astrids-blog333

[astrids-blog333]

A Ruin of His Making Chapter Two

Lucius Verus Aurelius x Reader

Fandom: Gladiator II

Summary: Marriage was supposed to make you friends. Instead, it made you worse. After a Senate meeting explodes into political warfare, the emperor and his new empress find another outlet for their frustrations, one that is far more dangerous than words.

Warnings: SMUT 18+ power imbalance, rough sex, overstimulation (fem!reader), dom/sub dynamics (light), light degradation/possessiveness, mild emotional hurt/comfort, period typical misogyny.

A/N: I'm so sorry I've been slow this past week, I'm swamped with exams at the moment. This is the sequel to A Ruin of His Making, so check that out first. I got a couple of requests for this, so thanks for reading my stuff guys :) @okyeeaaahhhh

MASTERLIST

WC: 4.0k

It has been a short, brutal few weeks since the engagement, and since you married the emperor.

Since you and Lucius crossed that line; first with words, then with teeth and bruising kisses, then with his arms locking you against him in full view of the palace corridors.

The rumours have not stopped since.

Neither have the politics.

The marriage was rushed, scandalous in its swiftness. Some called it passionate. Others, desperate. You and Lucius know the truth, it was neither. It was necessity. A spectacle of unity for a court eager for weakness, for gossip, for cracks they could pry open and widen.

You have not made it easy for him.

He has not made it easy for you.

You are still learning how to rule together, how to bruise each other without drawing blood, how to clash without setting the empire aflame.

Somewhere between you, something more dangerous is taking root; it's not love, not yet, but something that makes it harder to look at him without remembering the way his hands feel on your skin, the way he looks at you when he thinks no one else is watching.

Today, though, there is no room for that. Today is politics. Today is war by other means.

And you sit beside him now, a silent witness to the games men will play with crowns and swords and words.

The Senate chamber is grand. Stone columns stretch high into the ceiling under which the senators sit in their long rows of cushioned chairs, each one with a wealth of experience and ambition behind their eyes.

Lucius sits at the front, his posture regal, his gaze sharp, but there is an air of tension surrounding him, one that has been steadily growing since the morning. Beside him, you sit silently, hands folded neatly in your lap.

The meeting begins, as they always do, with the boring and routine matters of the empire. Grain supplies, taxes, and the defence of the borders.

The topic of discussion inevitably veers toward the eastern campaign and Lucius’s bold strike against the rebel forces that had threatened the provinces, a decision that seems to have ignited a fierce debate.

Your attention drifts in and out of the conversation. You know the Senate is a house of power, but it’s also a house of whispers and backstabbing. Suddenly, Senator Valerius’s voice rings out, clear and cutting.

"Emperor," "While I do of course respect your military achievements in the East, I must question the strategic wisdom of your recent campaign. Was it necessary to engage so quickly? Surely, a more cautious approach would have saved the empire much grief."

The chamber quiets.

The question, innocuous as it may seem, is a challenge, a reminder that no ruler is without critics.

You turn to Lucius, but his face remains an unreadable mask. His fingers tap lightly against the arm of his chair, a signal of his thoughts but also a sign that he will let the conversation unfold.

Senator Valerius presses on, he is a man who has many years of experience in the Senate and also has a tendency to be vocal with his opinions. "The cost of that campaign was steep, Emperor. And while your victory is commendable, the risk we incurred, was it worth it? Did we truly need to shed so much Roman blood to secure the region?"

Lucius doesn’t answer immediately. You feel the tension mount in the air, the kind of tension that comes before a storm.

“Senator,” your voice rings out. “I fear you are mistaken. The emperor’s decision was not based on rashness or risk but on the necessary action to preserve the empire. If we had waited any longer, the rebels would have only grown stronger. Inaction would have cost us far more than the bloodshed you speak of."

Valerius’s eyes narrow at you, his expression one of thinly veiled disdain. He was expecting Lucius to respond, but you, a woman, had inserted yourself into the conversation, and not just as a silent observer.

He leans forward. "Ah, the empress speaks," he says with a mocking smile, a deliberate attempt to belittle you. "I did not realise that women were so well-versed in military strategy."

The room falls silent at his insult. It’s a subtle jab, but one with teeth.

You don’t flinch. “I may not have commanded legions, Senator, but I know enough about the empire to understand the stakes. More than enough to recognize that the Emperor acted with the full benefit of the council’s advice and military expertise."

Valerius scoffs, clearly unnerved by your unexpected intervention. “And you presume to know more than our generals, do you? More than those who have spent their lives in service to Rome?”

"Senator," you respond, "if the generals had opposed the strategy, the emperor would have listened. But they did not. What you fail to recognize is that the strategy was sound, and it was the only choice that would safeguard Rome’s interests. If you have a different perspective, I welcome you to share it. But, by all means, let us not pretend that your personal animus is what drives this concern."

The room goes still. There’s a murmur of approval from some corners, but Valerius, to his credit, does not immediately retreat. He has built a reputation on his wit and his insults, and now it is clear he is trying to regain some ground.

"Perhaps," he sneers, "the empress is more capable than I thought. But it still doesn’t change the fact that your husband’s decisions have cost us dearly."

You turn to Lucius, who has remained silent during the exchange. His jaw tightens slightly, but his gaze never leaves Valerius.

“I will not sit here and allow you to belittle my wife, Valerius,” Lucius’s voice is low but unwavering. "If you have a problem with my decisions, you will speak directly to me, not through veiled insults and jabs at her intellect.”

Valerius's eyes flick to Lucius, and the senator’s bravado falters.

Lucius continues, his voice sharpening. "If you wish to debate strategy, I welcome it. But you will not mock the empress in this chamber, not while I am present."

With a slight bow of his head, Valerius retreats to his seat.

The Senate hall is still fresh in your mind as you walk side by side with Lucius through the grand corridors of the palace, the murmurs of the council echoing in your thoughts. He’s silent, his hand resting at your back, guiding you with a firmness that matches the tension radiating off him.

The grand doors to your chambers close behind you with a soft thud. Only when you’re inside does Lucius finally speak. His voice is low, and controlled, but there’s an unmistakable edge to it.

“You could have left it alone.” His words cut through the air, sharp like a blade. “I didn’t need you to speak up.”

You turn to face him, an eyebrow raised in disbelief. “I was defending you,” you reply, your voice steady, but you can feel the fire burning in your chest. “I won’t let them insult your decisions, not for the whole empire to see.”

He shakes his head, pacing in front of you. “It wasn’t your place. You put yourself at risk, publicly, and for what? To prove a point?” His eyes narrow, his jaw tight with frustration.

You step closer, not backing down. “I don’t need you to protect me, Lucius. I know the consequences as well as you do. But what I won’t stand for is some senator questioning your judgment, especially not when he has no right to do so.”

He freezes for a moment, his eyes darkening, and when he speaks again, his tone is tight, almost threatening. “You should have stayed quiet.”

The sting of his words hits you harder than you want to admit. He’s telling you to play the quiet, submissive part.

“I’m not here to be a figurehead,” you say, your voice sharp. “I’m here because I earned it. I’m not just your wife, Lucius, I’m your equal in this. Don’t forget that.”

He steps closer now, his presence towering over you. But then his lips curl into a slight smirk. “You’re not my equal in this, darling,” he murmurs, the words dripping with amusement.

“You may hold the title, but you’ll always be my wife. And that means you’ll do what I say.”

His voice is low, a warning, but one you refuse to take lying down. You don’t let the insult land.

“You think because we’re married, that means I should be silent? No. If I were silent, I’d be no better than a servant.”

Lucius’ eyes darken further. He’s angry, that much is clear. And you can feel the way the room shifts, the tension thickening. He steps toward you, closing the space between you in a heartbeat.

“I didn’t want you to speak, because I didn’t want to see you in danger,” he snaps, his voice rising slightly. “Every time you open your mouth in that council, you make yourself a target. I can’t always protect you.”

For a long moment, there’s nothing but the sound of your breaths, both ragged, both angry. The tension between you is palpable, thick as smoke. You can feel the heat radiating off him as he stares down at you.

He grabs your arm roughly, pulling you to him in a swift motion. His breath is hot against your ear, his voice low and commanding.

“You don’t get it,” he growls. “You think you’re invincible? You think you can just play this game, make decisions that could cost you everything, and I’ll sit back and watch?” He presses you against him, his hands sliding up your sides. “I won’t have it. Not when it comes to you.”

You’re pressed against his chest now, his fingers digging into your skin with an almost painful intensity. His body is rigid with anger, his gaze searching your face as if looking for a crack, a sign of weakness. But you don’t give him one. Instead, you stare right back at him.

“I’ll take care of myself,” you say, your voice just as low, your chest rising and falling rapidly with the adrenaline coursing through your veins. “I always have. You don’t need to control everything.”

