still wondering why I'm like this?" Tears streamed down your face as you finished speaking.

Although he didn’t understand every word, Marcus grasped the main idea. "I promise I’ll ensure your return."

"Then let me go! I can't stay here any longer. If I go there and read those words again—"

"We'll go at night."

"But we've never tried in the morning. Maybe that would work."

"During daylight hours, the temple is frequented by citizens, including priests engaged in prayer and sacrificial rites. We’ll head out as darkness descends. After all, tonight’s moonlight will be minimal."

"But-" That's when the realization hit you.

Moonlight.

Moon.

Full Moon.

“Shit. Fuck.”

Marcus shot you a disapproving look. “Remember what I said about the swearing.”

You barely registered his words, your mind racing with countless possibilities. “Moon,” you blurted out, “There was a lunar eclipse that night!”

“Ec-lipse?” He looked confused.

You sighed. “An eclipse is when the Earth’s shadow falls on the moon, okay? It happens twice a year… Wait a minute.” You froze, a thought hitting you.

"The moon was temporarily darkened by a shadow... Indeed, I had the chance to observe that night."

“No, that can’t be,” you said, feeling the panic rise.

“What's wrong?”

“The next eclipse won’t be for another six months!” you exclaimed, dread sinking in. “I can’t stay here that long!”

“Calm yourself. We don’t have confirmation on that yet. You could be mistaken.”

Your hands shook as the reality of your situation hit you. How could you survive another six months in here? “I can’t, I just can’t,” you muttered, shaking your head.

“Why don’t you come inside and take a seat for a moment? You don't look well,” Marcus suggested, guiding you toward the courtyard.

“I can’t,” you kept whispering, feeling your grip on sanity slipping. He helped you onto the lectus, and your stomach twisted painfully. Desperation clawed at you as you fished out a pill from your bag, your hands trembling as you quickly swallowed it. “Water!” he called out to slaves. “You seem to be taking that medicine quite often,” he remarked, a hint of concern in his voice.

You swallowed hard as you took the cup of water from the tray that a slave had brought you. “It’s either this, or I lose my mind. You really want to see that?” You downed some water, trying to steady your nerves.

“You’re not exactly a sane woman normally, though,” he muttered.

“What was that?”

“Nothing,” he replied quickly. “About that other matter…”

Before he could finish, your stomach growled loudly, twisting painfully. “Taking the pill on an empty stomach wasn’t the best idea,” you groaned.

“You there!” Marcus called to the slaves once more. “Bring us something to eat.”

You looked over at the slaves who were rushing off. “It was a nice move Mr General. But what if that woman—your stepmother—hates me and sees me here eating? I bet she won’t be cool with me sitting in her spot.”

“She’s not in the villa at the moment,” he said, unbuckling the scabbard from his belt and leaning it casually against the wall. "You can rest assured that her attitude will get better towards you from now on."

“That doesn’t exactly ease my mind, especially after your nonsense from yesterday,” you hissed.

“Nonsense? Is that what you call it?”

“Yes, exactly that,” you retorted, rolling your eyes.

“Do you really think I want to marry a woman like you? I made a promise, and I’ll do whatever it takes to keep it.”

“There has to be another way, you know.”

“If you want to stay in this villa, there isn’t. In your time—you told me I must have my..." he tried to remember that word. "ID. Without Roman citizenship, living here could be brutal for you. You would be treated as if you were nothing more than a slave."

You rummaged through your bag and pulled out your ID. “Check this out! It reads, Repubblica Italiana. It clearly states I am an Italian citizen, residing in Rome."

As a slave approached with a tray, Marcus quickly grabbed your hand, saying, “Put that away. It’s worthless here. This isn’t ‘that Rome,’ obviously.”

The girl set the tray down in front of you, and your stomach growled louder. Without thinking, you picked up a strange fork and dug into the food, not even caring that it was hot.

“Easy,” Marcus cautioned, frowning.

“Look, I get it, but are you saying I have no choice but marry to become a citizen here?” you asked through mouthfuls.

“No, it doesn't work that way for most people. You need special permission for conubium.”

“Please don't say that word,” you grumbled, sounding a bit rude with your mouth full, but the hunger was overwhelming.

"Do you even chew? You'll choke if you don't eat slowly," he scolded.

At that moment, Julius entered the courtyard and greeted his brother.

“Hey Julius,” you called out, waving. He smiled and approached you, but his gaze was fixed on Marcus. "I visited the House of the Vestals as you asked, brother."

Without glancing up, Marcus poured wine into a goblet on the tray. “And?”

“The Vestalis Maxima is willing to speak to the emperor about the conubium permit. But there’s something she needs... clarified,” Julius whispered, leaning in closely. Whatever he shared seemed to darken Marcus’s expression; soon, both brothers turned their gazes toward you.

You swallowed the morsel you were chewing and asked, “What?”

“By any chance, have you ever been married before?” Marcus questioned.

You shot him a glare. “No, but why do you want to know that?”

“What we’re really trying to figure out is whether you’re untouched,” Julius explained, leveling a serious look at you.

You blinked, taken aback. “Are you... Are you two seriously asking if I’m a virgin?”

They remained expressionless, clearly waiting for your response.

Your cheeks were all flushed. "Ugh, you guys are really crossing the line. What kind of vulgarity is this?"

“Are you not?” Marcus asked sternly, disappointment lacing his tone.

What the hell?

You shrugged, trying to brush it off. “I refuse to answer such a bigoted question.”

“If we say she’s a widow..." Julius suggested.

Marcus stood up, visibly frustrated. “That won’t do.”

“Then?"

“I will speak to him myself,” Marcus asserted, his determination and unease evident. He reached for the scabbard attached to his belt. With a purposeful turn, he strode away.

“What just happened? Why is he so angry?” you asked to Julius.

Julius sighed as he settled down opposite you. “It would be easier to obtain citizenship if the Vestalis Maxima would vouch for you.”

“I don’t see how being a virgin is relevant,” you said, confusion coloring your voice.

"My brother has never been married, nor is he a widower, and he carries significant importance. The emperor has presented him with many suitors, but he has turned down every one of them. Now, he requires the support of The Vestalis Maxima to approach the emperor regarding this union. Do you understand the authority of the Vestals?"

“I must admit, my historical knowledge isn’t very deep in that regard.”

“They’re extremely important to Rome, but it comes with a heavy burden. Anyway, the Vestalis Maxima knows my brother, their relationship is steeped in a complex history... My brother seeking to harness her formidable influence to secure a conubium, this union. However, her support will only be granted if the young woman he intends to marry maintains her purity. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“And now Marcus is going to talk the emperor himself?” you asked.

He nodded. “I suppose so.”

“Julius!” Marcus called out, and Julius stood immediately. “Yes, brother.”

Your jaw dropped as you took in Marcus for the first time in something other than armor—he wore a white tunic, with a golden embroidered belt around his waist and a red shawl draped over his broad shoulders.

Wow.

He looked incredibly attractive.

If you weren't so angry with him, you would be melted by the sight of him.

But no.

You were very angry with him, seething even.

You looked down at the wine in your hand. At least there was one good thing about ancient Rome: the wine was absolutely delicious and fruity, almost like juice rather than an alcoholic beverage. You had nearly finished the decanter on your own and even sipped from Marcus's half-finished goblet after he left the courtyard.

Julius returned to your side, deep in thought.

“Where did he go?” 

“In his honor, chariot races are taking place at the Circus Maximus, and the emperor along with many others will be in attendance,”

"In his honor?" 

"He didn't mention previously? My brother Marcus has recently returned from the war."

“The war,” you said, suddenly realizing he was a general indeed. The image of him fighting in the chaos of battle hit you hard—blood, shouting, people scrambling, arrows flying, and the reality of death. This wasn’t a movie or a TV show; it was all too real.

You shuddered at the thought.

How could anyone endure that? 

“Why didn’t you go?” you asked, trying to change the subject. 

“To war?” he replied, surprised. "I am Pilus Prior, entrusted with the responsibility of the barracks while my commander is away. It has been two long years since my last campaign. Marcus was initially reluctant to let me join this time; his own eagerness surged like a restless tide, driving him to pursue the glory he so desperately craved. As a result, he has rightfully earned the title of General of Rome."

"That's not what I meant. I was going to ask why you didn’t go to Circus Maximus to watch the races. But wait... Did he go to war just to become a general? Is that why he was so eager?" you asked casually, not wanting to dwell on the topic.

“No, never. He’s simply a soldier... ready to fight.” There was a weight in his tone that caught your attention.

"Isn’t every soldier ready to fight?"

“No one is as willing as he is, believe me. He’s very willing to die.”

You nearly choked on your wine as you processed his words. “What do you mean? Why would he want to die?”

"Never mind," he said trying to close the subject. "To answer your question, I did not attend watching the races, as my duty is to remain here with you."

"Let me guess: your brother asked you to do that, didn't he?"

"Correct," he said shyly.

At least his mother and sister won't arrive until nightfall. That was somewhat of a relief. You pulled out your phone, needing to check the lunar calendar. Julius’s eyes widened as soon as you took it out. "What is this thing?" 

Oh, poor guy, he had no idea. 

"This is a phone. Let's see... You can access some information on it, but without Wi-Fi, it’s limited to contacts and other offline apps. Let me check the date of the next lunar eclipse and the full moon." 

He frowned. "I only caught the word ‘moon.’ Everything else you said sounded like a foreign language."

"I don’t blame you. After all, you’re looking at a device invented thousands of years in the future." 

He pointed at the phone, curiously observing the picture.

"Oh, that’s me and my sister; I set it as my wallpaper." 

"Your sister is as beautiful as you are." 

"Thanks," you said quietly, glancing at Lizze’s smiling face in the photo. You really missed her a lot. It was a struggle not to start crying, but the pill had numbed your feelings, keeping everything light and manageable. "Check it out, when I tap here, the calendar app pops up..."

"The letters here is very different." 

"That's English," you said with a chuckle. "Never mind, it would take too long to explain. We use this language. The numbers are slightly different from yours, but we still use Roman numerals for other cases. Look, it says the next full moon is in 20 days. I hope I’ll be back before then.” 

"What do those signs mean?" 

The red droplets signified the start of your period. 

"Oh no. It shows today." 

"Today?" 

"I think today is Thursday or Friday, but time flows differently here, and the days seem to drag on. I need to jot this down. My phone’s at 56% battery. Damn it." 

"What does that mean?” 

"When it hits 0%, I won’t be able to use it again. There are no chargers or sockets and, worse, no electricity.” You groaned. 

“I’m having great difficulty understanding the words you used,” he said, mesmerized by the device you were holding.

"Believe me, you’re not missing much. Anyway, it looks like we have plenty of time until nightfall. Let me show you some pictures from my gallery; I think my battery will last a bit longer.”

In the evening, Marcus and the others came back, and they were having dinner in this cool room called the triclinium. You were really surprised they called you to join them. You’d always been curious about those rooms, and seeing it all up close was pretty impressive.

Again, It all felt surreal.

Marcus was sitting at the head of the table, with his stepmother Balbina and his daughter Lydia to his left. Julius was seated to Marcus’s right, and since there were no other available seats, you had to sit next to him. Balbina and Lydia shot you glares, while the slaves continued to bring you food and drinks, clearly displeased with your presence but managing to endure it.

"Do you believe the red team will perform well in the races tomorrow?” Julius asked Marcus.

"Their horses are strong, and the chariot racer is well-skilled. However, the blue team is also quite formidable. We will better understand the outcome tomorrow; you will attend as well to see for yourself."

Julius was glad to go; it meant he wouldn’t be stuck babysitting you. But you thought the day ahead was going to be pretty boring without him. Then Marcus said, “I want you to come with me tomorrow.”

You kept munching away, thinking he was talking to someone else, but when you looked up, everyone was staring at you.

Wait, was he actually talking to you?

“The Emperor wishes to meet with you,” Marcus stated, meeting your gaze directly.

You stopped chewing for a second, swallowed. “Me? Why?”

"My son, what could her purpose be for being there?" Balbina asked, interrupting.

“Emperor Severus has expressed a desire to meet the woman I intend to marry,” he stated matter-of-factly.

Lydia looked at him.  “Will he grant her the necessary special permission for the conubium?”

“He didn’t say otherwise,” he replied coldly.

“Shouldn’t we ensure this girl is genuinely suitable for such a union?”

Ugh, why was this conversation taking such a frustrating turn?

It was making you angry.

Marcus, lips pressed into a thin line, paused to sip his wine, not saying a word.

"I will take her to the midwife tomorrow for an examination. I doubt she’s untouched,” she said, shooting you a look.

Suddenly, you felt your blood rush, and you stared at Marcus with wide eyes. But he shot a deadly look at Balbina. “There’s no need for that. It will not happen.” 

“But my son—” 

“I said it won’t happen!” he interjected, his tone slicing through the air like a knife.

“Look at what we’re talking about over dinner. What a family,” you mumbled to yourself.

"Commencing tomorrow, please ensure that all arrangements for the wedding are completed. I will be consulting with the high priest regarding the details."

“You said you were going to talk to him the other day,” you piped up. “Did you?”

Everyone turned to look at you again.

Oops, rude behavior alert.

“We’ll discuss it later,” he said, standing up and leaving the room, as cold as ever just like he always was.

But you weren’t going to let him go this time, so you followed him.

Something darted right next to your foot, small and with a tail.

Shit.

“Marcus—aaah!” You ran over to him, grabbing onto him for dear life. When he turned around at the sound of your voice, he regretted it; you lunged at him so fast he could barely hold you. But you didn’t care—the little mouse was still there, squeaking away.

“Rat! A freaking rat!” you squeaked louder than the rat.

“Calm down. It won’t harm you; it’s probably more terrified than you are,” he admonished, his tone steady as he tried to soothe your frayed nerves. In your frantic movements, your braided hair cascaded over your shoulder, drawing his attention. His gaze fell upon the mole nestled at the nape of your neck, his expression shifted to one of startled recognition, as if fragments of a long-buried memory were surfacing, stirring something deep within him.

You let out a sigh of relief when the rat finally disappeared.

Julius and Lydia came over, and what they saw was more shocking than the mouse. You froze, realizing how awkward things looked—your arms were wrapped around Marcus, and he was gripping your arms pretty tightly.

How did this even happen?

Damn it.

Marcus gently pushed your arms away to free himself, trying to regain his composure.

Julius crouched down, surveying the area in search of the rat. “We have been experiencing issues with the rats lately; it may be necessary to set some traps. I will arrange for the appropriate measures to deal with them,” he stated.

“That would be wise,” Marcus nodded, still glancing at you, while you looked away, still a bit freaked out about the rat.

“All this commotion over a mere mouse?” Lydia rolled her eyes and went back down the hallway.

Marcus turned the other way.

“Hey! You promised we’d go there!” you called out, quickening your pace to catch up with him.

“Make sure you’re ready to leave then,” he replied, his gaze fixed ahead, not sparing a glance back.

“Okay!” you exclaimed, a bright smile breaking through your unease as you hurried to your room to gather your belongings, unaware that you were heading into another failure.

Another melancholic morning unfurled, draped in a cloak of strangeness, with a profound sense of failure tugging at your heart like an unwelcome shadow. Like Marcus mentioned last night, the moon was almost a new moon—prevailing shades of gray, nothing really bright or dark.

Was that really what it was about?

That is why you can't go back?

The wait for the full moon felt like an endless ordeal, and you were anxious about how each day would pass without losing your mind. You really hoped it wouldn’t drag on until an eclipse occurred; that thought was gnawing at you.

As the girls got you dressed, you felt a warm rush running down your leg. Panic almost took hold, but luckily, your love for organization meant you had tampons tucked in your bag for unexpected situations like this —well not ike this but still— thank goodness for that. The girls looked at you in surprise; they must've had a different way of dealing with such things.

Honestly, being a woman was tough in any era.

The outfit you wore this time was brighter, adorned with sparkling gold jewelry that dangled from your wrists, arms, and neck. They even sang as they draped it on you, but it felt heavy and uncomfortable; you couldn't wait to strip it off.

Marcus was waiting for you in the courtyard. As you made your way down the stairs, you tugged at the new braid in your hair—it wasn’t your usual style at all. When you finally spotted him, his back turned, that flash of red from his shawl made your heart race again.

You should be mad at him—he was the guy who flipped your life upside down.You shook your head and tried to brush those dreamy feelings off. When he turned to face you, he paused for a second, and it felt like something shifted between you.

Alongside the anger, for the first time in ages, he felt his heart beat with real emotion, almost overwhelming. However he seemed to gather himself quickly, clearing his throat as he said, “If you’re ready, we shall take our leave,” but his eyes quickly fell to your big-ass bag—quite the contrast to your fancy outfit. “It would be inappropriate to bring that along."

Your frowned. “Why not?”

“Because it appears out of place, and I believe you will not require the contents within,” he explained.

“How can you say I won’t need it?” you protested.

Marcus sighed deeply and crossed his arms. “Can’t you just follow my orders? Do you always have to complain?”

You found your gaze drawn to his arms; the muscles were just a few inches from your face.

And those biceps...

What the hell?

You really need to get your shit together.

“Okay, okay, but I need to grab something,” you said, rummaging through your bag.

Marcus raised an eyebrow, looking skeptical. “What is it?”

“Well, it’s a bit… feminine.” You couldn’t help but chuckle at the confused look on his face. “Let me spell it out for you, Mr. General. You know how women have their monthly thing, right?”