Lucius doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he leans in, his lips brushing against the side of your neck, sending a shiver down your spine.

His lips press harder against your neck, and you gasp, the sound coming out softer than you intended. His hands tighten on your body, pulling you closer as if there’s nothing else in the world but the two of you in this moment.

“You’re testing me,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice strained with frustration. “And I don’t think you know how dangerous that is.”

“You’ve made your point,” he says, voice thick. “But don’t ever do that again.”

And then he kisses you like he’s furious with you.

Because he is. You feel it in the way his hand fists your hair, in the bruising press of his mouth; this isn’t a kiss, it’s a reprimand. Punishment. You barely manage to catch your breath before he breaks away, glaring at you like you’ve spat in his face.

You’re both breathing hard now. The chamber’s quiet, save for the sound of it, your sharp exhales, his heavier ones.

In one swift movement, Lucius grabs your wrist and spins you, pressing you back against the edge of your desk. The wood bites into your spine, but you don’t flinch.

You look up at him, daring him. Daring him to lose control.

“You liked it,” you say, cool and sharp.

He leans in close, his breath hot on your face. “I liked watching you put that bastard in his place.”

A beat.

“But that doesn’t mean I’m letting you get away with it.”

Your mouth curves. “So this is your retaliation?”

He smiles, but there’s no humour in it. “This is me reminding you who you belong to.”

“And what?” you hiss, teeth bared. “You think you can fuck the disobedience out of me?”

“Can't hurt to try.”

He grabs you by the waist and hoists you up onto the desk with a brutal sort of grace. Papers scatter, ink threatens to spill, and a scroll snaps in two under you.

“You’d better make it worth the mess,” you mutter, dragging your nails down his chest as he steps between your legs. “I’m not cleaning this up.”

“You won’t be able to walk,” he growls, pressing you flat against the wood, his hands already dragging at your skirts. “That’s your punishment.”

You smirk, lifting your hips to meet him. “Then you’d better stop talking and start proving your point, Emperor.”

You tug at the clasps of his armour, but he catches your wrists and yanks them above your head.

“Oh, no,” he growls against your throat, already kissing down it. “You don’t get to be in control. Not after today.”

“You didn’t seem to mind my control when I was saving your arse-”

His teeth sink into the skin just beneath your jaw. Hard. Enough to make your breath catch, enough to shut you up. “You’re still talking?”

You grin, even as heat floods your core. “What was it you said? Something about not being able to walk?”

His hand spreads over your abdomen, pinning you in place as his thigh pushes between yours, keeping them wide. “You’ll wish I only meant that.”

He lifts your skirts with unnecessary force, baring you to the cool air. You gasp when his fingers drag up the inside of your thigh.

“Already soaked?” he says mockingly. “Was that speech of yours really for me, then? Or do you just get wet showing off?”

You glare up at him, furious and aching. “Go to hell.”

Lucius laughs and sinks two fingers into you with a thrust that punches the breath from your lungs. “Tell me again?” he says, voice too soft to be safe. “Where I should go?”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

Not when he’s already curling his fingers inside you, finding the spot that makes your hips buck and your pride dissolve. His other hand spreads your thigh wider, holding you down, keeping you open as his thumb circles your clit.

“You made them look like fools,” he mutters, almost admiring, but his movements don’t slow. “And you made me look weak. You think that won’t cost you something?”

Your breath hitches. Your hands scramble against the desk, searching for anything to ground you. “You’re angry because I was right.”

“I’m angry,” he snarls, “because you’re mine. And you put yourself at risk.”

He withdraws suddenly, fingers slick with your arousal, and you whine before you can stop yourself. That earns you a wicked smile.

“Oh, you’ll be begging by the end of this.”

He grabs your hips, flipping you onto your stomach with little effort, dragging you so your toes barely touch the floor. You’re still gasping when he hikes your skirt up over your waist, and you barely have time to brace yourself before you feel the hard press of him against your entrance.

He doesn’t ease in.

He takes you, deep, hard, and furious. You cry out as the breath rushes from your lungs.

The desk creaks beneath the force. His hand tangles in your hair, arching your back until your spine curves beautifully for him, and he pounds into you like he’s trying to fuck the fight out of both of you.

“You like giving speeches?” he hisses against your ear. “Let’s hear one now.”

You try, you really do, but the only sound you make is a desperate, broken moan as he thrusts deeper, unrelenting.

You want to defy him. You want to taunt him. But the angle is devastating, the pace punishing, and the way his fingers slip between your thighs again makes your vision blur.

“That’s it,” he says, smug and breathless. “Take it.”

Your whole body tightens, trembling with the warning of release. And just when you think he’ll let you have it-

He stops.

He pulls out. You almost sob, reaching back blindly. “Lucius-”

“I said,” he growls, flipping you back over, “you don’t get to be in control.”

Your legs are shaking. Your mouth is parted in disbelief. But he just lowers himself onto the desk, spreading your thighs again, and dips his head between them like he owns you.

His mouth is hot, punishing, relentless. You’re already too close. Too raw. And when his tongue flicks just right you come.

Hard.

Without warning. With a noise you’re embarrassed to hear come out of your mouth.

But he doesn’t stop.

Lucius pins your hips down, licking you through it, pushing you higher, past reason, past sense, until you’re clawing at his hair, trying to push him away even as your body begs for more.

“Too much,” you gasp.

His eyes flash up, triumphant. “Good.”

He slides back up your body, catches your mouth in a messy kiss, and thrusts back into you again.

You're sensitive, too full, too raw, but it doesn’t stop him. It only spurs him on. His body is flushed with sweat, muscles taut with control he’s barely holding onto. The sound of skin meeting skin echoes in the room, obscene and punctuated by your breathless whimpers.

You try to brace yourself, but your legs are already trembling. Every thrust punches the air from your lungs.

“Count,” he says roughly.

You blink up at him, dazed. “W-what?”

“Every time you come,” Lucius growls. “You count.”

He’s already circling your clit again, the pad of his finger quick and ruthless. Your body jerks at the sensation.

“You want to play the clever empress? Let’s see how clever you sound when you’re coming on my cock.”

You don’t last long. He thrusts deeper, hits that spot that scrapes every thought from your mind, and you shatter with a strangled cry.

“One,” you gasp.

“Louder.”

You glare at him, breath heaving. “One!”

His smile is wicked. “Good girl.”

You don’t get a moment to recover. He just keeps going.

The next one takes you by surprise. You’re already writhing, moaning through gritted teeth, and then your body convulses again.

“Two,” you whimper.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he hisses against your throat, his voice ragged. “You look so good when you break.”

You curse him. You try to shove him off, try to slow it down, but he pins you harder, arms caging you in, his mouth dragging heat across your collarbone as he drives into you.

The next orgasm crashes through you without warning. Your thighs clamp around his hips. Your nails dig in. Your head falls back, vision blacking at the edges.

“Three,” you sob.

“Say it again.”

“Three!”

He doesn’t stop.

Your mind slips. Your body doesn’t know what to do. You don't know if you should curl into him, run from him, pull him deeper. It’s too much. It’s all too much, and still, he keeps going, fingers tight on your throat now, just enough to control.

“Lucius, please-”

His thumb returns to your clit and your whole body jerks.

“Four,” you cry. “Please-”

His mouth is on your ear now, dark and furious. “Not done.”

You don’t remember the next one. Or the one after. You only remember the sting in your thighs, the sweat on your skin, the pain-blurred pleasure that starts to bleed into each other, until you can’t separate one climax from the next. You’re a mess beneath him, limp, shaking, drenched.

He’s still holding himself together by sheer force of will. You can hear it in his voice when he mutters, “That’s it. Take it. Take all of it.”

Your hips tremble with the effort of staying grounded, your breath sobbing from your throat.

And finally, his rhythm falters.

He thrusts one more time, deep enough to punch the air from your lungs, and spills inside you with a low, guttural sound against your skin.

He holds you through it, his forehead pressed to yours, arms locked around your waist, panting like he’s just fought a war.

Your entire body is humming, raw and sated and stinging from too much.

The desk is a disaster. The air stinks of sex and ink and power.

And then, as if nothing just happened, Lucius exhales against your jaw and murmurs, “Next time, keep your mouth shut in the Senate.”

You let out a hoarse, broken laugh. “Fuck you.”

His smirk is all triumph, all bite. “You just did.”

The quiet stretches long.

Lucius doesn’t move at first. His body is heavy over yours, his breath ragged, hair sticking to his brow. For a moment, the only sound in the room is your breathing, which is shaky and uneven against his chest.

Then he pulls back just enough to look at you.

Your lips are parted, cheeks flushed, a smear of ink across your collarbone where something must’ve tipped mid-rage. Your eyes, though glazed and dazed, don’t look away from him. And for once, you’re not trying to win.