He paused as if processing your words, having never encountered a woman talking about it so casually. It was a bit indecent in his time, but honestly, it didn’t seem to bother him too much. Perhaps he has become accustomed to your unique way of speaking by now.

Clearing his throat, “I’ll be waiting outside,” he said, turning away to give you some space.

You didn’t look up; you were still fixated on locating those tampons. “Come on, where are you? If I say apples, appear; if I say pears, disappear.”

Those words.

Marcus froze mid-step, a shiver racing down his spine as a long-buried memory blossomed in his mind. A voice echoed from the recesses of his past, resonating with a sense of urgency that pulled him taut between the present and a fleeting recollection that danced just out of reach.

'Marcus! Where are you? If I say apples, appear; if I say pears, disappear.'

The timbre of the voice reverberated in his thoughts, youthful and playful, yet unmistakably familiar. His heart fluttered like a dust-laden page roused by a gentle breeze, yearning to shake off the dust. The very sound was the reason he couldn't dare to move, standing still like a statue.

Julius stepped into the sun-drenched courtyard, his features etched with both surprise and concern as he took in the scene before him. "Brother?"

Marcus, however, was consumed by an unshakeable silence that pressed down around him like a heavy fog; his eyes were fixed intently on a singular point, as if the world around him had faded away. When he finally turned his gaze back to you, you stood there clutching your tampons awkwardly, the bright morning sun casting a warm glow over your obliviousness. As you meticulously zipped up your bag, a sense of urgency gripped the air, and you noticed Marcus drawing closer, his expression undeniably strange.

“Those words you just spoke...”

You raised your eyebrows, wondering if he was referring to your period.

“Could you repeat that?” His tone was oddly insistent.

Julius looked confused as he glanced between the two of you, but he couldn’t have been more puzzled than you were.

“Are you upset because I called you ‘Mr. General?” you asked timidly.

“No, not that,” he replied shaking his head..

You thought the last thing you said was... the rhyme.

"If I say apples, appear; if I say pears, disappear. This one?"

He made a face as if you had cursed him.

“How do you know? Those words.”

What was his problem, really?

"I used to say it when playing hide and seek with my sister when we were little. What’s the big deal?”

"Is this saying recognized in your time? Do many individuals commonly use these words?"

“No, it’s just a code we made up to keep the game fun and free from getting caught,” you explained.

Marcus just stood there looking into your eyes. You really didn't understand what had happened.

Why was he acting like that?

His brown eyes pensive and piercing, compelling you to look away. You shifted your view to Julius, hoping for some clarity in this tangled situation.

Recovering from his own surprise, Julius placed a calming hand on Marcus’s shoulder. “Brother, we'd better leave now,” he urged.

With a slow nod, Marcus turned to head toward the courtyard's exit.

You called over to one of the slave girls, asking her to take your bag back to your room—carefully, of course. As she took it, a wave of sadness washed over you at parting with it, mixed with anxiety about the trip to Circus Maximus, which was just a ruin back in your time. With your period and cramps to contend with, you braced yourself for a challenging day ahead.

“Oh, my God.”

That was your immediate reaction the moment you stepped into the magnificent Circus Maximus. A maelstrom of emotions—fear, denial, panic, and disbelief—swirled within you. This couldn’t possibly be real. Yet, as you took in the splendor surrounding you, you realized it was as tangible as the marble floor beneath your feet—the cool stone grounding you in this extraordinary moment.

The images of RPG ambient videos you had scrolled through online flickered through your mind. Video games, films, and TV series had painted scenes like this, but nothing could prepare you for this overwhelming spectacle. It was beyond anything your imagination could conceive, far surpassing the vivid renderings of your fantasies. The grandstands of the colossal racing venue rose like ancient giants, filled with spectators—each face a mixture of excitement and anticipation. The air buzzed with the vibrant sounds of voices, lively music, thundering drums, piercing whistles, shouts of encouragement, and cheers echoing like a tidal wave crashing upon the shore. Instinctively, you recoiled, stepping back as the enormity of what lay before you threatened to swallow you whole. It was a blend of shock and awe—a devastating reality that ignited an exhilarating spark within you. When Marcus gently touched your arm, his presence snapped you back to reality. You noticed the tension in his expression, a slight nervous bite of his lower lip, mirroring the storm of emotions churning inside you. Your own palms felt clammy, not from the heat of the sun, but from sheer wonder.

“This way,” Marcus said.

Julius gestured in a direction, and instinctively, you turned, though your gaze was still captured by the spectacle surrounding you. Wherever you looked, your eyes were met with an entirely new detail—each one more fascinating than the last, drawing you deeper into this vivid reality. The dizzying array of sights threatened to overwhelm your senses, and the thought of finding a seat crossed your mind.

Nevertheless, you followed Marcus, enchanted yet bewildered, likely with your mouth agape and eyes wide in astonishment. Several times you stumbled on the uneven stones, clinging to his arm to steady yourself. He then admonished you to look ahead and be cautious. He reminded you to stay focused and watch your step. You squinted at him; this was a mind-blowing experience for you. He must understand how hard it was for you, but why should you be surprised?

He was a cold bastard with no empathy.

“You’d better acclimate to the flowing fabric of that long dress, soon you'll be wearing a stola all the time.” Julius said with a chuckle.

Being a costume designer, you knew exactly what he meant and what a stola was. You’d done some design work and sewing yourself before. 'We’ll see about that,' you thought as you continued walking, stopping whenever Marcus did.

Your heart raced when you caught sight of someone in a huge imperial box wearing a shiny golden crown.

Jesus Christ, it was him.

Septimius freaking Severus.

What you were seeing felt like something straight out of a historian's wildest dreams. He was the focus of tons of term papers and theses. Those statues you'd seen, the busts in all those exhibits, auction houses, and museums didn’t prepare you for this moment.

Here he was, in the flesh and blood—totally alive.

You’d have sounded ridiculous if you told anyone about this in 2025; they would’ve laughed for ages. But right now, it was so real. The folks who made the statues, the artists who painted him, and even those who did 3D renders of his face online nailed it. You couldn’t help but think of how great it would be to tell them when you got back that he really did look like that. You had to bite your lip to keep from chuckling at the idea.

You still couldn’t wrap your head around the fact that it was him. But then you caught yourself just staring.

Oh, right.

Marcus had reminded you not to gawk at the emperor, not to turn your back, and only to speak if he asked you to. So, you gave him a respectful nod instead.

"I believe you are the woman General Acacius wishes to marry." His voice dripped with condescension as he scrutinized you from head to toe, making you feel exposed and uncomfortable. A shiver ran down your spine, and you quickly averted your gaze, only to realize that Caracalla was seated right beside his father. His expression twisted with disdain, as if your very presence was a foul stench, and just as quickly, he turned away. You weren’t eager to see him either; what was with that arrogant attitude?

"Do you have a name girl?"

In that moment, you and Marcus responded in unison.

"Rose."

"Rosa."

Oops, speaking of inappropriate behavior...

Marcus glared at you and you gave him a “What?” look with your eyes.

The emperor and his sons cracked up, and it was obvious where the princes picked up that laugh.

“General is also correct. However, in my homeland, we pronounce it ‘Rose,’ your majesty,” you said, trying to avoid using modern words and respectfully bowing your head.

He laughed again. "I understand. I appreciate your explanation, Rosa.”

You smiled, well he didn't seem like a bad guy. He was probably in his sixties, with gray in his curly long hair.

"She possesses a remarkable propensity to speak quite assertively," Geta murmured, giving you a meaningful look. He had a handsome look going for him, but he wasn't really your type. If he hadn't tried to kill you before, you might’ve felt a bit semphaty for him, but all you felt now was anger and irritation.

“All women possess the ability to speak assertively, my son,” Severus responded with a laugh, prompting a grin from Geta. Caracalla appeared preoccupied with his own thoughts. "I believe you and she would make a suitable pair, Acacius, especially given your reserved nature."

Marcus lowered his head respectfully. "With your esteemed permission, Emperor Severus."

Severus nestled comfortably in his box, adjusting one of his rings with a confident smile. "You have my permission, Acacius, and you will soon receive the contract documents you requested. You may commence preparations at your house. May God Juno bless your union," he declared, raising his wine glass at you two. His evident happiness was striking, more so than that of Marcus.

No, you were wrong.

You didn't like him.

Geta and Caracalla exchanged looks, their expressions unimpressed. Marcus thanked the emperor, and when the drums started, he pointed to the bleachers. You were sitting with the Senate, right next to the emperor. Lucilla and Lucius were with you. Marcus greeted Lucilla and took a seat beside her, motioning for you to join. Julius was on your other side. Once you sat down, you checked out the fancy gold-embroidered chair, running your fingers over the details.

Suddenly, the loud sound of the horn shocked you, and you found yourself clapping along with the crowd, not even sure what for, but it felt impressive. Honestly, it was probably the tranquilizer making you feel unreasonably cheerful.

A moment later, you regretted clapping because one of the gates banged open, and two gladiators stepped out onto the sand, their names called out.

No.

Freaking.

Way.

"You said there’d be a chariot race," you whispered anxiously to Marcus.

Marcus continued to clap, perfectly calm. "The opening often begins with a combat."

"As the dust settles from the fierce combat, the races truly begins with bets being placed," Julius remarked, his eyes gleaming with anticipation.

“I thought they were having gladiator fights in the Colosseum,” you said, hiding your face partway with your hand because you couldn’t bear to look at the arena, swallowing hard.

Marcus's lips curled in a smile. "Do you really believe the Colosseum is simply a place for battles?"

"It was in the movies," you murmured.

Lucilla intervened. "Most gladiatorial combats and battles occurs there, along with theatrical performances and a variety of events that captivates the hearts of the citizens."

Thank you, Google, you thought.

You turned your gaze away, resolutely refusing to watch as the two men clashed violently before you. It was an overwhelming sight, more than you could bear. Yet, the crowd around you was entranced, their eyes gleaming with a mix of excitement and morbid curiosity. You’d never understood those who reveled in such brutality, watching with bated breath and eager anticipation. The tension coiled within you as you gripped the edge of your seat, your knuckles white from anxiety.

“It’s clearly your first time,” Lucius remarked, a knowing grin tugging at the corners of his mouth as he observed your strained expression. Marcus noticed that Lucius was paying attention to you. He tensed up but managed to stay calm. “Don’t your people have events like this one where you come from?”

“Thankfully, no,” you replied, your voice shaky as you darted your eyes nervously away from him.

But then a bitter truth pierced your thoughts. War had always been a constant shadow, lurking everywhere in your time as well. Despite the advancements in technology and the sheen of modern civilization, humanity seemed perpetually eager for conflict, always seeking justification to spill blood.

War had always existed.

This was merely its most primal form.

When the desperate clamor of the fight faded, anticipation surged through the crowd as the much-anticipated chariot races began. Excitement rippled like electricity, pulling everyone into its fervor, but you remained tense, the gruesome images of men savagely attacking one another still etched in your mind. Even as you shielded your face with your hands, the vivid memories assaulted you—the metallic tang of blood faintly lingering in the air, the sharp, jarring resonance of swords clashing echoed in your ears.

The races, however, were something beyond your wildest imagination. They were a whirlwind of color and speed, a breathtaking spectacle that held your attention captive. But in the middle of all the excitement, there was an annoying issue. The dust kicked up by the roaring chariots mixed with the leftover smoke from earlier, making your nose itch and sending you into a sneezing fit.

Really, why was it that ancient times were so achingly dusty and filled with smoke?

Everyone was buzzing with excitement over their bets. Lucilla and Lucius were all in for the blue team, while Julius was convinced the white team would take it.

“What say you Rosa?” Lucius asked.

You furrowed your brow, still trying to wrap your head around the whole thing. “I’m not really sure how this works.”

“It relies on the capabilities of the horses and their chariot drivers,” Julius replied, his enthusiasm evident. “For instance, the driver of the white team demonstrated commendable performance in the previous race.”

“How can you be certain of that? You were not present for the last race; you did not witness it firsthand,” Lucius interjected.

Julius shrugged. “It is not solely about observing the race. It involves having knowledge and experience. I believe the white team possesses a strong chance of success.”

In contrast, Lucius stated with assurance, “You are mistaken; the blue team is better motivated.”

“Red will emerge victorious,” Marcus asserted confidently, reaching into his pouch to produce several denarii, which he offered to you. “This is your opportunity to participate in betting. I suggest you place your faith in the red team.”

You accepted the coins, a sense of excitement washing over you. “Can I really bet?”

“You may place a bet on my behalf,” he responded with a gentle smile.

Whoa.

You didn’t expect that, and it caught you off guard in a good way.

After heading with Julius to place your bet, you returned, settling down to watch the race with bated breath. You were so focused that you didn’t notice all the times Marcus glanced your way, lost in thought about what you’d said earlier.

Those words.

Was it just a strange coincidence?

Voices melded into a cacophony, yet it was as though only your vibrant figure existed in that moment. His feelings, surprisingly raw and unguarded, danced around him like whispers of a forgotten memory.

Why were these emotions surfacing now?

After all these years, how could he find himself feeling this way again?

Suddenly, the thrill of your betting team’s victory had swept you away, and in that moment, you couldn’t help but hug Marcus tightly. You felt a wave of gratitude wash over you for bringing a spark of happiness into your otherwise somber mood, if only for a fleeting moment.

Your arms wound around his neck, your hair brushing softly against his cheek, and in that instant, he was overwhelmed.

The sensation struck him with the force of an unexpected arrow, piercing right through the defenses he thought impenetrable. But just as quickly, denial swept in, a survival instinct kicking in like a shield as the reality of the moment crashed over him.

He needed to remove that arrow.

Gently but firmly, he took hold of your arms, easing you back and breaking the physical connection that made him feel vulnerable.

“Oops! Sorry,” you said, a light chuckle escaping your lips. “But you guessed right, psycho—well, general, you’re incredible.”

Julius laughed too. "My brother consistently demonstrates wisdom in his judgments. In retrospect, I realize that I should have also considered placing my bets on the red team."

Marcus, however, remained quiet. He fell into a pensive silence, his thoughts drifting like leaves in the wind as he watched the final races unfold.

As an unfortunate time traveler, after several days filled with overwhelming melancholy and sour moods, you found yourself accompanying Balbina and her daughter Lydia to the market one day. The whole marriage nonsense weighed heavily on your mind, but you had no choice but to play along, despite your deep disdain for it. You kept reminding yourself to hold on until the full moon, convinced it would surely open the way back home—it had to, for the sake of your sanity.

All the while, your thoughts were consumed with worries about Lizze, leaving you unable to shake the painful possibilities surrounding her. You barely noticed that Balbina and Lydia were cruelly chatting about you as you wandered through the market, specifically in a fabric shop where they were buying everything for the wedding. Usually, working with fabric brought you joy, igniting excitement over new designs and upcoming projects. But not here. You loathed every moment, just as you despised your former wedding dress, which felt as if it had invisible words scrawled across it: 'abandoned on the altar by the groom.' That very dress, which you had designed and carefully sewn, had ended up in tears, frustration, and curses as you ripped it apart.

Slaves carried bolts of cloth, while Balbina engaged in animated conversation with someone nearby. Eyes were on you, just like that day at Circus Maximus; it seemed as if you had become some sort of celebrity in this world—the outlander girl the General was destined to marry.

How lovely.

You crossed your arms, looking away as a vendor enthusiastically offered you various fabrics. Just as you were about to decline and turn around, you heard a noise—a familiar voice you had long yearned to hear.

Your father’s voice.

Could you have imagined it?

Surely your brain was playing tricks on you from the tranquilizers you’d taken. No, you needed to see the face behind that voice to be sure. Your heart raced as you turned around, and there he was.

Damn it, it was him.

Though his hair looked different, the familiar face remained unchanged—those wrinkles around his eyes you remembered from the last time you saw him back in the hospital. The distinctive smile you recalled from your old days before the accident was still there. He stood before you in a Roman senator's toga, and for a moment, you were frozen in shock, paralyzed until he vanished from view. At that moment, Lydia's voice cut through the fog of your thoughts, snapping you back to reality.

You had to act, and fast.

Your instincts kicked in, propelling you into the throng of people, your heart set on finding your father or the man who bore such a striking resemblance of him. The shouts of Lydia and the others quickly dimmed as you maneuvered through the throngs of people, pushing aside those who got in your way, seeing them merely as obstacles. Soon, you reached a quieter street and spotted him again, standing beside a palanquin that slaves had lowered to the ground, conversing with someone inside.

As you crept closer, a whirlwind of questions flooded your mind.

What would you say first?

What would you do?

How could you ask if he recognizes you without bursting into tears?

Lectica—you suddenly remembered the word roman use for the palanquin—moved forward alongside the man, who continued speaking to the figure within. Your eagerness to see his face took precedence over all else until you caught the mention of a familiar name.

"We have decided to postpone our plan to eliminate Acacius," a woman’s voice chimed in, striking a chord in your memory.

"I heard that he is set to marry soon, my lady," your father replied, each syllable unmistakably his. Yet you forced yourself to listen; there was no room for tears now.

"He is to wed an outlander, someone of little significance—which serves our interests."

"As you wish, my lady. I shall gather near the Colosseum with the others when night falls."

With that, the slaves hurried the lectica along, their footsteps echoing on the cobblestones. As the curtain fell shut with a soft rustle, you barely caught a fleeting glimpse of a woman’s profile—Lucilla.