He brushes a strand of hair from your face with surprising gentleness, knuckles grazing your cheek.

“You’re trembling,” he says quietly.

“No shit.”

He huffs, the ghost of a laugh, then lifts you from the desk like you weigh nothing. You hiss when your thighs press together, muscles worn thin, and he pauses, eyes flicking to your face and reading it.

“Too much?” he asks.

You glare at him. “Didn’t stop you.”

“Didn’t hear you say stop.”

You don’t reply, and he takes that as a win. Smug bastard.

Lucius carries you to the lounge near the fire, settling with you in his lap like you’re the spoils of battle. One arm anchors around your waist. The other dips between your legs.

You flinch.

“I’m checking,” he says, and his voice, though still rough, isn’t mocking this time.

You go still.

His fingers are careful now, gentle, tracing the ache he left behind. His brow furrows, and you watch the satisfaction in his features fade into something more thoughtful, even… regretful?

“Did I hurt you?”

You arch a brow. “You wanted to.”

“That’s not an answer.”

You don’t give him one.

Instead, you lean into his chest, letting the heat of him soothe your trembling body. You listen to the thud of his heartbeat beneath your ear. Fast, but steady.

“I’m not porcelain,” you murmur.

“No,” he agrees, his voice low.

He presses a kiss to your temple, still catching his breath.

“I didn’t want to stop,” you admit after a beat. “Even when I should’ve.”

Lucius’s hand slides slowly up your back. “You don’t have to prove yourself to me, you know.”

You scoff. “I wasn’t.”

“Yes, you were.” He looks down at you, something unreadable in his eyes. “Just… next time, say when.”

You nod once. It’s all you can manage.

Silence settles again, this time warmer.

He pulls a throw over your bare skin. Tucks you closer, one arm still around your waist, thumb stroking the back of your thigh. You wonder if he even knows he’s doing it.

“You meant it,” he says eventually, quieter now. “What you said. In the Senate.”

Your eyes lift to his. “Of course I meant it.”

A flicker of something crosses his face. Guilt, maybe. Or something dangerously close to affection.

“I don’t need protecting,” he says.

“Neither do I,” you reply.

He smiles then, faint and rueful. “Yet here we are.”

You shift against him, a small, weary sound escaping your throat as the ache flares again.

Lucius looks down at you, and something in his expression changes—softens around the edges, though his mouth still curves with amusement.

“I warned you,” he says smugly. “You wouldn’t be able to walk.”

You slap his chest, but your strength’s long gone. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

You don’t.

But you’re not about to say that aloud.

So you close your eyes instead, nestled against him, and let yourself be held.

Again, so sorry for being a little slower than usual. I've got another request in my drafts which should be out in the next few days 🫶

[astrids-blog333]

Before the Fall

Emperor!Lucius Verus Aurelius x Fiancé!Reader

Fandom: Gladiator II

Summary: In the weeks leading up to your wedding, Lucius swears you’re his. But when a plot to kill you unfolds his protective instincts go into overdrive, and his need for revenge becomes a force that can't be stopped.

Warnings: obsessive love, betrayal, poison, dark romance, hurt/comfort, angst, death themes, violence, mention of needles/medical tools, nudity (no smut)

A/N: This is based off a request from the lovely @londonalozzy, hope its what you imagined. I really enjoyed writing this :)

MASTERLIST - REQUESTS (OPEN)

WC: 3.5k

The city lies below you, gilded in dusk. It's a sprawl of rooftops and marble, with lanterns flickering to life one by one. You can hear laughter from the palace gardens far beneath, and the distant hush of fountains, the clink of goblets and soft strains of music carried by the wind.

But here, above it all, it’s quiet.

You lean on the balcony rail, the cool stone pressing into your hands. Behind you, the doors to your shared chambers stand open, silk curtains dancing in the breeze. The faint and heady scent of night-blooming flowers drifts on the air.

Lucius stands in the doorway, watching you.

He hasn’t said a word since he came in. Just shed his armour, piece by piece. First pauldrons, then chestplate, the belt goes, until all that remains is the linen shirt clinging to his frame.

You don’t need him to speak. You can feel him in your skin.

“You’re brooding,” you murmur without turning.

He doesn’t answer at first. Then the floor creaks under his bare feet as he moves closer. “I’m thinking,” he says, low and rough.

You smile faintly. “Dangerous habit.”

His arms come around you from behind, slow and sure. One hand flattens against your stomach, the other wraps across your chest, holding you flush against his powerful body.

“I can’t help it,” he says, and it isn’t a jest.

You tilt your head to the side as he brushes his mouth against your neck, a kiss that lingers without deepening.

“I saw the way that senator looked at you today,” he says quietly.

You sigh, resting your hands over his.

You twist slightly to meet his gaze. “I’m not a prize to be guarded, Lucius.”

His jaw ticks, eyes burning dark. “You are to me.”

There’s no apology in his voice. No shame in the way he holds you tighter, like he’s half a breath away from shielding you with his entire body.

You reach up and brush your fingers through his hair. It’s unbound now, wind-swept and silvering in the moonlight. “You’re too intense for this world.”

He huffs a soft sound that might be a laugh, or at least something close to it. “You’re too beautiful for this world.”

“You’re biased.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you fully, fingers curling around your wrist. “Utterly.”

The moment stretches, a welcome pause in the chaos of court and crowns. Then, wordlessly, he reaches for the clasp at your shoulder.

You don’t stop him.

His hand is steady, but his eyes search yours, still always asking. Even now when you’re to be his wife in days, even when your lives are tangled like roots in soil.

The fabric slips with a whisper, your gown loosening, sliding down one arm. Lucius watches it fall like it’s a sacred thing.

He helps you turn, facing him. The city is behind you now, but you can still feel it glowing on your skin. His gaze follows the light, tracing the place where your collarbone catches it, the hollow of your throat, the edge of your shoulder.

His hands come up to the other clasp, and you let him undo it, and the silk shudders as it slides down your body.

You should feel exposed. But all you feel is his eyes.

He touches your waist. Then your arms. A finger down your spine. Not lust, not hunger, something deeper.

You raise your hand and press it against his chest. His heart thuds beneath your palm, a steady drumbeat. When you look up, his expression is thunderous—stormy, hungry, aching.

“Say something,” you whisper.

He shakes his head slowly, lips parted. “I can’t. You make words useless.”

“You’re thinking again,” you murmur.

His hands still. His voice is hoarse. “I don’t want anything to take this from me.”

You step closer, bare and unflinching. “Nothing will.”

But he doesn’t look reassured. He looks like a man staring at the edge of a cliff.

His thumb brushes your cheek. “I’ve known war. I’ve known loss. But this-”

You reach up, pressing your mouth to his before he can finish. It’s a soft kiss, one that asks instead of takes. He answers with a sigh, a sound that shudders through him.

You feel his restraint like a coiled spring.

When you break apart, your voice is soft. “Do you still want to marry me, Lucius?”

His eyes flash. “I want to chain the gods if it keeps you safe. I want to carve your name into time next to mine so we can never be parted. I want to wake beside you for every breath I’m given.”

You laugh, almost tearfully. “So that’s a yes?”

He kisses your temple. “Yes. And so much more.”

You stand there like that for a while, bare beneath his cloak, wrapped in arms that have held swords and shields and empires, and now only hold you.

He doesn’t take you to bed, not yet.

Instead, he carries you inside and wraps you in soft linen, his rings cool against your skin. He brushes your hair back and watches you fall asleep like you are something holy.

Like you're far, far too fragile for this world.

The feast sprawls across the garden in a blur of gold and wine and silks. Lanterns are bobbing in the warm evening air, casting lights over noblemen and generals, over perfumed women and simpering lords. Somewhere, a lyre sings.

But Lucius hasn’t left your side. He watches you like he still has his hand on your spine. Like you might vanish between one breath and the next.

You keep your smile polite, easy, soft. You let a duke’s wife compliment your gown. You lift your goblet when a toast is made. You play the part, but there’s a weight to your awareness now. His gaze presses into your shoulder blades.

“Try to enjoy yourself,” you murmur beneath your breath, turning just enough for Lucius to hear.

“I am,” he replies, voice low and unhurried. “You’re here.”

You reach for your wine again, only for Lucius to stop you, two fingers resting lightly against the stem of your goblet. Not forceful, not commanding. But final. Then he lifts the glass himself, sniffs it, and hands it to a nearby guard without a word.

“Too warm,” he says when you frown. “I’ll have another brought.”

You almost laugh. You don’t. Something in his eyes won’t let you.

Across the courtyard, past the music and marble statues and glistening tables, someone is watching you.

A young noble, tall, broad-shouldered, with golden hair and a face carved for vanity. Lord Severan. You’ve seen him in passing, heard his name wrapped around gossip. His family fought beside yours long before your birth.

He doesn’t look away when your eyes catch his. He simply inclines his head, as though he has every right to look at you for as long as he pleases.