You found yourself torn between two shocking revelations: Lucilla's deceitful plans and the unsettling truth that your father's doppelganger was not only involved in those schemes but also had a sinister side.

As you trailed behind the man, your courage began to wane, and your physical strength was fading even faster. After walking for so long, the soles of your feet ached with each step. How did people in this era manage to walk everywhere without collapsing from exhaustion?

Your father's doppelganger turned down another street, and your foot caught on one of the uneven stones. You stumbled and landed hard on your knee. “Oh, crap,” you muttered, instinctively lifting the hem of your skirt to inspect the wound. Unfortunately, you hadn’t noticed that you were right outside a pleasure house—definitely not ideal territory. The man you were following disappeared into a large two-story building at the street's end. You decided to rest there until he emerged; your body was already protesting from pain and fatigue.

Just then, two really drunk men stumbled into view, their eyes locking onto you with unsettling interest.

“What are you staring at?” you barked at them.

Seriously, what was it with people in this time and their fascination with women’s legs?

The men laughed and sauntered away.

“That's really you,” a familiar voice chimed in, and you turned to see Lucius wearing that infuriating grin of his. When had he shown up, and where had he come from?

He glanced around before focusing back on you. “What brings you out here alone? Are you out of your mind?”

“Can't you see I hurt my knee?” you replied, frowning.

“Not just me, all men around here see that,” he said, crouching beside you. With a gentle tug, he adjusted the hem of your skirt to cover your exposed legs. "You'll live." Ah, yes, for people in this era, a simple injury like yours barely registered. “Does the general know you’re here?”

“Why do you care?”

He smirked. "Do you even realize where you are?"

You looked around at the bustling street. Men and women mingled, laughter drifting from the house behind you. One of the women lifted her skirt, flirting with a man, and suddenly it clicked.

Oh, no.

So that’s what showing legs was all about.

“Ugh,” you said, grimacing in disgust.

Lucius chuckled. “You’re quite a unique woman. I wonder why the General seeks to marry you, as he has always been perceived as emotionally distant from any woman, even from whores.” He cast a glance toward the house.

But his question didn’t pique your interest; instead, you fixated on his remark.

Does he never visit here?

You didn’t know why that made you feel so relieved.

“None of your business,” you said, narrowing your eyes. “It’s clear you frequent this place often, given how well you know the faces that come and go.”

He shrugged casually, a nonchalant smile playing on his lips. “If I were fortunate enough to find a beauty like you to marry, I wouldn’t need to visit this establishment to fulfill my desires,” he replied, his gaze piercing into yours with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine. It made you feel both intrigued and uneasy, as if he could see right through your defenses with his blue eyes. "Do you have the strength to rise? This streets can become increasingly perilous for a woman, particularly once the sun sets."

Panic suddenly washed over you, and you placed your hand on the cobblestones, trying to push yourself up but failed. Lucius sighed, effortlessly scooping you up into his arms.

“Hey, put me down!” you protested.

“Where’s your carriage? I’ll take you,” he replied nonchalantly.

Your face fell. “I don’t know.”

Lucius laughed, a sound filled with genuine amusement. “Allow me to guess, you find yourself lost, do you not?”

Reluctantly, you wrapped your arm around his neck. “Yes, congratulations, genius.”

"You’re uncivilized and indecent girl, but oddly enough, I'm starting to like you more," he remarked, a hint of mischief dancing in his eyes.

“And I’m growing to hate you more. You’re not at all what I thought you were.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Did you know me before?”

Yeah, from the museum and history books.

“Just put me down; I can walk,” you insisted.

“I’ll carry you to the General’s villa.”

“That’s not necessary. Why are you even helping me?” Apparently, he wasn't as malicious as his mother, but trust was a different matter.

“I owe Acacius, and I don’t like being in debt,” he explained.

“You owe him?”

“It’s quite the tale, my dear flower. But first, I have to ask—are you certain you want to marry him?” he asked suddenly. “If there’s any doubt in your heart, why not marry me instead? Trust me, you won’t regret it,” he said. His fingers tightened around your legs as he leaned in, gazing at your lips.

You smacked him right in the face. “Put me down now!” you yelled, trying to break free.

He sighed and said, "Alright, I deserve this. I apologize."

His expression fell as you averted your eyes. People on the street stared as you two passed, but Lucius didn’t seem the slightest bit bothered.

When you arrived at the villa, Lucius was carefully lowering you down when Julius noticed and sprinted toward you, looking pretty worried.

“Where have you been? We have all been concerned.” 

His gaze shifted to Lucius, whose self-satisfied smirk only deepened Julius's frown.

“Julius, I—” you began, your voice wavering, but your words faltered as you spotted Marcus emerging from the shadows behind him, his face a storm cloud of anger.

“How could you run away through the streets recklessly? Didn't I warn you before? It’s beyond irresponsible!” he thundered, his brow furrowed in disappointment.

You bit your lip, trying to defend yourself. “Just let me explain—”

He looked at Lucius. “What about you? Did I summon you to Rome at great risk to my men only so you could walk aimlessly through the streets?”

“I wouldn’t have been able to save the woman you are betrothed to if I hadn’t been walking those very streets, General.”

Marcus exhaled deeply, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. “For that, I am grateful. Now return to your mother. And if you hold any affection for her, cleave to caution.”

“Don’t speak to me as if you’re my father, because you are not,” Lucius retorted sharply.

“Lucius, how dare you speak like that to him?” Julius exploded, his fist clenching in anger as he lunged forward. But Marcus intercepted him, his grip firm yet steady, forcing his brother to halt.

Lucius merely motioned for them both to silence themselves before melting into the shadows.

A heavy silence settled in the aftermath of Lucius's departure, and though Marcus uttered no words, the hurt etched on his features spoke volumes. The sudden intensity of his gaze shifted to you, and you felt a knot form in your throat. “Why did you leave without a word? You know I’m responsible for your safety.”

“I didn't mean to, I saw some....thing and then I got lost.”

He raised his finger and pointed inside. “Return to your room at once. You are not to set foot outside this villa until the wedding.”

“Look, Marcus, you don't have to marry me. I don't want to either, I can take care of myself.”

“Not here! This is not your time. The Emperor has already granted approval, and all arrangements have been finalized.”

“I can’t marry! It’s impossible—you don’t understand how hard this is for me.”

“It’s not a real marriage, after all. It’s for your own protection. Why can’t you understand that? Why won’t you let me keep you safe?” 

“You think you can handle everything, don’t you, General? But you’re completely missing the traitor lurking right under your nose. How ironic.” 

He paused, tilting his head slightly to the side, his frown deepening. “What do you mean by that?”

“I saw Lady Lucilla in conversation with a man.” It didn’t seem like the right moment to reveal that the man was the ancient Roman version of your father. “They were discussing you, plotting to get rid of you or eliminate—”

Suddenly, he rushed over, cupping your jaw and pressing his hand against your mouth. “One more word and I'll cut off your tongue.”

You gasped in fear.

Julius placed a hand on his brother's arm. “Calm yourself, Marcus,” he urged, but Marcus brushed him off and pressed on. “I told you to show respect when you speak of her. Do you really think you know her better than I do?”

You struggled to push his hand away from your mouth. “Sure, who am I to say anything, right?”

He was taken aback by your defiance.

“Believe it or not, they’re meeting tonight near the Colosseum. If you don’t trust me, go see for yourself!” you yelled, pushing his arm away with force. You stumbled into the courtyard, mumbling under your breath and touching where his fingers hurt your jaw.

“What a brutal bastard. I hate you.” 

At night, you found yourself pacing in that damn room, lost in thought and unsure of what to do. Balbina and Lydia were even angrier with you after what happened today, and you definitely didn’t want to face them. Alone in the dim light, as anxiety clawed mercilessly at your insides, you felt the familiar grip tighten around your chest.

With an urgent flick of your wrist, you hurled your bag over your shoulder and slipped out of the room, your heart racing with the hope of escape. It was bedtime now, and in the stillness of the night, the villa felt like a prison, with your room resembling a cell. You thought of heading to the temple to read the parchment. Perhaps this time it would work. You just needed to get out, and fast.

“Are you going somewhere?” a voice broke through your thoughts.

Oh, crap. You hadn’t even descended the stairs yet.

Julius leaned against the balustrade, watching you. You hadn’t spotted him in the shadows. As he approached, his eyes fell on the bag slung over your shoulder. "I assume you were heading to the temple?"

“Hmm, looks like you know me well now,” you responded, forcing a nervous laugh.

He sighed, pushing a hand through his hair. “You really are stubborn. Please, leave your bag in the room and come with me.”

“I can’t just leave it behind.”

"Please, I made a promise to my brother to take care of you, so I really need to ensure you stay inside the villa."

“Where is he?”

He sighed and stated, “He has gone to the location you previously mentioned.”

You raised an eyebrow in surprise. “He decided to believe me now?”

“He’s not quite who you think he is. Allow me to clarify a few things about him.”

“All right,” you relented, heading back to your room to drop off your bag. But as you entered, you noticed a plate of fruit on the table so tossed the bag onto the bed. You left the room, not caring that it fell and scattered its contents everywhere.

Anger surged within you.

As if Marcus wasn't enough to contend with, here was Julius blocking your way. You felt isolated; nobody from this time understood you, and you couldn’t make sense of them either.

You were taken aback when Julius led you to the stables. Still, you followed him, sensing he was taking you somewhere else. The disgusting smell hit you, but oddly, you realized you had grown used to it. A small garden and a fountain lay ahead. Julius gestured to a boulder and sat down opposite it.

“My brother and I used to come here to practice swordplay in our youth,” he began. “He was older, so he’d let me act like I was winning. Our father would watch us from over there.” He sighed deeply. “We were so happy back then, and I was still young when he passed. It was my brother who comforted me after that; he always protected me, even stepping up as a father. Unfortunately, I was unable to protect what was most precious to him.”

You looked at him, intrigued and puzzled.

What did he mean?

“Have you ever loved a man deeply?” he asked.

“Like romantic love? I thought I did once, but it was a mistake. Honestly, I think love is pointless. It’s illogical to care for someone more than yourself.”

“He did," He cut you off. "My brother.”

“Marcus? He loved someone? Wow, that’s hard to imagine.”

“He wasn’t always like this. He used to be cheerful, hopeful, full of life.”

It was hard to believe, but your curiosity kept you listening. “He loved a girl, innocent and bright. He treasured her above all else, treating her like the most beautiful yet fragile thing.  Their connection stood in stark contrast to the bonds I witnessed between my mother and father, or those of other couples, resonating with a unique depth and tenderness."

“I sense there’s a ‘but’ coming,”  you said softly, hoping to lift his spirits, as the sadness in his eyes made you feel uneasy.

“However her family and my father weren’t in favor of their union. Though they chose to pause their arrangements, their hearts remained intertwined, steadfast in love. Then, my brother enlisted in the army, bravely stepping into the tumult of his first war. When he returned, however, he faced a devastating revelation. The girl he had intended to marry had been sacrificed to the temple of Vesta, her fate sealed by her family's offering."

You remember the Vesta virgins from your history readings; they could never marry and were bound to the temple for their lifetime.

It tugged at your heart.

“What did Marcus do?”

“He was devastated and furious, but there was nothing he could do. At least, that’s what everyone thought, including me. He loved her fiercely, and she was miserable in that temple. At first, he asked my father to speak to the emperor, but to no avail. The rules were set in stone. He tried everything he could; I was a witness to it all, and in the end, he made a choice.”

You tensed up. “What kind of choice?”

“He concocted a daring plan to sneak her out of the sacred Temple of Vesta, to spirit her away from the heart of Rome to a pastoral village where his commander, Maximus, lived peacefully with his family. But first, destiny called him to join Maximus in the northern legion, to face the ruthless onslaught of the Germans. When they returned, the Rome they knew had shifted irrevocably; Commodus had ascended to the throne and brutally punished Maximus for daring to defy him. This cruel turn of fate shattered my brother’s hopes, costing him not only his commander but also the chance to fulfill a promise made to the woman he loved. The sequence of events becomes a blur, but after Commodus’s demise, my brother saw a flicker of hope amidst the chaos that had engulfed the Senate. It was then he resolved to rescue her from the confines of the temple. Instead of serving a corrupt Rome, he chose to serve her. One of the temple guards, a loyal friend, agreed to aid him; they meticulously plotted their escape, with my brother awaiting their rendezvous at the harbor under the veil of that night. Yet, fate turned against them once more; despite their careful planning, they were apprehended just as they sought the promise of freedom. The guards, quick to act, seized the two of them, the priests punishing them for the offense they were clearly guilty of."

“The two of them?” you echoed, incredulous.

“They believed my brother's friend was her lover, as they didn't reveal my brother's name.” Julius looked at you with tears in his eyes. “They made a sacrifice to protect him.”

You swallowed hard. “Sacrifice?” you struggled to maintain your composure. “How did they..." Your heart was racing. "What do you mean by that?”

You knew the horrific punishment a priestess of Vesta faced for treachery, but it still felt unbelievable.

You dreaded what you were about to hear. “Oh god, don’t tell me…” you gasped.

Julius’ sighed deeply. “They… buried her alive.”

Your eyes flew open in shock as your heart raced. You pressed your hands tightly against your mouth, desperately trying to stifle the disbelief that overwhelmed you. An icy wave of dread, like a thousand icy fingers, ran down your spine, causing your entire body to tremble uncontrollably. Hot tears cascaded down your cheeks, blurring your vision as your surroundings spun around you.

How could anyone justify inflicting such a horrific and inhumane punishment on an innocent girl?

When Marcus stepped into the villa, an overwhelming weight settled in his chest, pressing down like a storm cloud ready to burst. Fury boiled within him, directed at Lucilla—the very woman he had been shadowing for the entire night—who was precisely where you had said she would be.

Lucilla.

The disappointment of betrayal weighed heavily on Marcus. He had placed his complete trust in this woman, offering support in her time of need. He struggled to comprehend how she could have turned against him. He fought against disbelief, yet the truth he had witnessed was undeniable. With a sense of urgency, he pushed doubts to the back of his mind, focusing instead on finding you to offer the apology he owed. He had wronged you, and the weight of that realization gnawed at him. It was late, likely past the hour when you were asleep, but something pulled him toward your room with an untamed instinct.

He cast a glance through the doorway, but found it eerily empty. The absence of your presence left him baffled. Just as he was about to retreat, a whirlwind of curiosity and concern surged through him, spurred by the chaos strewn across the floor—your bag sprawled open, its contents carelessly scattered.

“Rosa?” he called softly, stepping carefully inside. Silence wrapped around him, intensifying the chaos he observed. Frustration surged within him as he took in the mess you had made, yet an odd impulse to tidy up tugged at him, thinking how reckless you were, even when it came to your belongings.

As he crouched to gather your things, something caught his eye amidst the mess. It was your wallet. Normally, he wouldn’t pay much attention to your peculiar assortment of trinkets, but the sight of a photo nestled inside made him freeze, breath caught in his throat.

There it was—a vibrant snapshot of your twelve-year-old self, beaming with joy beside little Lizzie at age five.

At 26, the years had transformed your appearance but he could notice it was your younger version.

But that wasn't the real issue.

Not at all.

What truly struck him was your striking resemblance to someone embedded in his heart and realization crushed him, gripping his heart relentlessly, leaving him breathless.

The bewilderment consumed him.

The puzzle pieces of his youth began to scatter chaotically in his mind, and he found himself grappling with the impossible question.

How could you possibly look so much like her?

For over twenty years, he had cherished her memory, but as time marched on, the details faded: the nuances of her face, the sound of her laugh, the scent of her presence…

Only the pain remained, like a knife stabbed into his heart—unyielding and sharp.

Yet now this picture breathed life into everything he thought he had put to rest. Her smile was unmistakable; it was the same radiant energy that had once filled his world with light.

A whirlwind of thoughts engulfed him, turning sense into nonsense and clarity into chaos. He sank to the floor, cradling the photograph in his trembling hands, his heart racing as if trying to escape his chest. Memories flooded back from the day he lost her, the moment his world crumbled.

He could almost hear the echo of the words he had held onto when he awoke: “Your prayers have been answered, child.”

He then recalled the moment, how you spoke those words just like her previous day. It was between Marcus and her; no one could know that, but you knew somehow.

Then the mole on the back of your neck was in the very same spot as hers.

Again, the very phrase, “Your prayers have been answered, child,” drifted through his thoughts like a haunting melody.

He had only one prayer: to die and reunite with the woman he loved in another life.

Were you truly her reincarnation?

Why couldn’t you recall anything about him?

Could it be that you were just a figment of his imagination?

No, it couldn’t be.

He knew that you were real, made of flesh and blood.

The last memory he had of the woman he cherished was of her at twelve, which might explain why he hadn’t recognized you. With his fingers pressed against the bridge of his nose, he grappled with a surge of emotions.

Why?

If the gods had answered his prayer, why hadn’t they returned him to her? This woman may look like her, but she truly is not.

Or was she?

What intricate tapestry of fate had been woven here, and what lesson lay hidden in its threads?

After a time lost in contemplation, he wiped away the tears that had escaped his resolute facade and stood up, determination surging within him.

Questions could linger in the shadows for a while longer; there was something he needed to confirm above all else.

Were you truly her?

hope you enjoyed the chapter babies, thanks for reading ❤️

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[prettycalla]

|| venenum paradiso ||

Pairing: Geta/Empress!Reader

Summary: Geta has some very traditional views that are not to your tastes. You decide to put him in his place. (Request fill)

Word count: 4k

Tags and warnings: Smut (not explicitly described, but still obvious!), period-typical sexism, bickering, submissive Geta, no use of Y/N. 18+!! Minors, please do not interact!!