He doesn’t see Lucius.

Lucius sees him.

Your future husband doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. But the space around him sharpens. You feel his fury the way you feel the storm season rolling in over the mountains, a distant thunder, the scent of earth before rain.

When you glance up, Lucius is already watching Severan.

The younger man falters. It’s slight, almost nothing, a stutter in his stance, a flicker of something uncertain in his expression. But you see it. And so does Lucius. Severan turns away a moment later, voice rising as he joins another conversation, too loud, too bright.

Lucius exhales.

You want to ask, what was that? But you don’t, because part of you already knows.

The garden has always been your secret. A place carved from stone and vines, hidden past the west wing. Lucius insisted the entrance be sealed to all others after you found it together, calling it your little kingdom.

“You should let me build you a new one,” he says tonight, low in your ear. “With statues of you in every corner.”

You hum without turning, leaning back into his chest. “Tempting. But then where would we hide when the Senate bores us to death?”

His arms fold around your waist from behind. “I could banish them for that.”

You laugh. “You say that like you haven’t already threatened half the council.”

He kisses your shoulder, grinning. “Only the slow-witted ones.”

You’re barefoot, perched on the stone bench where he’s draped a throw for you, one slipper forgotten in the grass. The vines above sway gently, scenting the air with jasmine.

Lucius pulls back just enough to press a goblet into your hand. “To your patience, beloved. And your saint-like tolerance of me.”

“Oh, that ran out weeks ago.”

He chuckles, watching you take the first sip. “And yet here you are.”

“Because you’re pretty.”

He arches a brow. “Pretty?”

“Devastatingly. Like a sculpture. One of those marble heroes. But significantly moodier.”

“Moodier?” He feigns offence.

You glance at him sidelong, smirking. “Broodier?”

“I prefer commanding.”

“Mm. You’d still look very commanding as a statue. Naked, obviously.”

He leans in, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “If you wanted me naked, love, you only had to ask.”

You swat at him half-heartedly, laughter slipping past your teeth, and he grins like a man completely, stupidly in love.

You drink. A sip, no more. The wine is sweeter than before. Thicker.

The silence stretches, but something shifts.

It happens slowly. A throb behind your eyes. A warmth in your chest that doesn’t spread, just tightens. Like a band drawn too tight.

You blink once. Twice. The moonlight blurs at the edges. Your breath catches.

Lucius’s head snaps toward you.

You try to speak, but the words catch. Your chest rises too fast, then too slow. The goblet slips from your hand and crashes to the stone.

Lucius is on his feet. Hands on your arms, your face. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

You don’t answer, you can’t. The garden sways around you, your vision warping. You grip his tunic for balance and feel your body sag against him.

Lucius roars for the guards.

There’s no mask of Emperor now. No calm authority. He lifts you into his arms like you weigh nothing and turns toward the palace, already shouting orders. The corridors blur around you, columns and frescoes and startled faces. Lucius is yelling for Ravi, voice like thunder crashing through marble.

You hear your name. Over and over again.

“Stay with me. Stay with me.”

Then darkness.

A few hours later, Ravi works in near-silence.

His hands are stained with herbs and tinctures, sleeves rolled back to his elbows. A bowl of tainted wine stands on a side table, half-emptied for testing. A copper basin is dark with water and blood.

Lucius has not moved from your side.

You lie on his bed, pale and still, your lips parted as though caught mid-breath. Your skin gleams with sweat. There is a mark on your arm where Ravi injected the antidote, a desperate gamble on what he believes is poison from the south, rare, expensive, slow to kill but brutal.

“She’ll live,” Ravi says at last, voice hoarse. “It was close. It still is close. But I think we caught it in time.”

Lucius doesn’t respond. He only nods. His hand wraps around yours, cold, trembling slightly. His thumb strokes your knuckles like a litany.

Behind him, the guards wait, silent. Tense.

“Find out who brought the wine,” Lucius says quietly.

Ravi looks up.

Lucius doesn’t look away from you. “Every hand that touched it. Every link in the chain. I want names.”

The guards bow and vanish like shadows.

Lucius leans closer, his breath stirring your hair. He brushes it back from your brow and presses his forehead to yours.

“I swear to the gods,” he whispers, “I will find them. I will tear the world apart if I have to.”

The palace is hushed.

Not in reverence, not in mourning. In fear.

Lucius walks the halls like a spectre, draped in crimson. His jaw is locked, his stride steady. The guards who follow don’t dare speak. The scent of iron follows him. His hand is still stained red from the last interrogation.

He reaches the chamber at the end of the east wing.

They'd dragged Lord Severan here after Ravi confirmed it—the poison traced to the noble's house, hidden in a shipment of rare wine, sealed with his signet.

Fool.

Lucius opens the door himself.

Severan turns at the sound. He stands in the centre of the room, straight-backed, still dressed like a man of title. His tunic bears a pale smear of dust, but his eyes are sharp, unreadable. He does not kneel. He does not beg.

Of course he doesn’t.

“Your Majesty,” he says, voice even. “I trust this is a misunderstanding.”

Lucius says nothing.

He steps inside, and the door shuts behind him with a soft click. No guards. No audience. Just the two of them.

Severan lifts his chin. “I’ve served the Empire faithfully all my life. My family-”

“Thought I wouldn’t notice,” Lucius says, low. “Or care.”

A pause.

Then Severan’s face twitches, just slightly. “I’ve no idea what you’re implying.”

Lucius is across the room before Severan can blink, one hand slamming into his chest, shoving him back into the stone wall. The crack of it echoes like a gunshot. Severan grunts, breath knocked from his lungs.

“You poisoned her,” Lucius snarls. “You put your filthy hands on something that wasn’t yours.”

“She was never yours to begin with.” The words spill out before he can stop them, bitter and sharp. “Your engagement is recent. Our families have been allied for years. I expected-”

“You expected?” Lucius’s voice is low, dangerous. “You expected her to fall into your lap like land and cattle? Like shes property?”

“I would have treated her with dignity. She would have been safe with me.”

Lucius punches him. It’s fast, brutal. Bone cracks beneath his fist. Severan chokes on his own blood.

“She was safe with me. The only reason she is not anymore, is you.”

“She nearly died,” Lucius growls, fist curled tight. “She still might. Do you know what it feels like to watch someone you truly love suffocate in your arms?”

Severan coughs, lips wet with red. “She would never have been yours if she had a choice.”

Lucius stills.

Then he smiles. A thin, terrible smile.

He steps back. “On your knees,” Lucius says.

Severan doesn’t move.

Lucius draws his dagger. “On your knees.” This time, Severan obeys. Slowly. Jaw clenched.

“You think you’re the first man to covet her?” Lucius circles him. “You think you’re the only one to look at her and wish she belonged to you? Well you're not.”

His voice darkens. “But you’re the only one foolish enough to try to take her from me.”

The blade gleams in the torchlight. Severan’s breath comes in short, ragged bursts.

“I’m the Emperor,” Lucius says, voice almost soft. “I could have stripped your title, dragged your name through the dirt. But that’s not what you deserve.”

He kneels beside him, dagger at Severan’s throat.

“You deserve to bleed.”

“Wait-” Severan tries, voice hoarse. “Please-”

“No.”

Lucius cuts.

The blade slides across Severan’s throat with surgical precision. No hesitation.

Blood spills fast, warm and thick, soaking into the marble.

Lucius watches him fall. Watches him die.

His face is blank, empty, but his hands are shaking. He stays there a moment longer, crouched over the body.

Then he stands.

Ravi is waiting outside the door, eyes wide, breath held. He nods. “She’s breathing. Still weak, but stable. She’s asking for you.”

Lucius exhales once, sharp and unsteady.

Then he walks. Not like an emperor or a man victorious.

He walks like someone who nearly lost the only thing that ever made him feel human.

And left death in his wake.

You wake to the sound of breathing. Slow and steady. Not your own.

Everything aches. Your bones feel waterlogged, your skin too tight, your lungs not quite yours. The world is heavy and blurred, but not empty anymore.

There’s a hand in yours.

Warm, large, calloused. Gripping so tightly it’s almost painful, as if letting go might kill him.

Lucius.

You don’t say it aloud. You try, but it comes out as a whisper of breath, just enough. A ghost of his name.

His head jerks up.

He’s slumped in a chair beside you, his hair mussed, eyes bloodshot, his tunic stained with something darker than dust. There are bruises along his knuckles, dried blood in the grooves of his rings. But none of that matters.

Because the moment your eyes meet his, it’s like the whole world crashes into place.

“Lucius,” you rasp, barely a sound.

He’s already moving.

He doesn’t shout, doesn’t call for servants. He just presses forward, sinking to his knees beside the bed, wrapping both hands around yours like he’s trying to feel your pulse with his whole body.

“You came back to me,” he breathes. His voice is hoarse, wrecked. “You- fuck sweetheart, I thought I lost you.”

You manage a faint smile. “You’re the one who looks like death.”

He huffs a sound that’s almost a laugh. But his eyes are wet, his shoulders trembling as he bows his head against your arm.

Your fingers twitch, reaching, despite the fire in your muscles. You reach for him, your hand dragging against his jaw. He lifts his head instantly, eyes wild.

“You shouldn’t move-”

“I need to touch you,” you whisper.

Lucius leans into it, closes his eyes as your fingers brush the side of his face. His stubble scrapes your skin. He’s so warm. Solid. Alive.

“Ravi said it was close,” you murmur. “I remember his voice.”

Lucius nods slowly. “You stopped breathing. Twice.”

He doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t have to. You can see it in him, in the smudged shadows beneath his eyes, the twitch in his jaw.

“How long?” you ask.

“Three days.”

You blink. “You haven’t slept.”

“No,” he says, without shame.

Silence falls.

Then, quietly, “You don’t get to die before I marry you.”

You smile, weak but real.

You glance at him properly now. The blood on his sleeves. The state of him. “You found out who it was.”

His jaw clenches.

“I didn’t just find him,” Lucius says softly. “I made him confess. I made him beg.”

You don’t ask for details. You don’t need to.

But he gives them to you anyway. “Severan thought you were promised to him. His family assumed your hand would be theirs by alliance. No contract. No vow. Just... pure entitlement.”

You close your eyes.

There’s a pause. You open your eyes to find him watching you, ruthless, wrecked, and so full of love it almost hurts.

“I didn’t kill him quickly,” he says. “I wanted him to understand. I wanted him to feel what it means to steal what’s mine.”

You swallow. “Lucius-”

“No. Don’t ask me to regret it.” He brushes your hair back, gentle as a prayer. “If I hadn’t been holding your hand when you woke, I’d still be out there, finding the rest of them.”

“You think there are more?”

“There are always more.”

You study his face. The darkness in it. The desperate, burning edge that hasn’t softened.

He’s not the same man who teased you on the balcony. Not quite.

But he’s still yours.

“Come here,” you say softly.

Lucius hesitates, just for a second.

He climbs onto the bed carefully, lying beside you atop the covers, his arm beneath your neck, drawing you gently into his chest. You can feel the tension still thrumming through him, like a wild animal only half-caged.

You press your face into his throat. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He holds you tighter. “You’d better not.”

“I’ll marry you,” you whisper, half-dreaming. “Even if you look like a ghost.”

He chuckles into your hair. “Then we’ll make it soon.”

“I want the dress with the pearls.”

“You’ll have it,” he murmurs, lips at your temple. “You’ll have everything.”

For a moment, there’s only the sound of his heartbeat, steady against your cheek. The warmth of him. The safety in it.

And the sense, finally, that the worst is over.

But even now, as you drift, his grip doesn’t loosen. He’s still watching the door. Still ready to kill.

Still yours.

I had a lot of fun writing this, please comment/like/reblog is you enjoy, and as always requests are open <3

[astrids-blog333]

You Again

Lucius Verus Aurelius x Healer!Reader

Fandom: Gladiator II

Summary: You were trained to heal. He was trained to kill. Now he’s bleeding out in your lap, and the lines between duty and something deeper are starting to blur.

Warnings: soft angst, graphic injury, blood and medical detail, fainting, ref to gladiatorial violence, emotional vulnerability, hurt/comfort

A/N: I made myself giggle with this one, I felt like I hadn't really written a lot of Gladiator Lucius, so I was like I should probably do that since its his actual character.

MASTERLIST - REQUESTS (OPEN)

WC: 4.5k

They bring him in half-dead.

Blood slicks his skin, dark and tacky, smeared across his chest and dripping down his side into a puddle on the floor. Two guards haul him between them, each bearing a shoulder, struggling to keep him upright as his feet drag uselessly across the stone floor. His head lolls forward, eyes barely open. A trail of red runs from his mouth. He breathes in gasps, like each one is a battle he’s not sure he’s winning.

You don’t speak. You don’t blink. You just move.

“Here,” you command, already clearing the wooden table in the middle of the room. The linens you lay down are fresh, although won’t be in a moment. “Lay him down, gently.”

The guards grunt, easing him onto the bed. His weight hits harder than expected and he groans, quiet and strained, the sound of someone who’s spent every scream he had to give inside the arena. You’re already kneeling beside him, fingers seeking a pulse. It’s there, but thread, faintly beating.

"Ravi?" you call, glancing toward the doorway.

No answer, you remember he’s in the west wing tending to a dislocated spine. Too far. He told you if anyone came in, you’d handle it.

And this… this is Lucius.

You’ve seen him before. Not close, never this close, but enough. Towering and brutal in the arena, wrapped in iron and scarred leather. Silent when he walks. Like a weapon with a will of its own.

But here and now, he is human. And he is breaking.

“Get me clean water, fresh cloths, a poultice for infection, and the strong draught. Hurry,” you bark at the junior healer just outside. They vanish in a flurry of footsteps.

Lucius stirs as you hover over him, hands working quickly. You peel back what’s left of his shoulder guard. It’s half-shattered, bone-deep gashes beneath it. One of the wounds pulses with fresh blood as you move the leather aside, and his head jerks faintly. His eyes open, just a slit.

But he sees you.

“Don’t… touch…” he rasps, voice hoarse and barely coherent.

You catch his head before it lolls to the side again, cradling it gently in your hand. “It’s alright. You’re safe.”

He blinks. The muscles in his jaw tighten, but he doesn’t move away. You can feel how hot his skin is against your palm. Fever already setting in. Too much blood lost.

“I have to clean you up,” you murmur, half to yourself, half to him. “You’ll feel it. Just stay with me, yeah?”

He doesn’t reply. But he doesn’t resist either.

The trainee returns with the supplies, wide-eyed at the sight of him, and you take the basin and cloth without a word. You soak the cloth and wring it out, then press it to his ribs.

He jolts.

A low, broken sound claws from his throat, and his hand, the one that isn’t slick with blood, grabs at the side of the table. He breathes in sharp, teeth clenched.

“I know,” you say, voice low. “It stings. But it’s cleaning it out. You’re alright.”

Lucius’s eye flicks to you, lingering.

You feel it, his awareness returning in snatches. It’s not recognition, not yet. He winces again when you dab at his hip, muscles twitching. You press your other hand gently to his sternum, not to hurt, just to ground him.

“Stay with me,” you say again, soft but firm. “I’m here.”

His brow tightens. A ghost of a nod.

His armor is in your way. You glance at the splintered cuirass, then to the clasps at his side. You hesitate. “I need to take this off. It’ll make it easier.”

Lucius breathes through his nose. Shaky. Barely there. But his lips part, and this time there’s no protest. “Do it.”

You nod, then lean in, fingers careful as you unfasten the ruined armor. It takes longer than it should. His body is so still and so heavy; every lift feels like it might break him more. You tug the straps free and ease the piece off his torso. Beneath it, his skin is painted in cuts and bruises, ribs clearly bruised, maybe cracked. A long gash across his left side still oozes.

You press your lips together, hands shaking now too.

He shouldn’t be alive.

You clean again, wiping away the worst of the blood, then press the cloth to the deepest wound. Lucius groans again, louder this time, and your heart wrenches.

You move to sit beside him on the makeshift bed, cradling his head and shoulders in your lap so you can reach the back of his ribs. You whisper to him as you work, nonsense sometimes, just steady noise. A way to keep him tethered.

“I’m not leaving,” you say. “You’re not alone.”

His fingers twitch. Not much. But enough.

You apply the poultice, layering the herbs, working as quickly as you can. When you reach for the bandages, his head turns just slightly against your thigh. His lips move.

“...name,” he mutters.

You freeze. “What?”

He swallows thickly, grimacing. His eye cracks open again. This time, you see it, a real clarity. Not much. But it’s there.

“Your name,” he says again. Voice like sand, rough and torn. “I… didn’t ask.”

You blink, caught off guard. “It’s alright. It doesn’t matter.”

His gaze finds yours. Weaker than it should be. But not uncertain.

“I want to know.”

You hesitate, but you tell him.

He exhales, barely more than a puff of air, and lets his head fall back against you. “Pretty,” he murmurs. “Didn’t… expect that.”

Your face burns. You just thread your fingers gently through his hair, brushing the sweat and blood away from his temple.

“You need to rest.”

His lashes flutter, already losing the battle. “You’ll stay?”

You don’t pause.

“Yes.”

His breathing slows. Muscles slacken. The fight bleeds out of him like the blood staining your hands.

“Good,” he breathes.

Then he’s gone. Not dead -thank the gods- just unconscious. Truly this time.

You keep holding him for a long moment, letting his weight settle into you. Letting the moment settle into you.