(I wrote a little blurb a while ago and decided to make it in a bigger fic. I had to scrap the original idea because I was getting way too into the lore, and let's be real, we're not here for that, we're here for Geta smut. Also read up a Lot on sexuality in Ancient Rome, and wow, did they have Opinions.)

Masterlist || Join the taglist!

Of all the men you have encountered in your life, your husband is perhaps one of the most frustrating at times.

It is not often that you argue, you are patient enough that you are willing to agree to disagree on many matters. But there are occasions when it feels as though you are on the brink of war with him.

He is stubborn, infuriatingly so, and there are times when it takes everything in your power to hold your tongue.

However, even you, diplomatic and gracious as you are, have your limits.

Geta holds certain views that are...traditional, to say the least. You are not of the same mindset.

It had started over a passing remark. A mere flight of fancy that you had had late one night, as you had laid together in bed. Of being brought to release by your husband's mouth. At worst, you assume he will think nothing of it.

How full of surprises he is.

He is rather quick to remark that he does not believe a man of his rank and status should subject himself to something so...unbecoming.

It is not so much his words, but the manner in which he says them. As if his archaic opinion is fact. How your blood boils. Then, an eerie feeling of calm washes over you. You hum in response, teeth clenched behind a tight smile.

Oh, you are most certainly at war now. And you, you will be the victor, you are certain of it.

He does not notice at first, as on the surface, you are treating him no differently than any other day.

Eventually, it starts to click into place. You will not stay long in his embrace, you shy away from his touch, you turn your head with a tight-lipped smile when he tries to kiss you.

“Wife,” he demands one night as you are readying yourself for bed. “You are angry with me. Why?”

You lay down your hairbrush on the table, turning to face him.

“Whatever has led you to that conclusion?” you ask in turn, in an unassuming tone.

“You have been treating me with disdain for the better part of two days now. I tire of it,” he tells you, with all the grace of a spoiled child.

“Surely you are imagining things,” you say airily.

“Do not insult me,” he spits.

You give him a look of feigned surprise. “As if I would ever do such a thing.”

“You will tell me what I have done,” he insists.

You brush past him on the way to bed, slipping under the covers.

“You will figure it out for yourself,” you reply. “Goodnight.”

You turn your back to him, leaving him to stand there and process your words. It is a while before he joins you. You feel his hand hover near you, but you ignore it under the pretence of sleep. Eventually, he moves away, and you cannot help the smile that creeps onto your face as he lets out an irritated sigh.

His mood only worsens from there. When you wake the next morning, he is already dressed for the day ahead.

"Did you sleep well?" you ask with a yawn.

Geta glares at you with tired eyes, but does not allow himself to fall prey to it, turning his attention to more pressing matters.

"I trust you remember that we are to attend a banquet tonight," he tells you. "I will have you by my side, as my loving wife."

You do not miss the warning that lingers in his words.

“Would you have me any other way?” you ask, the very picture of innocence.

He does not reply, instead reaching across the bed to kiss you before he leaves. You conveniently choose that moment to get up, leaving him to stumble and fall onto the bed as he misses you entirely.

The quiet snarl that escapes him is quite the reward, you must admit. Embarrassed, he storms out, leaving you alone to your morning routine. You smile to yourself. Perhaps you should not be enjoying this as much as you are, but he does make it so easy for you.

You do not see Geta again until early evening, as he is kept busy for much of the day with meetings with senators and patricians. When you arrive at the grand hall, he is already seated and deep in conversation. You cannot help but notice how decadently he is dressed, in robes of the richest reds and golds, adorned with the most beautiful jewellery, and golden laurels sit atop his fiery hair. It is far too much, even for an event such as this, and you bite back a smile. Geta only dresses in such a manner when he is upset. And judging by the look he has now levelled on you, he is furious.

He quickly schools his expression into something more fitting of a loving husband as you draw near, taking the fawning and flattery of the surrounding crowd in your stride as always.

"Wife," he murmurs, with a smile that is reminiscent of a shark.

He takes your hand in his, lifting it to his lips to press a kiss to the back of it.

Your attention wanders as he does so. He attempts to pull you towards him, but you do not budge.

"Come, you will sit by me," he says pleasantly.

You shake your head, slipping your hand from his tight grasp.

"Oh, no, I could not possibly interrupt your conversation," you reply, "Please, you must stay with the senator."

Geta opens his mouth to argue, but you have already turned away. Caracalla has been watching the entire scene unfold before him from across the table with rapt attention, and he grins at you.

"Gentlemen, if you will excuse me," you say politely, with an incline of your head.

You take the seat next to Caracalla, who in turn looks to his brother to find him seething. Never one for subtlety, Caracalla giggles loudly, turning his attention to you.

“My dear sister, whatever has your poor husband done now?” he asks, inelegantly swirling the wine around in his cup before taking a drink.

His voice carries far enough across the table for the guests to glance up curiously. Geta looks as though he wishes for nothing more than to throw himself across the table and strangle his brother.

You smile as you pat Caracalla’s arm in a good-natured manner.

“Now, now. Is it not enough for me to sit by you and enjoy your company?” you ask innocently.

His eyes are on you then, his gaze sharp and scrutinising. A wide smile slowly breaks out across his face.

“Of course,” he replies, almost giddily.

He leans in to you, his voice dropping low enough that only you can hear.

“What games you play,” he whispers slyly.

You laugh then, your eyes drifting to where Geta sits. To a mere bystander, he would look the very image of a man deeply engrossed in political conversation, but you know him better than anyone. He is clutching the cup in his hand with such ferocity that his knuckles have lost all colour, and his jaw twitches from clenching so hard.

You are beginning to feel pity for him. But he must learn.

You are rather quickly distracted once again by Caracalla, who is making quite a spectacle of himself by reaching over people who are trying to eat to acquire food for Dondus. She is perched on his shoulders, her little hands clutching at his messy hair to balance herself.

He unceremoniously falls back into his seat, arranging his spoils in front of him. He lifts a grape up and Dondus greedily snatches it from him, pawing at it before she bites into it.

"Would you like to feed her?" he asks, holding out some walnuts.

"Of course," you reply, taking one and holding it out to the little monkey.

Dondus sniffs at it for a moment, not as familiar with your scent, before she takes it from you.

"What a sweet girl you are," you coo at her.

"Isn't she?" Caracalla agrees proudly, as he scratches under her chin.

The evening continues to pass as pleasantly in Caracalla's company. He regales you with stories, making you laugh until there are tears in your eyes. You have almost forgotten about your husband.

Almost.

As if on cue, Geta rises from his seat.

"Excuse me," he announces to the table. "I must withdraw for the evening. Please, stay and enjoy yourselves."

You watch him leave, his agitation evident in how he holds himself.

Caracalla tilts his head closer to you. "Do you think he has suffered enough?" he asks mischievously.

Not quite, you think to yourself.

It is another hour or so before you retire for the night as well. As you had suspected, Geta has returned to your chambers and is very much awake, pacing back and forth across the length of the room, as he has likely been doing since he returned.

"You finally grace me with your presence, Augusta," he says.

Beyond the public's prying eyes, he only ever calls you by your title when he is angry with you.

"I thought you would be asleep by the time I returned," you reply.

You cross the room to your vanity table, sitting down to begin your nightly routine. Geta drags the chair out to stand in front of you, demanding your attention. You look up at him. He is seething. You, by contrast, are quite unaffected.

"You seem to have forgotten your place," he says through gritted teeth.

He will not be ignored.

You tilt your head with a feigned look of confusion. "And where, exactly, is that?" you ask.

"Wherever I wish it to be," he replies. "If I want you by my side, you will be by my side."

He bends down, hands gripping the arms of the chair tightly as he looms over you. His expression is glowering, his intense eyes made all the more so by the flickering lantern light.

"If I command you, you will obey," he says lowly.

There is a side to Geta that will rear its ugly head when he has been slighted. It craves power and control, and will not rest until both are firmly in its clutches. In the beginning, it was persistent, constant, as he was terrified of allowing you to see him for who he truly is. With time and patience, you were finally able to tame the raging beast, to prove to him that you would not hurt him, that you loved him.

The beast is raging once more, but you are no longer frightened of it. You are more than equipped to put it back in its place.

You merely smile in response. He does not like that. He straightens then, drawing himself up to his full height. His stubborn petulance is almost endearing, if not growing a little tiresome.

“You will kneel for your Emperor,” he commands.

You cross your legs as you look up at him with a serene expression. Even with the advantage of height between the two of you, he looks like a little boy in the midst of a tantrum.

You feel powerful. It is intoxicating.

“If you wish something of me, husband,” you say, “you will ask nicely.”

Geta’s eye twitches at your words, biting the inside of his cheek in irritation.

“I will do no such thing,” he says at last.

“Oh, you will,” you reply, your voice light and airy, as if you are discussing something as mundane as the weather.

You stand up, not bothering to push the chair back, uncaring of the close proximity between the two of you. Your hands slide from the arms of the chair and up along his stomach, his chest - light, teasing - before they fall at your sides once more.

“Because I tire of this discussion, and I am quite certain you have had more than enough of this argument of ours."

You hold his gaze.

“Wouldn’t you agree?” you ask.

Geta laughs, but it is without a trace of humour.

"At last you admit it," he says. "You are angry with me."

You tap your finger to your chin, as if in contemplation.

"What was it that you called me? 'Unbecoming', was it?" you ask.

Geta blanches. Now he remembers, and too late he is.

“Wife-” he starts, but you shake your head to silence him.

“No, I quite understand," you say readily, as if you truly agree with him. "I can only imagine how unbecoming it would be, to have me in such a manner.”

You lean in closer to him, your breath ghosting along his ear. He shivers.

“Beneath you, undressed and unmade, entirely at your mercy and in the throes of pleasure,” you continue.

You let out a pitiful little sigh.

“How…vulgar,” you finish, pulling away from him.

Geta watches you carefully. For once, he is without words. He swallows thickly. His eyes dart to one side for the briefest moment before meeting your gaze once more.

“This is a fool’s errand,” he says through clenched teeth.

It would sound threatening, if the waver in his voice wasn't his undoing.

“Then I am a fool,” you reply simply. “But I am a fool of my convictions.”

You try to brush by him when his hand suddenly lashes out, grabbing your arm. You stop quickly in your tracks, your heart beating at a racing pace. You keep your expression as neutral as you can manage.

“Oh, by all means, you may command me again,” you murmur. “But the victory will not be as sweet, I assure you.”

You have him there. Gently, you pluck at his fingers. To your surprise, he lets go as easily as that. For a moment, you watch each other, as if neither of you can dare to look away. To show weakness. Time seems to slow.

Geta is the first to break.

“What do you want of me?” he asks.

You pretend to think about it for a moment, before fixing him with a determined stare.

“Kneel," you reply simply.

Geta’s eyes widen, his expression a mixture of exasperation and anger.

“How dare-“

“Kneel, or leave me,” you say, as if he had not spoken. “Those are your choices.”

He opens his mouth again, and you wait for the inevitable chastising for daring to suggest that an Emperor commit such a lowly act that was to come.

But it does not.

Without breaking away from your gaze, Geta slowly sinks to his knees in front of you.

Surely the Gods have called you to them earlier than planned. You were insistent on breaking his resolve, but you had no idea that he would actually listen to you.

You must be dreaming. And what a beautiful dream he makes. His dark eyes are fixed on you; small, shallow breaths falling from his trembling lips.

Truly, he is a sight to behold.

Slowly, you reach out a hand, your touch light as you hook your fingers under his chin.

“Good boy,” you murmur, and the shudder that runs through him at your words will surely stay with you until your last mortal breath.

"What would you have me do?" he asks in a whisper.

You do not answer. Instead you run your thumb gently across his chin, back and forth, back and forth. He is trembling under your touch, you realise with a smile to yourself.

"What was it that you would have had me do?" you ask in turn.

You lean in closer to him, your grip on his chin tightening ever so slightly.

"When you came here, and so crassly asked me to kneel for you," you continue. "What was it that you desired of me?"

You drag your fingertips along the column of Geta's throat. He swallows thickly, and you feel the sensation against your skin.

"I…" he begins to say.

His voice cracks, and he falters.

“I wished to have you as you have me now,” he says at last, his voice rough.

“Go on,” you insist. “What was I to do?”

His tongue darts out to wet his lip. Shame burns at his cheeks. How it amuses you to see him like this.

“Is it not enough that you have humiliated me-” he starts, his temper flaring up once more.

You press a finger to his lips, silencing him.

“I have done no such thing,” you reply. “I have held no sword to your throat, no poison to your lips. I am but a woman before a God.”

You move closer still, your lips dangerously close to brushing against his.

“Though I did not know that Gods could be broken so easily,” you whisper with a wide smile.

You feel him lean in and you quickly pull back. He loses his balance and his hands reach out, pressing against your thighs to steady himself. You step out of his range entirely and he falls on all fours with a snarl.

You are enjoying yourself far too much.

“Please, finish your tale,” you say as you sit down once more.

Geta clenches his fists, but does not move.

“I would…I would have had you undressed. On your knees and entirely at my mercy,” he spits.

“Quite the picture you paint,” you muse. “But I wonder…”

You reach forward, your hands plucking the delicate laurels from atop Geta’s head. You gently twirl them back and forth in your grasp, admiring the craftsmanship of each detail.

Geta looks as though he wishes to squeeze the life from you. He does not move.

Without breaking his gaze, you gently place the laurels on yourself.

“I wonder if it would be as pleasurable as you say,” you finish with a mischievous smile.

You crook your finger in a pedantic manner at him, beckoning him closer to you. To your surprise, he obeys, crawling the short distance between the two of you.

You run your hand gently through his hair. His eyes slip closed at your touch. You drag your hand down to the base of his neck, where your grip suddenly tightens and you wrench his head back. A sharp hiss escapes his throat, but he does not move to stop you.

"You will undress," you tell him. "And you will not keep me waiting."

Geta looks at you with wide eyes, as if wondering where you have been hiding this side of yourself. You are wondering that yourself.

You hold his gaze, looking down the length of your nose at him from where you sit. Unblinking, unwavering. Daring him to defy you. The very image of an Empress.

Geta moves to stand, and you shake your head.

"Surely you can manage from where you sit," you say airily. "I have been witness to you doing so in much worse states."

He starts slow, dropping each piece of jewellery to the floor with a loud clatter, in the hopes of irritating you. You, by contrast, are thoroughly enjoying yourself. Finally, he begins to remove his robes, leaving them in a scattered heap on the floor.

He looks up at you again, feigning an air of disinterest. It does not fool you. The flush that runs from his neck to his chest speaks volumes. You lean forward, running your hands from the curve of his hips up across his torso to his chest, your fingertips skirting just shy of the places he desperately wants you to touch.

"How long do you intend to shame me like this?" he demands of you.

His voice is strained, choked even. He has never looked more beautiful to you than he does now.

"My dear husband," you coo, "You act as though this is torture."

Geta glares at you, and you laugh, a soft breath of a sound.

"You will give me what I want," you tell him, leaning back in your chair. "And we will have no more of this silly argument."

He opens his mouth to speak, when his gaze drifts downwards, to where you have begun dragging your stola up along your legs. You part your thighs, unable to hide the smile on your face at the sight of Geta's mouth dropping open.

"Wife," he manages to whisper, his mouth dry.

"Yes?" you ask innocently. "Whatever is the matter, husband?"

Geta has entirely given up on trying to remain angry with you. You know that look on his face all too well. He is a starving man, and you, you are a banquet laid out for him to indulge in.

You hold out your hands to him, and he tentatively takes them, allowing you to pull him closer. You can feel him trembling against you.

"I will show you what to do," you tell him in a patronising tone. "But you are a quick study, I am certain you will not disappoint me."

You place your hands on his face, nails gently scratching at his skin. He shivers, a soft moan involuntarily escaping him.

"Do not keep me waiting," you warn with a roguish smile.

You presume he will drag things out further, continue to argue, dress himself and storm out in a rage - but he surprises you, rough hands pushing at your thighs to give you exactly what you want from him.

A sharp gasp escapes your lips at the feel of his tongue against you. He is frantic, messy, pathetically inexperienced in his movements. But oh, how filthy he feels against you.

You drag your hands through his hair, gripping hard as you press yourself closer to his mouth. He groans then, and the vibration of it has your eyes rolling back.

You have never felt pleasure quite like it. It vexes you that he has kept an experience such as this from you for so long. All because of something as pitiful as his pride.

As you had suspected, Geta is indeed quick to learn, and he finally finds a rhythm that soon leaves you shaking against him. It's so much, too much all at once, and you try to press your legs closed, but his hands hold firm against you, keeping you open and pliant for him. Gods, how you adore him like this. As wanting and hungry as he has left you.

"That's it," you tell him, a tremor in your voice as your nails scratch at his scalp. "Good boy."

Your words elicit another moan from his pretty throat, and the sound of it, his mouth, his tongue, his desperation, has you falling from the precipice you have been so precariously dangling from. Your climax hits you like a shockwave, leaving you trembling and breathless against him. Geta does not stop, not until you release your grip on him.

He slowly sits up, still kneeling between your legs as he looks up at you. He has the audacity to look pleased with himself, but it is you who has truly won. After all, you were finally able to wear your prideful husband down to seeing how ridiculous he has been, even if he will never admit it.