This man, this feared, revered man, trusted you. Let you see him not as a weapon, not as a guard or slave or monster. Just… a man.

You don’t move until his breathing deepens and evens out. Only then do you ease him gently onto the linens below, tucking a blanket over his body.

You brush a final curl of damp hair from his forehead.

The chamber is dim when you come back, lantern light flickering low against stone. Most of the others have gone to sleep. You haven’t.

You sit beside him again, basin at your side, clean cloth in hand. His fever hasn’t broken yet, but he’s no longer shivering. That alone feels like a victory. His breathing is steady now, deeper, less laboured than before.

The bandages need changing. You pull back the linen gently, careful not to wake him.

But he stirs.

His brow twitches. His head turns toward the warmth of your body beside him, a soft sound catching in his throat, a low hum in his chest. He smells like copper and herbs and the faint trace of fire smoke still clinging to his skin.

You press the damp cloth to his side, slowly, gently. He flinches.

“Ssh,” you murmur, smoothing your hand across his stomach to hold him steady. “It’s just me.”

His eyes crack open, lashes heavy with sleep. Eyes still cloudy with half-consciousness. But he sees you.

“You again,” he whispers, voice rough and low.

“Yes. Me again.”

A small, uneven breath leaves him. He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t fight the cloth or the sting. Just lies there, soft and open, letting you clean the wound. Letting you see him.

Your fingertips brush a bruise along his ribs. He shudders, but not from pain.

“You’re warm,” he says suddenly, barely audible. “Not like the others.”

You pause. Your hand stills against his side.

“I try to be,” you say softly. “You’ve been through hell.”

His head turns slightly toward your lap, cheek brushing the blanket. You don’t think he means to, but it almost feels like he’s leaning into you.

“You don’t flinch,” he murmurs.

“No.”

“That’s new.”

You smile faintly. “You’re not as frightening like this.”

He huffs, but it’s barely a sound. Maybe it’s a laugh. Or the ghost of one.

You dip the cloth again, start on the next bandage. He watches you now, blinking slowly. “I should feel shame,” he says quietly.

You glance up. “Do you?”

A pause.

He swallows. “No.”

Your hands move slower now. Softer. You’re not just cleaning. You’re… soothing. Every sweep of cloth feels more like a touch than a task. His body relaxes under you. The tension in his jaw, his neck, his shoulders; it all fades, piece by piece, until his arm slides just slightly, resting near your hip.

“Stay a while?” he murmurs, almost sleep-drunk.

“I was planning to.”

His eyes close again. This time, not from pain.

“It hurts less,” he breathes, voice slurring. “When you’re here.”

You feel the words settle into your chest. You don’t say anything in return. You don’t need to.

Instead, you wring out the cloth again, and keep working in silence.

But now his hand stays near yours, and you don’t move it.

You return the next morning, as you have every morning since the fight, carrying a small bowl of warmed water and fresh linen strips. The scent of crushed herbs clings to your fingers. The door creaks softly as you push it open with your shoulder.

Lucius is sitting upright for once.

Bare-chested, bandages wrapped tightly around his torso, arms resting on his thighs. His head is bowed, strands of hair falling into his face. But he looks up when you enter, and the surprise that flickers in his eyes is quickly replaced by something harder to read.

“You again,” he mutters.

“You sound disappointed.”

You set the bowl down beside him and roll up your sleeves.

“I thought Ravi might finally come himself.”

“He’s dealing with someone else. Dislocated shoulder, I think.” You pause. “Besides, he said you’re mine until you’re up and walking again.”

Lucius huffs a breath that could almost be a laugh. Almost.

You kneel in front of him, close enough to smell the iron tang of blood still dried in the edges of the bandages. “Let’s get these off.”

He doesn’t protest. Doesn’t move either. You reach up and begin to unwrap the linen, careful not to pull too hard. His skin is warm beneath your fingers, fever-warm still, and scattered with bruises and cuts that haven’t fully healed.

Silence stretches between you, not hostile but heavy. The only sounds are your own careful breathing and the soft sound of linen peeling away from scabbed flesh.

“This one looks better,” you murmur, glancing at the wound along his ribs. Lucius doesn’t respond. His eyes are trained on the far wall, jaw clenched, arms still braced on his knees.

You steal a glance at his profile. There’s sweat at his temples. He hasn’t shaved. His mouth is a hard, tense line.

“You let me touch you,” you say quietly, dipping a cloth into the water. “But you never say anything.”

“I’m not used to being fussed over.”

“This isn’t fussing. This is making sure you don’t die.”

“I’ve come closer.”

You press the cloth gently to a shallow gash on his shoulder. He doesn’t flinch, but you feel the tension in him spike.

“You were lucky you know. You really scared Ravi.”

You don’t expect the way his jaw twitches at that. “Don’t tell him that,” Lucius says, voice low.

“Why not?”

He glances at you. “I don’t like being pitied.”

“I didn’t say anything about pity.”

His gaze holds yours for a second too long. Then he looks away again.

You continue your work in silence for a few more minutes. There’s something steady about this, his quiet strength, your care, the rhythm of it all.

Until you reach the wound along his hip. It’s deep, angry red, and still partially crusted with dried dirt and gravel.

“Shit,” you whisper under your breath.

Lucius tenses immediately. “What?”

“This one’s not healing. There’s something still in it. It’ll fester if we don’t clean it properly.”

You glance up at him. His eyes have narrowed slightly, but not in suspicion. In pain.

“I’ll need to dig it out,” you say, gentle but firm. “It’s going to hurt.”

Lucius exhales slowly through his nose. “Do it.”

You wet a fresh cloth and pour a small amount of antiseptic onto it. The sharp scent bites the air. His nostrils flare.

“Hold onto something,” you murmur.

“I’m fine-”

“No. You’re not.”

You move closer, kneeling on the bed beside his thigh for a better angle, steadying one hand on his skin. With the other, you begin cleaning the wound.

The second the cloth touches the open skin, Lucius jerks.

His hand shoots out blindly, seizing your forearm, not to stop you, but to anchor himself. His grip is tight, trembling slightly.

You don’t pull away.

Instead, you press your free hand to his chest, just over his heart, grounding him. His skin is fever-warm, damp with sweat, rising and falling faster now. His breath is ragged.

“Easy,” you whisper. “I’ve got you.”

His eyes meet yours again. There’s no mask this time. No coldness. Just raw pain. And trust.

He nods once. You go back in.

You work quickly, carefully, pulling out bits of embedded gravel and wiping away the blood that comes fresh with it. His grip on your arm never loosens, but he doesn’t say a word, jaw locked tight as though he’s holding everything in, until he finally exhales a rough, “Keep going.”

You do.

When it’s finally done, you rinse the wound again, then press a clean cloth to it. Lucius lets out a shaky breath and drops his head back against the wall.

His hand is still on you.

You don’t move it. Neither does he.

“See?” you say softly. “Not fussing. Just fixing.”

That earns a breath of something like laughter. His mouth twitches. Almost a smile.

“I should’ve died out there,” he murmurs after a long moment. “Would’ve been easier.”

You frown. “But you didn’t.”

“No.” His eyes close. “Because someone decided I was worth saving.” There’s no bitterness in the way he says it. No anger. Just a quiet, haunted exhaustion.

You reach for the bandages again. Begin wrapping the wound with gentle fingers. “I don’t know what they said about me,” you say as you work. “But I’ve never seen someone crawl back from death this stubbornly.”

His mouth tilts again, wry and tired. “I wasn’t crawling. You dragged me.”

You smile.

His hand slips from your arm.

You secure the bandage and lean back, finally releasing the breath you didn’t realise you were holding. Lucius is watching you now. Fully watching you.

His gaze lingers a little too long.

“What?” you ask quietly.

He blinks. Looks away. “Nothing.”

You dip your fingers into the water one last time and begin cleaning the blood from his side.

This time, when your touch lingers, he doesn’t flinch.

It happens on your way back from the storeroom.

You're carrying clean cloth and salve, thinking of which wounds need redressing. The corridor is quiet until a shadow moves ahead of you, peeling from the wall like it had been waiting.

Gaius.

One of the newer gladiators. Big. Young. All teeth and swagger, with a sharpness in his eyes that never feels playful. The kind of man who smiles when he sees blood. He falls into step beside you, too close.

“Healer,” he says, voice low. “You always walk alone?”

You don’t stop. “I’m working.”

“That so?” He grins, undeterred. “You always work this hard for him?”

Your spine stiffens. You don’t need to ask who he means.

“I’ve seen you,” Gaius continues. “In his room. At his side. Touching him.”

You keep walking. He follows.

“I get it,” he says. “He’s got the scars. The brooding stare. Real tragic hero. But he’s all bones now, isn’t he? Limping. Broken. Can’t even lift his sword yet.”