He runs his tongue across his lips in a crude attempt to clean himself up, his dark eyes almost black with desire. You let out a breathless laugh, allowing yourself to slump into your chair.

"Surely you have something to say to me, do you not?" you ask, propping your chin against your hand.

Geta briefly breaks your gaze, a heavy breath escaping him. This is torment for him, and you know it. Knowing how desperate he is for your touch in this very moment, and here you are, demanding that he tell you that you were right.

How you revel in it.

"Wife," he starts.

It is an attempt to warn you, but he is so choked up in his need for you that it falls flat.

"Husband," you reply with a lazy smile.

"What would you have me say?" he says, words all but catching in his throat as you lean forward to take him in hand, touching precisely where he needs you right now.

"Tell me that I was right," you reply, stroking him in the exact manner that has him arching into your touch.

"You were-" he begins, stumbles, "Gods-"

"Say it," you murmur, "And I will give you exactly what you desire."

"Please," he whispers desperately, placing a hand on your cheek. "Wife, I-"

"Say it," you hiss, your touch teetering just on the edge of too much.

"You were right," he gasps, "You were right, I was wrong, just please, please-"

Never have you seen him in such a state. He is mesmerising, his eyes glassy as he aches for release.

And who are you to deny him, when he begs so prettily?

"Such a good boy you are, Geta," you whisper in his ear, and just like that, the sound of his name falling from your lips in such a sultry tone has him falling apart, unravelling in your grasp.

Geta all but collapses into your arms, a trembling mess.

It takes him a moment to return to himself, shaky little breaths escaping him as you hold him. Eventually, he rights himself, looking up at you. All of his rage, his fury, all of it has been washed away. He kneels before you not as a merciless Emperor, but as a mortal, who has been thoroughly put in his place.

You lightly brush your nose against his, and a small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.

"Well?" you ask. "Have you quite learned your lesson?"

Geta attempts to glare at you, but the fight has truly left him. He places his hands on your face, pressing a soft kiss to your mouth.

"Perhaps...I will reconsider my opinion on the matter," he replies, almost shyly.

It is difficult not to feel smug, you must admit.

After all, you have won.

(banners by @ cafekitsune)

[kabuki-writes]

Interlude || The Prize Of A Father's Pride

chapter: 5 chapter 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 6 | 7 | 8

pairing: emperor geta/emperor caracalla x acacius' daughter!reader

summary: General Acacius is forced to tell his daughter, that she will soon marry Emperor Geta and become Empress of Rome - a trade, which saved her life and that of her family, but at what cost?

warning(s): angrsty themes | semi-edited | english is not my first language, faults may occur | please let me know if i missed anything

Note: We already reached chapter 5 !?!??! Hell, yes! And we're getting further and further. So before this whole plot picks up a little more speed, i thought a small interlude feat. Acacius would be a nice little treat. The next chapter is going to be longer again.

word count: 1.7k

You stood in the archways that led to the inner garden of your family's home. The curtain of the night had already laid itself upon the sky, when you'd reached it, the haunting grin of Caracalla and the words about your father were still on your mind. He had given you no answer on why you should thank the General, and it didn't sound like it was even something to thank him for either. It was more like whatever it was it was about to benefit the Emperors. Yet you knew your father and despite him never speaking it out loud - you've noticed how much he despised the royal twins.

The night was quiet and the villa was softly illuminated by the torches, which the slaves always lit up as soon as dawn came. Your mother knew about your whereabouts, that you went off to the theater with your friends Cicero and Lydia, nothing out of the ordinary. That you met the Emperor Caracalla during your night out was neither planned nor hoped for and yet the time you'd spend alongside him in the royal box still lingered in your head. Should you tell your parents? Maybe it was best to keep it in the shadows, as you didn't want them to worry more than necessary about you.

But when you approached the garden, you heard the quiet sobbing of your dear mother from the distance. You were on your way to your rooms, yet you couldn't ignore something like this, so you stopped beside a pillar and looked down to the inner courtyard with its beautiful pond and the many plants that provided shade during the summer months. You saw between the palm trees, cedars and bushes how your mother kneeled in front of your father, while he hold her in his arms as if something terrible happened - as if someone died.

You were not able to stand it any longer without knowing what happenes, so you stepped out and made yourself noticable.

"Mother? Father? What happened?", you asked quickly, but when Acacius raised his head to look into your direction, there was nothing but pain and suffering in his eyes. The way his eyes were locked on you made your heart sink down to your feet as it was crystal clear that it might have something to do with you. "y/n...", he began, but got disrupted by the sobbing of your mother. "Tell her, Acacius! Please, you need to tell her!"

It broke your heart to see your mother in that state, huddled together and in tears. But what was even worse was the news your father would tell you right in that very moment: "y/n, you... i am sorry," he started and clearly struggled to find the right words. You've never seen your father like this. "I gave my consent to a marriage between you and Emperor Geta."

Your eyes widened and your face went pale in an instant as you froze in your position. "What do you mean?", the trembling words fell from your lips. A marriage?!

"You will marry the Emperor," Acacius repeated, his voice clear but racked with pain. And after a couple of long minutes it finally hit you like an arrow right into the heart. Your breath becme quicker and you had to sit down on one of the stone benches. In this moment you were not even able to bare the sight of your parents, while the realization kicked in. No tears came from your eyes, in fact, it even surprised your own father how you took the news. But the depiction of stoicism came at a high cost, as you clearly had to fight within you against the urge to just scream.

And your father knew that. He knew you better than anyone, you were always his sun and stars, the one person beside his wife to which he tried to come back every single time when he went off to war. Slowly your mother came back to her feet with the help of her husband, but her usual soft face was covered in tears and her eyes were swollen and red as she looked at you. "What have you done, my love... ? You need to be honest with y/n, please... i beg you. She needs to know," she whispered with an urgency in her voice and even a small amount of anger.

Your eyes ripped themselves from the pond in front of you, staring at your father, who looked at you like a broken man. "He threatened to kill you and your mother, it was the only option... trust me, i would've never agreed to it otherwise. May the gods damn me for my pride, that i thought i would be able to put them down together with the senate. It was a plan that is nothing more than dust and ashes now." Acacius rushed to you and took your hands into his, pressing them tightly as if he feared you would fade away if he didn't. "I can never forgive myself to put you into a position like that, y/n," he whispered, and for the very first time, you witnessed the fear in your father's eyes. And he feared for you.

But all those words disappeared in your ears, as you tried desperately to numb the anxiety within you. Now the words that Caracalla said to you made sense and they echoed in your head once more. Nonetheless how could you hate your father for this? You knew he did it for the sake of the people, he always fought for Rome and never for himself. This was the way he was and you would've never wanted it to be otherwise. Yet you were now the one to bear the consequences of your father's actions, a sacrifice. For the first time in your life, you were the one to protect this family... and you wanted to take this risk. Not that there was an option anyways.

So you took a deep breath and swallowed the lump in your throat, while you stood up from the bench and looked your father right into his eyes. "There is nothing we can do about it, don't we? The die is cast and we have to live with the consequences," you said, even though your voice was cracking for a moment before you took one hand of your mother and one of your father, pressing them gentle and in a reassuring way, even though you still saw how much they suffered. You were their only daughter after all and even if it wouldn't be the Emperor, a marriage always called for a daughter to leave her parents behind. "Please... i don't want you to look at me like i am already dead", you whispered with a hint of desperation as it hurt you even more that your own parents still treated you like they had to protect you from this world. If fate wanted this to happen, then you would find your way through it.

"I will marry him. If that will save my own life and yours then be it", you said again, while ran down your mothers cheeks once again as she hold your hand in ache. She said your name before her voice stopped. But in that very moment, your father stepped in and pulled you into a tight hug, holding you for a long moment that felt like an eternity. Acacius blamed himself entirely for all that was happening and in this very moment, he promised to himself that he will find a way to get you out of this situation. There was still hope, if he was able to be careful enough.

"You're my daughter, y/n... i know you will not lose yourself in this, i know it...and i will always be proud of you, no matter what...", he mumbled in reassurance, trying desperately to fullfill your wish not to treat all of this as it was your clear funeral. That wouldn't be right, he knew that too. You would live on, but at what cost?

"How much time do i have left?", you suddenly asked, while you slowly removed yourself from your father's arms. Right now the whole situation was still so unreal for you, even though you knew this will change soon enough. The brows of your father furrowed as he took your mother's hand to hold her and give her something of the strength he'd recovered - at least a bit. "Sadly Emperor Geta made sure not to waste any time with this: He expects the stipulatio (engagement promise) tomorrow, a celebration will happen at the palace to announce it publicly... and then the formal wedding will take place in two weeks, still in Juno to avoid that bad luck falls onto your union."

"As if the gods would grant him luck with a forced marriage like this," your mother mumbled, while she tried her best to wipe away her tears and regain her posture. "There are not even enough sheep in all of Rome that he could sacrifice for this..." She was still pale like a corpse due to this news, but at least she was able to regain her anger again despite the helplessness.

Your fingers buried themselves into the fabric of your pale blue toga as you recollected your thoughts. There was no time left, no real time. But did you expect it to be otherwise? In a way, a lot of women would envy you for this opportunity. Marrying an Emperor meant that you would rise up to be an Empress alongside a God, nothing was more noble and meaningful. Men fought wars to earn power and honor, women needed to take a different path in this world, marrying and bearing children - only to be sidelined by history nonetheless. You didn't want to face the same fate. And in the end you were still your father's daughter through and through, carrying the family name like a ritiualistic armor.

“Whatever anyone does or says, I must be emerald and keep my colour," you whispered a quote and your father instantly got it. With an understanding nod, a weak smile appeared on his lips.

"Marcus Aurelius...", Acacius noticed right away as it was a quote from his 'meditations' which your father had given you to read. It helped you now more than ever and the same could've been said about Acacius as well.

_________________________________

Tags:

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[chronomally]

I saw Caligula: The Ultimate Cut and honestly now I get why Peter O'Toole was so disgusted by Troy like sorry I played a deranged emperor presiding over a three-story orgy tower in 1976 your piddling noncommittal movie doesn't impress me

[idkwhylou]

𝐈𝐈. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐰𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞

Summary : Since your marriage, the distance between you and Marcus has only grown wider. Doubt settles in, hand in hand with your growing loneliness. But during a conversation with Lucilla, you come to realize something far heavier—you are even more alone than you thought.

Marcus Acacius x f!reader

Warnings : arranged marriage, mentions of suicidal thoughts (blink and you'll miss it, it's like just one sentence), cold behavior, age gap ? (not mentioned), infidelity (towards reader), secret relationship, toxic behaviour, manipulation, angst, no y/n

Words : 5,9K

A/N : this one was so hard to write, idk why. Sorry if it’s not perfect

masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

The domus was quieter than you imagined a place of such size could be. Its silence was not peaceful; it was the sound of old stone and restraint, guards who never laughed, courtyards where voices echoed too sharply. Rome, they said, was the center of the world. But for you, it felt more like a stage where everyone played a part, and you were still reading the wrong script. Your new home was beautiful, you could admit that. Even if it never quite felt like yours. The marble glowed ivory in the mornings, and the frescoes caught the changing light like painted memories, but there was something unyielding in the walls, something that did not bend to your presence. The mosaic of Gods watched you wherever you walked, their inlaid eyes judging, as though they knew you did not belong in this place. 

And yet, you did what was expected of you. Gods, even more. You learned the names of every servant in the villa, learned where they came from, and tried to address them in their own dialects—poorly at first, but with effort, and with warmth. You oversaw the household ledgers, made notes in elegant Latin, organize the pantry to accommodate both Roman and your homeland’s cuisine—dried figs wrapped in parchment, pickled lemons floating in clay jars and cinnamon sticks tied with string, sent directly from your mother’s kitchen gardens across the sea. 

You had meals prepared with quiet hope, always with some small detail meant for him. Lamb seasoned the way his men said he liked, olives pressed into the bread he often reached for first, honey-wine chilled precisely to the hour he returned. You even arranged a private dinner once, beneath the olive trees in the inner courtyard, where hanging lanterns cast golden halos through the leaves and the scent of citrus bloomed in the dusk.

He had thanked you with a nod. 

Just a nod.

A simple and quiet nod. How stupid of you.

He never ignored you, and sometimes you wish he would. That would have been easier. Cruelty had shaped, form and texture. But civility ? Civility was airless. He was always courteous, always present in body but never in soul. His answers remained clipped, delivered with military efficiency. You dared to ask once, when you saw the pale edge of a scar disappearing beneath his tunic, if it sometimes still hurt. 

 “No.” He said. And that was the end of it. 

You tried again, weeks later. He had just returned from the Senate, and you met him as he sat, pouring his wine before he even asked. “How was the council ?”

He shrugged, already reaching for a piece of bread. “As expected.”

“Do you often speak on behalf of the Emperor ?”

“When required.” He replied, cutting into the meat without ever looking at you. 

“Do you-”

“I had a long day,” he interrupted firmly, glancing sideway to your form. “Please.”

As always, you nodded and lower your gaze, retreating just before his indifference could harden into something sharper. You had learned quickly the quiet line between civility and dismissal. This time, you did not even get the chance to tell him about the meal. How you had spent half the afternoon with the chefs, your sleeves rolled up and helping to cook the roast with spices your mother had insisted you bring from home. “He should taste where you come from.” she had said, tucking the jars into your palms before you could say anything. 

But Marcus never asked, never seemed to notice, never paused, never looked at you the way husbands were supposed to look at their wives. His expressions always remained unchanged as he took his place at the table, not even looking at you. You would trace the lines of his profile over and over, trying to find the man everyone else seemed to see. He was never cruel though, never raised his voice or said anything unkind. Just detached. And somehow, that was worse. 

His silence and distance stretched on for weeks. You had already gone over it all in your mind, countless times. Was it your fault ? You barely knew each other, why did he not at least try to act like a kind husband ? Maybe he did not see the efforts you made, did not feel the quiet weight of your loneliness. Perhaps it was simply normal here, in Rome—for a man to neglect his wife so thoroughly. After all, it was so easy to hide behind duty, to wear the excuse of responsibility like armor. 

And yet, he had not even bothered to do that. He had not even tried to offer you those hollow words. Since your wedding night, he had not deigned to speak to you for more than a few clipped seconds at a time. Surely, he could not imagine what it felt like to live in this constant state of silent dismissal. And so, you tried. You held yourself together with frayed strings and stubborn hope, and each day, you persevered. Secretly, foolishly, you hoped that maybe he might change. But deep down you knew. You were not meant to except anything in return. Not from him or anyone. 

A few days later, you could not take it anymore. It had been two days since you last saw him. Two long, empty days. You wandered through the corridors of his villa like a ghost—alone, disoriented, slowly unraveling. You could not flee, that would be reckless, foolish, and so humiliating for you or your father. But the mere idea of stepping outside made your stomach twist. You could not bear the stares anymore, the judgment etched into every look. Perhaps you were discreet, yes, but not naïve. Or at least, that is what you once believed. 

The rare times Marcus allowed you to company him beyond the villa’s walls, you could feel it—the whispers, the mocking smiles, the stinging judgment. Walking beside Rome’s most revered General made you disappear in your own skin. You were not seen as a person anymore, only as a wife. Not even his. 

That morning, something inside you broke. You had risen far too late, long past the moment you always cherished: sunrise. The one constant in your days, the only faithful presence left to greet you. And even that, now, had passed you by. That day, your mother arrived at the domus unannounced, as if she felt that broken feeling from where she was. It was late in the afternoon when a servant came to your room, wide-eyed and breathless. “Domina… Your mother… She is here.”

You did not believe it until you saw her. She stood in your chamber like a mirage; her cloak dusty from travel, her hair twisted in the same thick braid she wore the day you left, the faint scent of jasmine clinging to her skin like a memory.

“I was not supposed to come.” She said as soon as you closed the doors behind her. You fell into her arms without a word, breathing her in like air after drowning. “I had to see you with my own eyes,” she whispered, cupping your face, her thumb brushing your cheek. “Letters do not hold truth. Not the kind I needed.”

Yes, the letters. It was clear you could not speak the truth in them, not fully. You could not lay bare the reality of your new life: its silence, its coldness, its invisible grief. You reminded yourself that in some strange way, you were still lucky. While you suffered in loneliness, others died in agony. That thought haunted you, shamed you even. And yet… there were moments when the weight of it became too much. Moments when you would have gladly traded places with those lives lost. When you would have offered yourself in exchange, just to be freed from this beautiful prison gilded in gold. But you could not write that—not to your mother. 

You both sat near the brazier, heads close together like the nights of your girlhood, when you had listened to the ocean wind rattling through the shutters and believed the world would always be kind to you. You felt her eyes study your face. She could see it, surely, the fatigue carved into your skin, the fine line that had deepened between your brows, born from confusion and sleepless worry. You could not let her grow more concerned than she already was, and so you spoke.

“I just did not sleep well, mother. I am fine.” But even as the words left your lips, you could not convince yourself.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Then softly, with the heaviness of someone who already knew the answer, she asked, “He sleeps elsewhere ?”

You hesitated. Then nodded.

“I thought it might be… a slow beginning,” you said, though even the words felt thin now. “I thought if I gave him peace, he would give me trust.”

She looked at you with a gaze you had never seen in her before, something almost sacred. There was no use in lying anymore. Not when her eyes saw through every wall you had built. Not when they refused to let you hide anymore. “I tried, mother. Every day, I try. I make this house a home. I speak his tongue, follow his customs. But I think… I think I am only another one of his duties.”

Your mother exhaled through her nose, not sharply, but in sorrow. She reached for your hand, her fingers soft and warm against yours. “There are men,” she said gently, “who wear armor inside their skin. Even when there is no more war to fight.”

You looked at her completely lost, your voice a whisper. “But am I not enough reason to take it off ?”

She did not answer immediately. Her gaze drifted to the window, where the rooftops of Rome caught the last rays of sun, burnished gold and cruelly beautiful. 

“He may learn,” she said at last. “Or he may not. But you, my daughter, are not here to be small.”

You pressed your forehead to her shoulder and stayed there, unmoving, wrapped in her quiet warmth. For a moment, you let yourself forget the silence of the halls, the weight of your own unanswered questions. She said nothing because she did not need to. Her presence alone was enough, like a balm laid gently over skin that had long since learned to ache in silence. You breathed her in, that faint familiar scent of crushed herbs and something maternal you could never name, and clung—not to her exactly, but to the feeling she brought. The reminder that there was still softness in this world. That someone, somewhere, still saw you.

She left before nightfall, as if she feared to overstay in a home that was never truly yours to begin with. Or maybe she was too furious to risk running into Marcus. You walked her to the threshold, fingers reluctant to let go, your mouth forming the barest thank-you that did not even touch what you wanted to say. Her departure felt like waking from a dream you were already mourning, like the kind you chase back into your pillow, only to find it slipping further each time.

That evening, you sat at the long marble table once more. Alone. Again. The light from the candles trembled faintly along the gold detailing of the walls, too bright for the mood that clung to the air like fog. His chair remained untouched, the embroidery on its cushion undented, preserved in its quiet defiance. The food cooled slowly on the plates, but you could not bring yourself to lift the fork. You stared down at your wine—red, still, and full—as though it might hold some answer at the bottom of the cup. But it did not. It never did actually.

There was no anger in you. Not that night. Just a familiar hollowness, settling in again like an old companion. You sat there, in the vastness of a home that had never felt like yours, and wondered how long it would take for the sound of your own thoughts to drown you.

You would try again tomorrow, you promised yourself.

And the next day.

And the next.

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

But there were patterns you could no longer ignore. The day Marcus finally decided to make his grand return, he gave no explanation for his strange and prolonged absence. Nothing. Not a word. And in the days that followed, nothing changed. The same distance. The same evasive glances. He slipped right back into his silence, as though he had never been gone.

As thought you had never waited

He left earlier in the mornings. Returned later. Sometimes did not come home at all until the moon hung low and pale, and even then, he would pass your chambers without a word, smelling faintly of perfume that was not yours. The scent so faint it might have been imagined. But it was not. And yet, it clung to him like smoke after flame, unsettlingly familiar. You tried to place it once, standing alone by the doorway long after he had gone—that note of crushed rose and some darker resin beneath—but your memory gave you nothing. Just unease. 

You could not let the weight of it settle without resistance. You owed yourself the truth, or at the very least, the effort to seek it. So, you began to watch, to listen, to gather the pieces one by one as the days unfolded. And yet, something refused to align. As if a part of the puzzle had been carved to deceive, beautiful on the surface but wrong in its shape.

You began to see things with new eyes. The way certain hours of the day were always unaccounted for. The way Lucilla began to arrive unannounced. The way she never glanced at you directly, but smiled as if she knew a secret you did not. The way the servants went silent in her presence, and even more silent in yours after she left.

That evening, a dinner had been arranged. Not grand enough to warrant togas stiff with ceremony, nor quiet enough to be dismissed as informal. A gathering, modest in size but laced with the kind of expectation that only Rome could dress in such refined stillness. You had prepared for it without thought, your fingers guiding the clasp of your dress, smoothing the folds, pinning your hair—motions you had long since stopped attaching meaning to. 

The seat at Marcus’s left awaited you, as it always did, and you sat there before the others arrived, your hands folded gently in your lap, your spine held by an invisible thread of composure. He was beside you already, not late for once, but silent, cloaked in the same guarded stillness he wore as naturally as his mantle of command.

He had not said much. Well, he rarely did. But for a moment, his eyes had lingered on you simply… observing. As if trying to remember something that refused to take shape. You could feel the weight of his presence more than you could feel the shape of it. And when you dared glance toward him, there was nothing in his expression that betrayed thought or feeling. Just distance.

Then she arrived.

Lucilla swept into the atrium with the poise of someone who had once belonged to the place and never truly left. Her dress was a muted gold that caught the light just enough to seem effortless, the shade almost the same as the skin at her throat. Her hair was gathered with a kind of calculated ease, too graceful to be accidental, too loose to be innocent. Her voice followed her, soft and warm, full of the kind of charm that made people lean in just slightly, as if wanting to catch a secret they knew she would not give.

You felt Marcus shifting beside you, so subtly it might have been nothing. But you knew his silences well by now. You knew the way his body tensed, not from danger, but recognition. His gaze moved—past the servants, past the senators already halfway rising in greeting—and settled on her. Not with shock. Not with longing. But with that heavy pause, the kind that stretched a single moment wide enough to fit years inside.

He looked at her as one looks at a place they have once been and both long for and regret.

It was not dramatic. No drawn breath, no visible stiffening. But it was enough. Enough for your own gaze to falter, your stomach to dip, your throat to tighten. And when at last he turned to you, his greeting quiet and courteous, it did not matter what he said. The pain lay not in the words, but in the ease with which he spoke them, as though you were no more than any other guest at his side.

Dinner passed like mist. The roasted duck, crisped with honey and thyme, the jeweled lentils, the pine nuts glistening with oil. You registered none of it. Their voices moved around you, threading together with the practiced smoothness of people who had spoken many times before in places you had not been invited. Lucilla never raised her voice, never pressed, well she did not need to. Her control was in the softness of it, in the practiced pauses, in the way her laughter folded at the edges of his words as if they had rehearsed the timing in another life. And Marcus… Marcus responded with a familiarity that asked for no explanation. One that told you enough.

You smiled when you had to. You answered when spoken to. But each movement felt like wading through something thick, something that clung to your skin. The wine was too warm. The candlelight too bright. The scent of pomegranate and spiced oils made your chest tighten. And when Lucilla laughed—that delicate, curved laugh—it was not jealousy that came. It was the confirmation of a quiet truth; one you had tried to ignore. That you were sitting beside him, but he was somewhere else entirely.

You excused yourself before the final course, fingers trembling slightly as you set your napkin down. No one stopped you. Marcus did not even turn, his shoulder already leaning, just slightly, toward hers. His hand rested near his cup, fingers curled in a way that invited the space between them to narrow. You stood slowly, brushing your fingers once more along the cool edge of the table before turning away to the gardens. 

The night clung to your skin like silk, warm despite the breeze, the air heavy with something darker and unspoken. You did not look back as you crossed the peristyle, just moved, half-guided by the rhythm of your breath and the dull ache that now lived beneath your ribs, quieter than before but no less present.

Inside, the murmur of conversation spilled gently from the triclinium. You did not return to it. Instead, you lingered in the antechamber, half-shadowed beneath a tall candle, where the flickering light painted gold across the stone floor. Here, the house felt quieter. Removed. As though you had stepped just slightly outside the world everyone else still inhabited.

Then you saw her.

She rose from her seat with the same fluid elegance she wore like a second skin—unhurried, unannounced. There was no drama to it, no glance cast around the room. Only the subtle gathering of her shawl, the way her hand trailed for the briefest moment across the back of Marcus’s chair, and then—

She moved.

Out into the corridor, past the columns, toward the garden. You hesitated. There was no reason to follow her. No purpose, no justification. But your feet had already begun to move before your thoughts could intervene. Maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was guilt. Or maybe it was the simple, awful need to understand—her, him, or yourself. You did not knew anymore.

You told yourself that you only stepped into the garden because the air inside felt too thick, because your thoughts screamed too loudly within the echoing silence of your own restraint. So, then, you wandered past the stone columns, past the still water of the fountain, trying to find a breath that did not burn. At least, that is what you tried to convince yourself.

You caught her beneath the laurel arch—the same one you used to stand under at dawn, waiting for the first light—and it hit you all at once. The scent. Not the sweetness of garden herbs or fresh linen, but something richer. A fragrance you had noticed once on Marcus’s cloak, faint and persistent, clinging where your hands had never touched. At the time, you had told yourself it was a stranger’s, a passing trace from a crowded room.

But now, in the dark, under the stars, it wrapped around you again—and this time it had a name.

Suddenly, everything snapped back into place. 

It was her perfume you scent on Marcus’ shadow. 

The one she had worn the night you first met her, when she leaned in too close with a smile that was too sweet. You remembered it—the way it clung to her skin, expensive and deliberate, a scent that marked territory without needing words. She belonged in this house more than you did. 

The garden exhaled cool air around her as she stepped into the night. Silver light softened the sharpness of her shoulders, catching in her hair like it had been placed there on purpose. You felt invisible, walking behind her. Like a ghost in someone else’s story. She reached the edge of the walkway and turned. Slowly. Not startled. Not surprised. As though she had already known you were there. Her eyes met yours, and she offered you a smile.

That smile—soft and polished, serene as temple marble. It held no suspicion, no tension. You had seen her offer that same expression to Marcus, across the atrium, when she thought no one was looking. Now, that same look was yours. Somehow that made it worse.

“You walk like someone carrying a secret,” she said gently, almost amused, but without cruelty. “Do you need something from me ?” Her voice was so gentle, and she looked at you with such tenderness. There was something kind, something genuinely good that seemed to radiate from her presence.

And yet, you did not know how to answer. Your mouth was dry. Your thoughts rushed forward too fast and tripped over themselves. Lucilla waited. She always waited—not with impatience, but with the calm of someone who had already played this scene before. 

“I did not mean to follow you.” You murmured eventually.

“But you did.” There was no bite in it. Just a simple truth spoken without judgment.

You dropped your eyes to the stone floor and nodded, heat crawling up your throat. She turned slightly, looking toward the laurel trees that danced softly in the breeze. “It is quiet here at night,” she said, voice distant. “I like to walk when the house sleeps.”

“I do too.” You replied. “But tonight, I could not.”

Lucilla glanced sideway at you. “Why not ?”

You did not answer. You could not, at least not without unraveling. Instead, you asked the question you had not dared until now. “How long have you known him ?”

A pause. Just long enough to feel measured. “A long time,” she said eventually. “Before the wars. Before he learned how to wield silence like a weapon.” Lucilla kept her gaze fixed straight ahead when you finally reached her side. Her back was straight, her hands clasped neatly behind her, as if she was reciting something she had long since committed to memory.

The answer struck something in you. A note of truth so resonant it almost hurt. “He acts different with you,” you confessed. “Not soft, but… closer.”

Lucilla tilted her head without looking at you, as if she had not anticipated this. Suddenly, there was nothing soft left in her voice. Her brows drew together in a sharp frown, and even before she spoke, you could feel the irritation radiating from her, pulsing off her body like heat from sunbaked stone. “He knows I am not asking for more than he is ready to give.”

The honesty of it stung more than you excepted. “So you think he is cold with me because I expect something real ?” The words came out sharper than you intended. Not because you wanted to wound her, but because you no longer knew how to ask gently for something that kept slipping through your fingers. 

She did not flinch, of course she did not. She titled, once again, her head slightly, like someone measuring a fragile object for cracks. Her voice, when it came, was smooth but laced with that certain knowing that made your spine straighten in defense. 

“I think Marcus fears depth,” she said carefully, each word placed like a stone. “Not because he lacks it. But because he gave it once, and what he gave was lost. That kind of wound does not bleed anymore. It calcifies. It teaches you to guard what you love by never letting it be loved again.”

You stood very still.

She had been kind to you when you arrived—warm, even. The only one who had offered you a true smile, a soft touch of welcome when everything else had felt like ceremony and silence. You remembered how gently she spoke that first night, how it had made you feel seen for the first time since your arrival. But, that memory now flared like a sting against your skin, the contrast unbearable.

“So he lets you in,” you said, and it came out colder than you meant. “That is how you know.”

Her eyes narrowed, just a little. Not enough to seem angry, but just enough to make it clear she had heard what you were really saying. “I have known Marcus longer than anyone in this house,” she said, and though her tone was soft, it carried an unmistakable edge. “I have seen what he is like when no one is watching. What he hides from even himself. That sort of knowledge does not come from title or proximity. It comes from surviving with someone.”

You felt your stomach twist. “But you, are not his wife.” You replied, and your voice wavered between defiance and desperation.

Something flickered in her gaze then. Something proud, something ancient. But her smile did not falter. If anything, it grew fainter. Sadder. “No,” she said. “I am not. Which is why I can afford to be honest with him.”

You scoffed, unable to stop yourself, “Honesty… You two seem to treat it with a luxury, not a principle.” 

The words settled like ice between you.

“Are you implying something ?” She asked quietly.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. When Lucilla finally took a step back, it was not with the grace of a victor. It was slower, smaller, measured perfectly to make you feel as though you had struck first.

“I did not realize that you thought so little of me.” Her voice trembled just slightly, just enough. 

You opened your mouth—whether to apologize or defend yourself, you did not even know yourself—but she was already turning away, her posture tense with something between pride and sorrow. Her eyes did not narrow, and neither she raised her voice. 

“I have only ever been kind to you,” she said, and her voice was maddeningly calm. “Even when I did not have to be. Even when others would not.”

You opened your mouth to reply, but no words came fast enough. She went on, her gaze never breaking from yours. “From the moment you arrived, I treated you with warmth. I welcomed you into a world that is colder than you realize. And still-” she shook her head lightly, not in anger, but something quieter. “Still, you speak to me like I am your rival. Worse—your enemy.”

There was no venom in her tone. That made it worse. Your pulse had risen seconds ago, chest tight with something sharp and defensive. But now that heat began to dull, giving way to something heavier. Shame crept in, slow and low, curling around the anger like a vine around stone.

“I did not mean to…” You started, your voice thin.

She stepped back half a pace—not retreating, just drawing a boundary.

“I have lived long enough to recognize fear when it wears the mask of cruelty,” she said, softer now. “You are not the first woman to feel lost in his silence. But you might be the first to take it out on someone who is only ever offered you understanding.”

It landed with the weight of truth. No accusations. Just… quiet disappointment. Your throat tightened. You had not expected kindness to be a weapon, and now it was turned inward, piercing something you did not know was vulnerable. All the words you had flung like stones—suspicion, jealousy, hurt—suddenly felt childish, small.

“I did not mean to-” You said, barely audible. 

But Lucilla did not wait for you to finish. She turned, not in fury but in sorrow, and walked away with the silence of someone who no longer needed to defend herself. And as her figure slipped between the marble pillars and into the night, your anger left with her. Replaced by a quiet ache, dull and sinking. You stood there, hands clenched at your sides, and felt it bloom behind your ribs: you had wounded the only person who had offered you kindness in this house.

And somehow, that hurt more than any of the silence Marcus had ever given you.

And you hated yourself a little for it.

You breathed out slowly, the tension in your shoulders beginning to unravel, even as your chest remained tight. You had let suspicion get the better of you. Gods, you had followed her like a shadow, had spoken too sharply, had thrown barbed questions like someone preparing for betrayal. And she had not met you with cruelty. Now, in the silence of the empty courtyard, it was not anger you felt anymore. It was shame.

What had you done ?

Lucilla had smiled at you. That soft, slow smile she always wore like a veil, neither warm nor cold, simply practiced. And still you had doubted her. She was his friend. His oldest companion, maybe the only person who had known him before the walls went up. Of course they were close. And yet you had questioned it. Accused her, even if you had not meant to. Your voice had been edged with fear, your words too pointed, too raw.

She must think you are fragile, insecure, a jealous child playing dress-up in a home too grand for you. You sat down slowly on the fountain’s edge, fingertips brushing the cold marble. The night felt softer now. The air cooler, clearer. You told yourself it was relief. Still, something gnawed at you. Not doubt in Lucilla’s words… but in yourself. You had let that perfume, that glance, that silence turn into something else in your mind. You had let yourself spin shadows into stories. And now you were left with the sour taste of regret. 

You stayed in the garden, head tilted to the stars you could not name, trying to gather yourself. You had wanted truth, but now that it was offered, it felt heavier than you expected.

You did not hear the steps at first.

The garden held too many sounds; the wind threading through the laurels, the soft ripple of the fountain in the dark, your own breath, shallow and uneven in your chest. But when the footsteps stopped behind you, not heavy, not urgent, just there. You felt it before you turned. A shift in the night air. A stillness pressing in.

Marcus.

Standing just beyond reach.

“Why are you still out here ?” His voice was quiet. Careful like a blade turned flat so as not to cut.

You did not turn to face him yet. Your fingers brushed the edge of the marble, grounding yourself. “I needed air,” you said softly. “To clear my head.”

A pause followed. Not long, but long enough to carry weight. You could almost hear him choosing his next words. “Lucilla seemed… upset.”

You winced. You hated how easily your body betrayed your guilt, how quickly the shame surfaced. “That is my fault.” You said before you could stop yourself.

He waited.

But you did not elaborate.

You could not. The words burned in your throat, too tangled to set free.

“I thought…” You shook your head, staring out at the dark curve of the garden. “It does not matter anymore.”

“I see.”

You turned to him then. Slowly. You did not know what you were looking for in his face, a crack in the calm, perhaps. A glimpse of something real. Or maybe just permission to say what needed to be said.