Your steps falter, he notices. He steps closer. “Bet you miss having a real man look at you.”

You don’t stop him fast enough. His hand is on your arm, sliding down with forced familiarity. The grip tighten, just slightly. Enough to remind you he could do worse.

You twist away, heart thudding, voice sharp. “Don’t touch me.”

But that only makes him laugh.

“You’ll touch him though. Wrap his ribs. Clean his wounds. You even change his clothes?”

His other hand reaches for your waist, too fast for you to dodge fully. You flinch back, but a shadow falls across you both.

Gaius’s hand never lands.

Lucius.

You didn’t hear him come. You don’t know how long he’s been watching.

He stands between you in one breathless moment, his body blocking Gaius’s, the flicker of linen from his half-fastened tunic shifting with the rise of his chest.

The bandage at his side is stained, he shouldn’t even be on his feet. But none of that matters now, because his eyes are on Gaius.

Deadly. Dark. Cold as steel. His voice is quiet when he speaks. “Step away from her.”

Gaius blinks. Laughs, confused. “Easy. We were just talking-”

Lucius moves, just a step. A shift.

His hand rises, not swinging, just pressing flat against Gaius’s chest and shoving.

Gaius slams against the stone wall. Not hard enough to injure. But hard enough to warn.

Your breath catches. Lucius doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t repeat himself, he doesn’t have to.

“No one touches her.”

Gaius freezes.

“I didn’t mean anything,” he mutters, trying to recover his footing. “Just playing around.”

“You don’t play with what’s mine,” Lucius replies.

Gaius stares at him.

And for one foolish heartbeat, you see the younger man’s pride flare. His fists twitch. A stupid, masculine instinct to push back. To see what a wounded champion is really made of.

Lucius doesn’t flinch, he just leans in and whispers something you can’t hear. Gaius pales.

A full second of silence passes.

Then he turns and walks, his shoulders tight. Face unreadable.

Gone.

The corridor goes quiet.

Lucius stays still a moment longer, breathing slow, jaw tight. You glance at his side, the bandage is bleeding again.

Still, he turns to you.

His hand comes to your waist. Steadying, calmer than before, but not soft.

“Are you alright?” he asks.

You nod, shakily. “He just surprised me.”

Lucius watches your face, searching for something.

“Did he hurt you?”

“No. I’m fine.” But your voice betrays you.

Lucius exhales through his nose. That’s when you feel it, his hand, still resting lightly on you, shaking just a little. Not with fear, with restraint.

“Let’s go,” he says. “You don’t stay here alone again.”

“I’ve walked these corridors since I was twelve,” you whisper.

“You’ve never walked them after touching me.” His voice sharpens. “Men like him… they watch. And they wait.”

“And you watch them?”

“I watch everything.”

You blink. “You’ve been keeping an eye on me.”

Lucius doesn’t answer. His silence says everything.

“I thought… you were just quiet. Recovering.”

He nods once. “I was. I am.”

“But you came for me.”

“Yes.”

The way he says it, it’s not pride. It’s not even anger. It’s just true.

He steps back, his hand slipping from your side. But even that distance feels like it belongs to him.

“Come,” he says. “I’ll walk you back.”

By now, he’s used to the way you move around his space, how you open the door softly, how you carry the cloth and balm and bandages with gentle hands. He doesn’t look up as you step inside, but you know he hears you.

Lucius is sitting on the edge of the cot, shirtless, one arm braced against his raised knee. The sun pours in from the narrow window, casting gold against his skin and the curve of the half-healed scar across his shoulder. He’s stronger now. Not whole, but close. The worst of it has faded.

Which makes this feel worse.

You don’t speak at first. Just gather what you need. You’ve done this so many times now; cleaned his wounds, wrapped his ribs, brushed sweat from his brow when fever threatened to drag him under. You probably know the shape of his body better than your own by now.

And you know what it means when he says, quietly, “They’ve cleared me to fight again.”

You freeze. A stillness that settles behind your ribs and pulls the breath from your lungs.

“I thought they’d wait longer,” you manage, fingers tightening on the clean cloth.

“They would have,” he says. “But the crowds are loud. They want blood. And the House wants gold.”

Of course they do, you know how this place works.

You kneel before him and begin your work, though your fingers move slower than usual. You press gently at the edge of the last wound, a split near his ribs, and watch for the wince.

There isn’t one.

Still, your voice is quiet. “You’re not ready.”

“I’m always ready.”

“That’s not the same.” Lucius doesn’t argue. Just watches you, eyes steady. You clean the wound. Dab the balm along the edges.

“I hate this,” you whisper.

He shifts, almost as if to hear you better. “What?”

You shake your head. “Watching you go. Not knowing if… if you’ll come back.”

Lucius goes still.

For a long time, he says nothing. Then, finally, in a voice so soft it barely feels like him, he says, “You don’t need to be afraid. Not for me.”

But you are.

And you don’t hide it.

You finish the dressing slowly, smoothing the edges with a tender hand. Your fingers linger, tracing the edge of his ribs.

Then his hand comes down on yours, warm and heavy.

You look up.

He’s closer than you realised. Watching you like he always does, but something’s different now. Something exposed.

“You didn’t ask what I said to him,” he murmurs.

You blink. “Who?”

“Gaius.”

You hesitate. “I thought you didn’t want me to know.”

“I didn’t,” he admits. “But I want you to know now.”

You don’t speak. You wait.

Lucius leans in slightly, his voice low. “I told him if he touched you again, I’d rip out his tongue and feed it to the dogs.”

Your stomach tightens. “He hasn’t come near me since.”

“He won’t.”

And then, with a shift in his tone that makes your skin prickle:

“But if anyone touches you again… I’ll make them scream.” Your breath catches, and feel his hand is still over yours.

You can’t look away.

“You don’t have to-”

“I do,” he says. “And I will.”

It’s not a promise. It’s a vow.

A few seconds pass in silence. Then he shifts, slowly bringing your hand up to his lips. Not kissing it, just resting it there, letting the warmth of his breath roll across your knuckles.

Your whole body stills.

“You saved my life,” he says quietly. “You gave me back my strength.”

You shake your head, flustered. “It’s my job.”

“No.” His eyes don’t leave yours. “You chose me. Even when I was broken.”

“I didn’t see you as broken.”

“Yes you did. But you didn’t flinch.”

You think of that first night. The blood. The pain. The way you held his neck steady while he slipped in and out of consciousness. And how even then, something in him sought you out.

You don’t know who leans closer first, but you’re breathing the same air now. There’s no kiss, no rush.

Just stillness.

You reach out, touch his face. Not the scars, not the hard lines of his jaw, but the softer place just beneath his eye. He exhales, like he’s been holding his breath all this time.

“I want you to come back,” you whisper.

“I will.”

“Whole.”

He nods. “I will.”

You don’t believe it, but you let him lie to you. Just this once. When you pull away, his hand lingers on your wrist, fingers brushing your pulse. Protective.

Almost possessive.

You step back, even though you don’t want to, and as you go, he says one last thing.

Quiet. Almost too soft to hear.

“But you have to be here. When I return.”

You nod.

“I will be.”

You hear his name before you see him.

The roar of the crowd is thunderous, relentless, the same syllables again and again, thrown like praise, like worship.

Lucius.

Lucius.

It doesn’t sound like the name of a man. It sounds like a god being summoned.

You push through the edge of the crowd, heart hammering, breath tight in your chest. You need to see him.

The gates open, and your world tilts.

He steps into the corridor like something reborn, blood-soaked, bruised, but upright. His armour is cracked. One arm hangs a little heavy. But his steps are steady. His eyes are sharp.

Alive.

He shouldn’t be.

Gaius lies somewhere behind him, dead. You heard it already, how Lucius didn’t just win. He broke him. Left no doubt who the arena belongs to.

Your throat tightens.

He turns his head, and sees you.

And you see him.

Lucius moves first, but you’re already running.

You crash into him, and his arms are around you immediately, so fast and hard you gasp. He doesn’t speak. He just buries his face in your neck, breath hot and uneven. His blood smears your hands, your tunic, but you don’t care.

You hold him tighter.

“I thought-” you start, but your voice breaks.

“I told you I’d come back,” he murmurs, and now his voice is breaking too. “You were here.”

“I was always going to be.”

He pulls back just enough to see you. His face is raw. Wild. And there’s something in his eyes that wasn’t there before. Not just need, but hunger.

Then he kisses you, no hesitation.

It’s not soft. Not sweet.

It’s desperate and rough and aching. His hand cups the back of your head like he can’t stand the idea of distance. His mouth moves against yours like this is the only thing that’s kept him alive.

You press into it, into him, fingers gripping the edge of his armour, still hot from the sun and the fight.

It should hurt him.

It doesn’t.

He groans softly into your mouth, like it’s the first time he’s allowed himself to feel anything since they dragged him into that pit.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours. His breath shakes.