“She told me there is nothing between the two of you,” you said, your voice barely more than breath. “That she only knows the shape of your silences.”

Something flickered behind his eyes. Not surprise. Not guilt. Just the faintest withdrawal, like a man pulling his hand from a fire he had not realized was lit. “She is been a part of my life a long time.” He replied, and his voice held nothing but truth. Clean, uncomplicated. The kind that did not defend, but did not deny.

“I know.” You whispered.

And now you did. You should have the moment you saw them together; the familiarity that ran deeper than words. The ease of shared pain. There was nothing seductive in it, only something private. That was what stung.

“I think I was unkind,” you admitted. The words tasted strange in your mouth, raw and half-formed. “I let fear turn me into something cruel. I made her feel unwelcome. And she is been… kind to me. From the beginning.”

He looked at you then. Really looked. Not like someone observing, or assessing, or simply fulfilling the role of husband. But like a man seeing the ache that had no name. The hollow behind the eyes. The tired slope of your shoulders. You did not look away.

“You were not cruel,” he said, after a pause long enough for the wind to shift. “Just hurt.”

The word landed softly. Hurt. No embellishment. No dismissal. And somehow, it was worse than blame. Because it was true. Something inside you gave. Not entirely, not visibly, but enough to feel it: a slow loosening of the knot you had been carrying behind your ribs for weeks. Your throat tightened. For a moment, you thought you might cry. Not from sorrow, but from the unbearable relief of being seen.

But you did not.

Instead, you stood up. Your voice was steadier now when you said, “I am going to bed.”

He nodded once. You moved past him, your steps slow, your breath measured. But this time—this time—you felt it as you passed:

He turned.

Not to stop you. Not yet. But to watch. To follow not with his body, but with something else. With thought. With attention. And though nothing was spoken, you carried the echo of it with you into the darkness. Only when they stopped behind you did you sense him. Marcus, standing just beyond reach.

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

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[absurdthirst]

Kinktober 2024: October 2nd

Day 2: Piercing // Double Penetration // Voyeurism

Oberyn Martell x F!Reader x Marcus Acacius

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 2.4k

Warnings: Threesomes, oil as lube, unprotected sex, double penetrations, two cocks/one hole, mentions of pleasurable pain, mentions of bisexuality, cream pie

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Click Keep Reading only if you have read the Rating and Warnings and understand the warnings may not be complete to avoid listing spoilers. As AO3 says 'creator chooses not to use warnings'. You also agree that you're the right age to be consuming anything here.

It is not often that Oberyn Martell is surprised. He has seen things, experienced things along his travels. Riding with the Second Sons and brawling in the fighting pits of Mereen. A Prince of Dorne, he has done as he pleased and as a result, he has carved out a reputation as the Red Viper and not limited himself on the pleasures of the flesh. 

Setting his cup down, he leans forward, his eyes disbelieving and he shakes his head. “You have never shared a woman?” He demands. “Or a man? It is possible if the man in question is experienced enough.” He huffs and continues on. “Truly? You did not have a whore suck your cock while she was plowed by another? Or shared her tight cunt, stretched over both of your cocks?” His voice is dripping with disbelief and awe that such a pleasure would be denied to the general in front of him. “Or perhaps a cock in her ass and another in her cunt? None of those pleasures have been bestowed upon you?”

The strong, sweet Dornish wine nearly goes up his nose as Marcus Acacius chokes at the blunt way of speaking that the prince has. He has discovered that this man, royalty, is plain speaking and can be biting if provoked, his wit sharp and his dagger sharper. From what he has found since arriving in the seat of the territory of Dorne, he has found all of its people to be bold and brash in a way that makes him envious. 

“No.” He shakes his head and sets the cup down on the table that he is seated at with the prince. Answering the questions that he has and asking his own of this realm that seems so different from Rome. “There were orgies, but I- I was often training with the men.” He explains. “I did not attend many events.”

That makes Oberyn snort and shake his head, his other hand stroking your thigh idly as you lounge on his lap. “He didn’t attend the orgies, Dove.” He murmurs to you, glancing at your lips and leaning in to steal a kiss simply because the urge takes him. 

Marcus shifts, glancing away from the moment because it seems that the prince has no qualms about showcasing his affection for you in front of anyone. He’s not immune to attraction, he’s had his own share of women and a few men, but it was always just a singular encounter. 

You know what Oberyn is thinking the second that his hand slides under your thin, silky dress. Bare underneath and already wet for him as his fingers dance up your thighs as his tongue slides against yours. Used to the way his mind works and the way that he will demand that pleasures be explored. Cupping his cheeks, you pull back from the kiss to peck his lips and turn to look at the general as he stares at the banner that hangs on the wall behind the table. The banner of house Martell. 

“He is handsome.” You concede playfully, giving voice to the thoughts that are mirroring his own. You know that Oberyn is attracted to the other man, even if he is older than Oberyn himself. Your finger runs down the edge of Oberyn’s jaw as Marcus’s head snaps back towards you, his eyes wide when he hears your words. “I would not mind taking his cock.” 

You talk about him as if he wasn’t there. Boldly and bluntly, just like the man you are seated on. Noticing that Oberyn’s fingers are drawing your dress up, he quickly glances away and tries to ignore the low chuckle of amusement. 

"What about both of us, Dove?” He nearly chokes again when he hears the question and underneath the soft linen tunic he is wearing, his cock twitches despite his shock. 

You tut, leaning in and kissing the bare skin above the thin line of hair that frames his jaw. “As if I would have it any other way, lover.” You huff, moving back and nipping his ear with your teeth to make him hiss. Your eyes watch Marcus and you smirk when he doesn’t look outraged at the prospect. 

“A cunt is a glorious thing.” Oberyn reaches down and taps your thigh with the hand that is not pushing your dress up and you obliged him, spreading your legs so that the general can see your cunt. “It stretches to birth our children,” he coos, slowly stroking your folds and you watch as the general’s eyes are very closely following his movements. “You do not think that your cock will fit with mine?”

His mouth is dry and he gulps down a swallow of the wine, nearly slamming the cup down and he clears his throat. “I had not thought of it in that way. He admits, licking his lips and finding himself more than intrigued by how it would feel. 

The prince smirks and leans in to kiss your jaw below your ear. “Go make sure his cock is hard enough for you to sink down on.” He tells you, pulling his hand away and letting you stand to move over to the other man. 

This is happening. Marcus watches you and there is little smugness in his stature as he opens his arms for you to straddle him. His cock will not be a problem, already hard and starting to lift the folds of his tunic when you lean in to kiss him. You are a beautiful woman after all.

He's not shy about kissing you once your lips are pressed together. You know that the general would not be untried but it is thrilling to know that he can take command like your lover. It will make an interesting combination. 

His hands are surprisingly greedy as he pulls your thin dress off your body. The sword calloused hands scraping deliciously on your skin as he palms your tits and then your ass. 

You know your lover is watching, he enjoys watching you when you want pleasure with another. 

His tunic is easily removed and you enjoy the differences between the men you will have tonight. Marcus is broader, fuller in his chest and arms than your Red Viper. Both men are strong, deadly, but in contrasting ways. If you think of Oberyn as a spear, then Marcus would be a battering ram. 

You are wet enough that it is easy to sink down onto the thick cock of the Roman general. Making him moan into your mouth and his hips jerk up, pushing deeper until he is buried deep. Oberyn hums behind you, the shuffling of fabric telling of his own clothes being removed and you turn to find him with a hand around his cock as he slowly strokes himself. 

“Are you- sure you can take both of us?” Marcus pants, his own eyes fixed on the prince’s cock and feeling slightly doubtful since he knows his own is just as impressive. “Will it not hurt?”

Your eyes flutter slightly and your walls tighten around his cock as you think about it. “Some hurt feels good.” You admit breathlessly, “the pinch of pain will be far outweighed by the pleasure.” 

The scented oil that Oberyn keeps on his belt is used, applied to his cock and you smile when you hear the slickness of it. “The prince will make sure that it is good.” You coo to Marcus. “That oil helps, much better than spit.” Turning your head, you nip his earlobe with your teeth, making him moan again. 

Marcus holds you waist, waiting to be instructed as Oberyn moves behind you. Your prince caresses your ass and reaches down, his hand cupping the balls of the other man and the root of his cock, chuckling when he groans loudly and twitches inside you. 

“He will be good in our bed.” Oberyn kisses your shoulder, letting go of Marcus to turn your head towards his for a kiss. Tender and brief before he is leaning in and pressing his chest against your back, his hips shuffling closer. 

Marcus can do nothing more than to hold you still, almost breathless as he feels the head of the other man’s cock slide against the base of his shaft and press against it. He’s had a cock pressed against his before, but this is different, his cock already being tightly held by your cunt gives this a new sensation. 

“Let me in, Dove.” Oberyn coos, caressing your back as he adjusts slightly, finding the perfect position to push the head of his cock inside you. 

Moaning, you lean into Marcus’s chest, already breathing heavily as Oberyn rocks his hips shallowly, slowly letting the head slip inside you before he groans your name. “She is tighter now, no?” Oberyn chuckles at the way the general’s eyes seem to glaze over in passion, his fingers digging into your hips to anchor you to his lap. 

It’s intense, there is no way that it could be anything but when you have two well endowed men occupying the same space inside your body. Every gasp and whimper of pleasure that comes from any of the three of you makes you wetter, your cunt gushing and dripping over their cocks. Adding Oberyn’s entrance and making it even more pleasurable as Marcus gets the added sensation of having his cock stroked without even moving. 

When his hips are flush against your ass, all of you moan. “She is- fuck-” Marcus groans, closing his eyes and his cock pulses inside you, already close to cumming. “It- I can’t-”

Oberyn chuckles breathlessly and reaches around you to caress the general’s cheek. “He is overwhelmed, Dove.” He coos, enjoying the wrecked look on the other man’s face. His own cock twitches inside you, eager to move. 

“Move.” You gasp out, your eyes slipping closed as you relax. “Both of you. I want to feel you.” You can feel Marcus’s thighs trembling, the unspent energy in his arms as he starts to lift you off his cock slowly as Oberyn pulls his hips back.

You whimper, feeling achingly empty as both men pull back to where just the tips of their cocks are inside you, only to make you yelp when they drive back into your body in unison. Oberyn growls and Marcus moans, each man taken with the feeling and your reaction to it. 

It seems to break something inside the Roman general, his lips finding yours in a passionate kiss while he starts to pump his hips up, driving his cock into you at a pace that steals your voice. 

You can tell he’s lost in the pleasure, the scrubbing of the two cocks against one another as the pace shifts to alternating thrusts, the constant friction that is aided by the oil and the slick of your cunt as it weeps in pleasure from their attention. Moans lift to the heavens and are breathed into your skin when he pulls away from your lips to bury his face into your breasts. 

Oberyn is never a passive lover, his hands stroke your body, cupping your tits as Marcus descends into them, his clever fingers teasing your nipples until you are moaning in ecstasy.

 The steady buildup is almost maddening as the angle of Marcus’s cock pierces something deep inside you and makes you beg for more. Every thrust feels like they are pushing into your stomach, stretching you out even more. They are using your cunt and you love it, the desperation in Marcus’s thrusts is matched by Oberyn’s, each man working towards their goal of pleasure and making you scream. 

Curses tumble from their lips and yours, everything forgotten but the way they feel buried inside you. Every time they pull their hips back, your body mourns the loss of the fullness but the perfect moment where both cocks are even inside you makes up for it. 

They push you higher, every thrust makes your body sing and light up in utter hedonistic bliss. “Marcus - Oberyn!” Your eyes roll back, body poised to be pulled apart by the next thrust while your core curls in on itself. Lighting up, your body heaves and bucks between theirs pressing into you. Keeping you in place while they rock into your cunt over and over again. The next cry is even louder, your cunt spasming around their lengths as you soak them in hot waves of slick. 

Marcus hisses, white hot pleasure racing up his spine as he drives his hips up. Giving over to the needs of his body as he manages to pump into your three or four more times before he is trying to bury himself deep into your cunt. 

Oberyn moans, feeling the heat of his spend filling you, coating both of their cocks as he continues to work in and out of your cunt. His teeth clenched together as he reaches down and swipes some of the other man’s seed mixed with your juices to taste. 

Groaning, his pace picks up, his hips slapping against your ass furiously to make up for the fact that the general is starting to soften inside you. “You enjoyed yourself.” He observes breathlessly, smirking at the other man’s relaxed and drained expression. Like he had just exhausted himself. You moan and clench down around them both again, making Oberyn moan your name. 

“Fuck yes.” Marcus chuckles, watching in awe as the prince continues to fuck you, his cock still sliding against his and making him twitch even though he is spent for the moment. It makes him wish he was younger and could harden again almost instantly. Finding the entire thing the most addictive and erotic thing that he’s ever done in his life. Enthralled when the prince stiffens, pushing deep and flooding your already filled cunt with another wave of hot cum. 

All of you pant, you lean against the general’s chest and listen to his heart beat as he reaches down and gathers the combined fluids from all of you, bringing them up to lick his own fingers clean with a groan. “What do you think of it now, Acacius?” Oberyn asks, grinning when you clench around them again. 

“I think we will need to do that again.” Marcus hums, grinning lazily and wondering what other pleasure he will find while he is in Dorne.

[slaytheusurper]

⭑ The Battle of Salamis ⭑ (Domina Mea, Chapter Two)

Masterlist

A/N: Acacius is STRESSIN! Protective daddy Acacius has my heart though- also I know an extra seat doesn't fit between the thrones in the movie but in this fic it does!

Pairing: Emperor Caracalla & Geta x Noble!Reader

Warnings: Inaccurate sharks, argument reader/acacius, crumbling relationships, blood/battle, mentions of whores, depraved fantasies of hot sexy gingers (+18 themes), subtle flirting and touching.

Summary: The twin emperors obsession with you grows and no one will stop them from getting what they want, not even a General.

Word count: 3.1k

Geta and Caracalla were both seated on their luxurious settee, watching as two concubines pulled their garments slowly off each other. Neither emperor could focus or enjoy much of the show however. Their minds were filled with the General's daughter, Geta could only think about how beautiful your curves looked, and your lips, oh how sweet they would taste.

Caracalla imagined your breasts and how he could nip and suck at them while you whined for more. He was hard at the thought, a daydream in his mind riling him up more than the plain looking concubines undressing in front of him. Geta felt only irritation simmer at the sight of the now naked bodies, before he met Acacius’ daughter, this would’ve got him going.

But now, all he could think about was how much prettier you were, more innocent, higher status and liked by the people. The two in front of him were just bodies and nothing more. Geta and Caracalla were so far sunken in their daydreams they didn’t hear the female concubines question. “Your majesty? What would you like us to do?” 

Geta snapped back into focus, with one glance at his twin, he could tell Caracalla had the same thing on his mind. “Get out.” The girls looked confused. “Caesar?” Caracalla’s frustration grew. “Get out now!” The whores scrambled their clothes together before hurrying out of the room. “Why are they so- plain, all of a sudden?” Geta said while rubbing his temples.

His brother agreed, then, they shared a look. “How about that other one brother, she looks the most- like her.” Geta grinned, Caracalla ordered one of the Praetorians to bring in the other whore. “We’ll share her. You her mouth, I her cunt.” Caracalla giggled at his brother's words. If they couldn’t have you, they would pretend, for now. 

Macrinus didn’t stay too long, and for some reason Lucilla refused to tell you about why he was visiting. Something you did know however was that Macrinus was not the man he made himself out to be. By the time he left, you were tired and spent the evening in your room reading some scrolls about the creation of Rome. And when you were too tired, you closed your eyes, dreaming of them. 

The next morning you were eating some bread and fruits with your father and Lucilla. He still hadn’t spoken to you much, only when necessary. Even though you somewhat understood his frustration about the emperors, you didn’t see why he made this about you. “Father?” Acacius hummed in response. “Are you going to speak to me or ignore me the whole of the games?” Lucilla looked at him with worry in her eyes. 

Did something happen you did not know of? He sighed and put down the chunk of bread he was chewing on. This time the servants were not around. “I don’t like the way the emperors involve you in their sick games.” You looked at him confused. He shared a look with Lucilla before speaking again. “I want you to be safe, the more you are around the emperors, the less safe you are.” You scoffed at him.

“Oh please father, why would they hurt me? I didn’t do anything wrong and they seem to tolerate me, so I don’t understand why you are this concerned.” Acacius seemed to want to tell you something but he stopped himself. “The emperors are- irrational, and headstrong. If they want something, they will get it.” Lucilla answered for him in a softer voice.

“So?” You shrugged. “They do in fact seem to like you, more than they should.” Your father gruffed out. “How is this a bad thing?” You almost blushed at hearing his words, in the back of your mind you knew the emperors were bad men, with horrible intentions but they looked so good while doing it.

“I realize that you don’t know much yet, about men. And the ways of...marriage.” Lucilla explained, “If they decide that one of them would marry you, then we can’t protect you, unless we hide you but that would be difficult.” Your brows furrowed. “I would like you to stay home today, is the point.” Acacius urged.

“What? No! I want to go! I want to see the battle that is supposed to take place today!” Your father was taken by surprise at your defiance, his little girl that did as he asked with no questions was clearly no longer residing in you. “No. Do not go against me. I am your father and you will do as I say.” 

“But-” Lucilla took your hand and took you to the gardens. “Please, let me come with you, I want to go.” Lucilla set you down on one of the stone benches, “Listen to me, it will be alright. I promise, I cannot say more but soon you will see.” You couldn’t believe it, usually your step-mother was a lot more lenient, so why was she so insisting now? 

You paced around angrily in the garden while your father and Lucilla left for the games. Mauling over why they were being so difficult, they obviously didn’t want you near the emperors, but what if you wanted to be? And what if they wanted you to? Surely their word goes above the generals?

Macrinus once again met Lucilla and Acacius at the colosseum, his eyes darting around, he noticed that someone was missing. “General, good day to you. Your daughter is not with you today?” Lucilla clasped her husband's hand, his irritation already clear as day. “No, she was quite tired, so we left her to rest at home.” Macrinus hummed in response. “Well, follow me then.” He said, leading Acacius and Lucilla up the stairs. 

Reaching the top, the emperors were already standing there. “Your majesties.” General Acacius bowed, Lucilla matching him. Geta and Caracalla both looked past their shoulders and Lucilla could feel Acacius tense up. “Where is she?” Caracalla asked, Dondas nibbling on his hair.

“If you are referring to my daughter, she is at home, resting. Caesar.” He tried his best to sound as respectful as possible but he was fearing the worst. “Why? She should be here. The naval battle we have for today is something she must witness.” Geta too tried to sound kind, but his disappointment was obvious. “She was quite tired from yesterday, your majesty.” Lucilla tried to cut their conversation off but she had a feeling they would not let it go.

“Nonsense, she should be here,” Geta then gestured for Macrinus to come closer, “Fetch her, she wouldn’t want to miss this.” Macrinus nodded before gesturing for some guards to follow him. “I guess we will have to wait a bit longer, General, but no matter, I am sure this mistake, will not happen again.” Geta stated. Acacius did not trust himself to speak, giving the emperor a curt nod instead. 

The orange tree smelled fresh and amazing this time of year, and so with a basket in your hand, you picked them. You needed something to do after your ‘disagreement’ with your father. You had, in this time, slightly admitted to yourself that he was right. You understood why he was so protective of you in this dangerous city, but that didn’t change the little crush you had on the emperors. 

How could you not? Not only were they handsome but they dressed well and smelled surprisingly nice with all the essential oils they probably used in their baths. But the power and might they showed, now that was attractive. You wanted to know them better, wanted to know what they were like when left alone. Would they still be as vicious and ruthless- or softer and kind?

Being unmarried also meant that you didn’t really know what that entailed, but you wanted to. In the later years while you were blossoming, your father had received some critique for not having married you off yet. However you knew why, he wasn’t around much but that didn’t mean he didn’t love you. He wanted you safe and at the one place where he could always protect you. 

An orange fell out of your hand as you tried to pick two, when you picked it up, you heard raised voices from the courtyard of the estate, which was only one wall away. Your heart rate picked up when the door leading to the garden you were standing in, opened. Four Praetorians came into view, as well as Macrinus. “My Lady, I did not mean to frighten you, the emperors have simply requested your presence at the games. Would you come with us?” 

“Of course, let me bring this to one of our servants and I will gladly join you.” You said while referring to the orange filled basket. He nodded and let you walk past him so you could have the oranges sent to the kitchen. You did not expect for the emperors to send guards to get you but that made your improper crush grow. Maybe you wanted them to like you, would that really be so wrong?

When you arrived at the colosseum, there was no crowd. Following Macrinus once more, you soon reached the last step and were met with the emperors. Geta stepped forward, took your hand and kissed the back of it. “My lady, welcome, how good of you to make it.” You blushed at his words, and curtseyed. Caracalla was the one who led you to your seat, which was still placed between the emperor's thrones. Avoiding your father’s stare- you followed Caracalla.

Once you were seated, the speaker was given the signal to begin. “In the name of Poseidon! We celebrate the glory of naval war! Today we relive the battle of Salamis! The Trojans versus the Persians!” You watched as a large ship entered the now water submerged arena, sharks could be seen swimming around and you did not want to imagine what would happen if one of the gladiators fell in the water. 

Then another gate opened and a second ship emerged, this ship looked like it belonged to the Trojans while the first one belonged to the Persians. You could hear Caracalla’s feet tap excitedly beside you, while Geta shifted in his seat. The ships had only just started to sail towards each other when flaming arrows were released by the Trojans. Two of the arrows hit the Persians’ ships sail, which quickly caught fire, sending huge clouds of black smoke in the air.

Many Persians already collapsed when hit by arrows, making it seem like the Trojans could easily defeat them. You could see how men fell overboard in the water, seconds later the water would turn red with their blood, attracting the sharks. When the Persian ship seemed to head straight into the Trojan ship, it turned, causing the Trojan ship to lose its entire left side of oars. 

You shifted in your seat as the ships seemed to slowly come closer, Geta grinned widely at you however and you courteously returned a smile. “This is war! Real war!” Caracalla yelled excitedly next to you. Your excitement started to fade however, the sail on fire, the Trojans actively losing and the ships slowly coming closer while you were front row made you incredibly nervous.

You decided to stay calm, surely if something happened the Praetorians would step in? But when the Persian ship had turned to fully face the Trojan ship, you couldn’t help but feel panic start to take over. They increased their speed and head-on rammed the Trojan ship, causing it to almost fully split in half. Because of the impact, both ships headed straight to the emperor's box. 

Your hands clasped tightly at your toga when the Persians jumped on the Trojan ship, right in front of you. Now your terror was too much to bear- you had to say something. “Your majesty, I don’t think this is safe-” Before you could say anything else an arrow shot what seemed like millimetres past you- right into the side of your seat. Then your eyes met with the man who shot it- Hanno. Hands grabbed your waist, lifting you out of your seat, you could hear Geta scream for Praetorians, your eyes met your fathers as he pulled you away from the box, Lucilla and the two emperor's right behind you. 

When you were safely out of reach from the gladiators, you still felt like you couldn’t breathe or move. “Are you alright?” Your father crouched before you, taking your hands in his. You could only nod. “Who shot the arrow! Who?!” Caracalla screamed. “H-hanno- I believe it was Hanno Caesar.” You said. “It was him, I saw it too.” Your father said. “He got shoved, he could have never meant to shoot you dear.” Lucilla then said. 

How was it not meant for you? The man looked straight at you before he shot, had he not been pushed- you would be dead. “Maybe- I really do not know.” Geta did not seem pleased with your answer. “I will think about what to do with him, he can not get away with this.” He seethed. It was then you noticed Lucilla’s pleading eyes towards your father. 

At this point you had realized something was going on that you did not know about, but if you actually wanted to know what that was- was a whole other question. The emperors must have felt some sort of sympathy as they invited you, your father and Lucilla to wine and food at the palace, which your father reluctantly agreed to. A carriage took the emperors to the palace, while your father, you and Lucilla took your own, following behind them.

Palatine Hill must have been one of the most beautiful buildings in Rome, it screamed power and wealth. The whole time you were led inside, you couldn’t help but stop in your tracks to look around from time to time. When you had reached one of the larger entertainment halls, you felt somewhat safe again while sitting next to your father. As time passed, wine flowed and some musicians were summoned to entertain the emperors.

You listened to the beautiful music, occasionally glancing at the emperors on their settee not far away from you. Lucilla was speaking lowly to your father when emperor Geta spoke up. “My Lady, join my side, I would like to speak with you.” That certainly caught your fathers attention, you stood from the settee you had shared with your parents and walked over to the already grinning emperors. Geta patted the spot beside him, so you were between them once again- right where they wanted you.

As you sat down, Geta already leaned a bit towards you while Caracalla shamelessly stared at your covered breasts. You could tell Lucilla tried to distract your father with conversation again but if it was much help, you did not know. “I hope you are not too distraught over what occurred earlier today.” Geta whispered in your ear, his voice so close and low it made an unfamiliar heat pool in your belly. 

“No your majesty, your invitation to spend time with you here certainly helped, as did the wine.” Caracalla giggled beside you and Geta smiled. It made your heart beat faster- pleasing them. Caracalla then called Dondas over, or rather the slave that held him, and took Dondas in his lap. Geta noticed how your smile grew bigger at the sight of the cute monkey, Caracalla noticed too. “Would you like to hold him? I know he is already fond of you.” He mused.

“Please, I would love to Caesar.” He liked hearing you say please more than he should and  only nudged Dondas a tiny bit towards you before the monkey jumped into your lap. His tiny hands clasping your toga. You couldn’t help the soft laugh escaping you, to which Caracalla saw an opportunity. “Here, you know what he likes? To sit on your shoulder.” The emperor said before letting his hands roam over your upper arm, then innocently placing the monkey on your shoulder, letting his hand slide back down your arm again.

Your breath hitched in your throat at the feeling of him touching you, the smallest skin to skin contact made goosebumps ripple over the area he grazed. Dondas sat cluelessly on your shoulder, inspecting your hair. Caracalla got exactly the reaction he wanted, looking at Geta with a mischievous smile which Geta returned. Their obsession only grew as they now got the confirmation they needed- you were entirely oblivious to their ambitions. 

You played with Dondas for a while, Geta even handing you some fruit to feed to him, making sure to let his hands linger on yours. On the other settee it was less cheerful, Acacius felt powerless as he watched how his daughter swooned over the emperors he hated so much. This is exactly what he wanted to prevent, he knew he couldn’t do anything if his daughter married one of them, then it would be too late. You would be in too much danger. All attempts Lucilla made to ease his tension were unsuccessful, at some point she had him calmer, and made him focus on a conversation with her. 

Everytime one of the emperors ‘innocently’ touched you, it sent sparks through your body, never had you felt this way around men. But they opened a whole new world for you, and you wanted to explore every single inch of it. When you handed Dondas back to Caracalla, Acacius saw a window, an opportunity to leave. “My emperors, we really should be heading back home-”

“Why? Can’t you see we are having a nice conversation General?” The music abruptly stopped at Emperor Geta’s words. You looked at your father with pleading eyes, ‘please don’t upset them’. “My apologies, it is just that Lucilla is feeling a bit dizzy from the wine.” Lucilla looked down at her husband's words- knowing it was a lie. The evening grew darker but you had no intention of leaving as long as the emperors still wanted you here.

“Ah, I understand.” Geta said, his mood change was almost horrifying but at least he seemed composed again. Caracalla grumbled something beside you, but you couldn’t quite make it out. “Praetorians, take them back to their estate.” Geta commanded, while standing up. You stood up as well, your father and Lucilla already heading towards the door. But Caracalla stopped you before you could walk away. 

“We had so much fun this evening, didn’t we?” You smiled at his words. “Yes your majesty, at least I did, very much.” The truth was, you hadn’t had so much fun and excitement in ages. “Good, good.” Geta interjected. “You must return then, so we can continue our- enjoyment.” Red dusted your cheeks and you nodded. “It would be an honor as well as a delight to spend time with both of you again Caesars.” You bowed your head. The evening was over way too soon.

[hederasgarden]

vi et animo

Summary: When one of Rome's senators insults you, Lucius makes an example of him. Pairing: Lucius Verus x F!Reader Word Count: 1.2K Rating: Mature, 18+ only. Light angst, humiliation, mentions of pregnancy, and protective!Lucius. A/N: This is part of Lucius and the Fisherman’s Wife Series. Thank you to @whatblogisthis216 for inspiring this story and @ryebecca for beta'ing. Please comment or reblog if you enjoyed this and want to see more. Or scream at me in my inbox. That always makes my day.

Gladiator Masterlist ♡ Masterlist

As you walk beside Lucius, your hand tucked into the crook of his arm, the rich blue fabric of your gown sweeps across the cold stone floor. The soft rustle it makes is the only sound breaking the silence of the grand hall. Gold embroidery adorns the hem, a perfect complement to Lucius' robes, while the twin laurel wreaths resting atop your heads mirror one another. Each senator you pass inclines their heads in acknowledgment, a sign of respect, but Lucius hardly notices. A storm of anger clouds his face, his body tense with restrained fury that you can almost feel in the air around you. 

He leads you toward your marble throne, where he urges you to sit. Felix stands at your right, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword, eyes trained on Lucius. It’s clear that everyone in the room is watching, waiting for the reaction they know is coming. Your gaze drifts to Senator Cato, standing at the far end of the room. His once-rosy cheeks are now ghostly pale, almost sickly yellow. Last night, his voice had boomed with confidence as he told his ill-thought joke regarding you and your unborn child, but now he looks as though he’s shrinking, attempting to fade into the crowd of men who all look so similar.

Lucius gestures sharply, beckoning Cato forward. The young senator hesitates, his sandals scraping the stone floor loudly as he takes slow, nervous steps toward the front.

“My Prince,” Cato says, bowing deeply. “I wish to apologize for the misunderstanding that occurred last night with the princess.”

“The misunderstanding?” Lucius inquires, his voice cold. “I was not present for the joke you told. I would like to hear it now.”

The silence that follows is more than tense and you can’t help but seek out Acacius. If things spiral further, you would need his influence, but to your dismay you find him casually leaning against one of the marble columns, his expression amused, almost eager. Beside him stands Lucilla, her face unreadable. Yet, when her gaze meets yours, she gives you a small, reassuring smile. Your exhale and try to let her quiet confidence become your own. 

"I... I had simply inquired about when the child was conceived," Cato stammers, his hands raised defensively, palms out, as though he expects Lucius to strike him.

Lucius’ lips curl into a tight, dangerous smile beneath his beard. “I wish to hear it exactly as you told it.”

Cato hesitates, his eyes flicking to you for the first time.

“Do not look to her for mercy,” Lucius commands. 

You watch the other man’s mouth open and close in rapid succession as he seems to gather what little courage he has left.

“I asked if all of Rome’s future heirs would be conceived on a dining room table with an audience,” he states, twisting the golden rings on his fingers.

“And?” Lucius presses.

“...and I asked if we could be invited to the next one.”

The words hang in the air and it takes all your willpower not to look away or shrink back in humiliation. You can feel a multitude of eyes on you, waiting and watching for your reaction. Everyone in this room knows the circumstances that brought you and Lucius together, but none have ever been bold enough to speak of it so plainly. 

You stroke your hand over your swollen belly, seeking the comfort of your unborn child. If it were up to you, Cato’s insult would have been ignored but deep down, you know that an example must be made of him. You are a princess of Rome, and in just three days, you will be its empress. Such open disrespect could not be tolerated, not only for your husband’s sake but for your own. It threatens all the changes you hope to bring about.

A glance at Lucilla and Acacius steadies your nerves, and you nearly have to bite back a smile at the wink Acacius sends your way. With a soft exhale you force yourself to meet every eye that turns your way with a cool, unaffected expression. There is nothing for you to be ashamed of here. It is Cato who should be cowed. 

“I hear no joke,” Lucius replies. “Though, I find no amusement in the suffering of others as you clearly do. But perhaps I will tell my own joke,” he says, a soft, contemplative sound resonating in his chest. “One you yourself will understand.”

Your husband takes a step forward, stopping a hair's breadth away from the senator, looming over him. “Strip,” he commands. 

Cato’s face drains of color, and for a moment, you wonder if he might faint right there on the spot. “My Prince... I—I...” he stammers, glancing desperately at the other senators on either side of him, but he finds no support or friendly face. 

“I will not repeat myself,” Lucius adds. 

You shift in your seat, fighting against the discomfort of the scene unfolding before you as another, unexpected sensation stirring within you. The sight of your husband standing firm, unwavering in his defense of you, fills you with a rush of desire and pride. He’s fought like this before, as a Gladiator, but his defense was always with sword and strength. It is another thing entirely to see him do it as a ruler. 

Lucius’ gaze meets yours, a brief, secretive curve of his lips appears before it vanishes as he turns away once more.

With trembling fingers, Cato begins to push the heavy fabric from his shoulder, his hands shaking as he reaches for the tie at his waist. Just as he is about to pull it free, Lucius' voice rings out, halting him in his tracks. The senator freezes, his eyes flicking nervously to Lucius.

"I would strip you bare for all of Rome to see and mock," he declares, his gaze never leaving Cato's face, "but my wife, your future empress, urges mercy." He steps closer to Cato, his tone growing even colder. "You will do well to remember her kindness...I'm not inclined to be so generous."

To your surprise, Cato looks up at you, his head bowed and his hands outstretched in a pitiful gesture of supplication. "Thank you, thank you, princess," he stammers, his voice trembling.

Seeing him reduced to this, so blatantly at your mercy, curdles your stomach. You suppress the unsettling feeling, thinking back to your lessons with Lucilla, to those quiet afternoons on the sun-dappled balcony of the villa. The way she showed you that power, true power, is often about restraint, about wielding influence with grace and calm. 

With careful steps, you rise from the throne, allowing your gaze to pass beyond Cato to the senators and soldiers in the room until you find Lucilla. Her smile bolsters the words that begin to form in your mind. 

“We are all here to restore Marcus Aurelius’ vision of Rome,” you begin. 

Despite your efforts, your voice wavers and your heart races wildly in your chest until you feel Lucius’ steady warmth beside you, the comforting pressure of his hand in yours. His thumb strokes the back of your hand in quiet encouragement and you clear your throat, lifting your chin. 

“Let us focus on the people of Rome, the ones who have suffered most these past 16 years.”

“To the future of Rome!” Acacius shouts, his words rippling through the crowd as others take up the chant.

“To our future,” Lucius whispers, his hand settling on your stomach. “To the Rome we build for our child.”

You smile, accepting the fierce kiss gifts you. “To our future,” you agree. 

♡

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