“Say it,” you whisper.

“What?”

“That you’re mine.” His hands tighten on your waist.

“I’m yours,” he says. “Always.” And in that moment, it doesn’t matter what comes next.

Because he lived. And you were the reason he wanted to.

hope you guys liked this one, please comment/like/reblog if you did 🤗

[astrids-blog333]

Call Me Husband

Guard!Lucius Verus Aurelius x Reader

Fandom: Gladiator II

Summary: Your father sent his most loyal guard to protect you. A man twice your age and owned by your house. And this week, he has to pretend to be your husband.

Warnings: 18+ SMUT, age gap, loss of virginity, jealousy, power imbalance, mild exhibitionism, period-typical misogyny.

A/N: In this kinda combined a bunch of my fav fic tropes, like forced proximity, age gap, enemies to lovers situation, fake dating...yeah you get the idea. It's purely self-indulgent 🤭

MASTERLIST - REQUESTS (OPEN)

WC: 4.1k

The carriage pulls to a slow, creaking stop in front of Lord Aldryn's estate. Sunlight glints off the polished stone, warm and golden, but your skin is already prickling before you even step down. This place is grand, older than your father’s home.

Lucius hops down first.

You expect him to offer a hand, which he does, but it's forced, rigid. His jaw is tight, but you take his hand anyway, forcing it, curling your fingers around his rough palm like you’ve done it a thousand times before.

You smile up at him sweetly. “Darling.”

His eyes cut down to you, a warning simmering just under the surface. “You better behave,” he mutters.

You only grin wider. “We’re supposed to be blending in, you're supposed to be my Husband, remember?”

You're here on your father’s orders, representing the family at this summer gathering, a week of hunting, feasting, and mingling. But your father couldn’t attend himself, so he sent you.

And Lucius, your guard. A man at least twice your age, who has killed for your family more times than you can count, and who is pretending to be your new husband of two weeks.

The steward greets you before Lucius can argue. “Lord and Lady,” the man beams. “Welcome. Lord Aldryn is delighted you could join us. We’ve prepared your chambers.”

You open your mouth, Lucius beats you to it.

“Thank you,” he says curtly. “We’re honoured.”

The steward leads you through the estate. You feel Lucius’s eyes on your back, burning a hole through your dress.

Your chambers are beautiful. High ceilings, tall windows, a carved bed in the centre of the room.

The steward chuckles as he sets down your cases. “Privacy for newlyweds is important, yes? I remember the first time my wife and I- well, never mind.” He bows and disappears before you can say a word.

Lucius stands frozen.

The dining hall is already buzzing when you arrive. Candles flicker along the long table. Nobles laugh and drink, the room full of too many eyes, none of which seem to notice Lucius’s hand resting just barely against the small of your back.

You slide into your seat beside him. You’re seated as a pair. Of course.

The host, Lord Aldryn, raises his goblet. “To new marriages!” he declares. “May you enjoy this week of peace, and of pleasure.”

There’s laughter. A few raised brows aimed at you and Lucius.

You don’t miss the way he stiffens.

You lean into him. Just enough for your lips to brush the edge of his jaw. “Loosen up,” you whisper. “You’re supposed to be in love with me.” His hand curls into a fist under the table.

Lunch begins. Roasted meats are brought out, still sizzling. There is fresh fruit, honeyed wine, and you behave for exactly ten minutes.

Then you pick up a fig from your plate, soft and sweet, and turn to Lucius with a slow smile. “Lucius,” you say aloud, “you’ll like this.”

You lift the fruit to his lips, but he doesn’t open his mouth.

Your smile doesn’t falter. You lean closer, brushing the fig against his lower lip. “Come on.” Lucius stares at you like he’s about to strangle you.

But he opens his mouth. Bites. Chews.

The table around you coos.

“How sweet,” a woman says. “Such devotion,” another murmurs.

Lucius doesn’t say a word. His jaw moves tightly, and his hand is now gripping the arm of his chair like he’s holding himself back from slamming it into someone’s face.

You just hum and turn back to your food, satisfied.

You’re playing with fire and you know it.

You’re not supposed to wear this.

The gown is too fine, too fitted, and the colour so deep, it's almost sinful. You’d chosen it carefully. Lucius had said nothing when you laid it out on the bed. He’d just glanced once, jaw hard, eyes unreadable.

Now, hours later, you’re walking through Lord Aldryn’s gardens with a crystal goblet in one hand and every eye in the party on you. Or rather, on the gown. On the skin it reveals, the shape it clings to.

But only one pair of eyes matters.

Lucius is posted at a distance, dressed in a dark, understated tunic. A blade at his hip. Standing guard, as always. You can feel his stare from across the lawn, like pressure against your spine.

You don’t look at him. Not yet.

Someone else approaches first.

“Lady,” a voice says smoothly, drawing close.

You turn. Lord Aldryn's eldest son, handsome, far too confident, and just drunk enough to think he stands a chance. He bows low before you. His golden hair gleams in the torchlight.

“My lady wife,” you correct lightly.

He laughs, bold. “Ah yes, the quiet brute you came with. I saw you feeding him. Must be exhausting, trying to draw affection from stone.”

"Yes, my lord husband,” you correct, lips curved.

You force a laugh and try to step back, but he follows. Closer.

“You should smile more,” he says, lifting a hand to brush a lock of hair from your shoulder. “Someone like you shouldn’t waste time on someone so...cold.”

His fingers graze your bare skin.

You feel it before you see it, the shift in the air. Your breath hitches.

Lucius is moving.

Across the garden, his posture changes. His stance widens, shoulders drawn back, hand resting at the hilt of his sword.

You look up at him, offer a smile that’s more of a warning. “Excuse me,” you say tightly, stepping to the side.

But the boy follows, still talking, still grinning. “Come now, don’t be shy. We’re all friends here.”

You glance over his shoulder, locking eyes with Lucius.

It’s the first time you’ve ever begged him silently.

And gods, does he respond.

Lucius appears beside you like a storm on legs. Not saying a word, not drawing his sword. Just there, towering, broad, eyes black with rage. He doesn’t touch the boy. Doesn’t need to.

The noble flinches, retreats half a step. “My apologies,” he mumbles. “Didn’t realise your husband was the possessive type,” he quips, trying for humour.

Lucius smiles. A slow, terrible thing.

He steps forward. Just one step, but the boy flinches like he’s been struck.

“Try again,” Lucius says, voice soft as ash.

The boy's face goes white, and he slowly backs away.

As he leaves, Lucius turns to you. He doesn’t speak, just watches you.

And you can’t breathe.

Later, back in the room, the door clicks shut behind you. The silence is thunderous.

You move first, walking to the vanity to untie your gown. Your fingers tremble slightly, but you keep your chin high, spine straight. You don’t look at him, but you feel him, his presence swallowing the entire room, coiled like a storm held back by sheer will.

“You’re angry,” you say softly, unclasping the back of your necklace.

No response.

You glance in the mirror and see him, still standing by the door, fists clenched at his sides, chest rising and falling in long, deliberate breaths. His jaw is tight, shoulders rigid beneath his dark tunic. His eyes, when they catch yours in the reflection, are unreadable. Dangerous.

“You didn’t stop me earlier,” you murmur.

Still nothing.

“Lucius.”

That does it.

He crosses the room in three strides. You turn just as your back hits the wall with a quiet thud, the cool stone jarring through the fabric of your gown.

He doesn’t touch you.

His hands slam into the wall on either side of your head. His breath is hot and ragged, his chest brushing yours with every inhale. His eyes burn into yours, and yet he still holds himself back.

“He touched you,” he growls, voice rough and low, vibrating through your bones.

You don’t flinch. “He thought I was available.”

“You let him think it.”

“You let him think it.” A sharp inhale “Are you jealous, Lucius?”

Lucius barks a short, humourless laugh. His teeth flash in the dim candlelight, more snarl than smile. “Your father owns me. I am here to guard your life, not ruin it.”

You don’t look away. “I don’t feel ruined.”

“I do,” he snaps.

The words land with force.

But still, you don’t break. “Then why didn’t you step in?”

“I wanted to.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

He leans in. So close now. The wall cold against your back, his body a furnace in front of you. His voice is a breath away from vicious. “Because if I’d put my hands on him, I wouldn’t have stopped.”

A beat of silence. You swallow. “And if you put your hands on me?”

His gaze drops to your mouth, your throat, the rapid rise and fall of your chest. His self-control shudders, visible in the tense line of his jaw, in the way his knuckles whiten against the wall.

“I’m not afraid of you,” you whisper.

Lucius exhales through his nose, slow and tight. “You should be.”

You reach for his belt.

His hand shoots out, seizing your wrist mid-air. He doesn’t squeeze, just holds. He could crush you. He doesn’t.

“You have no idea what you’re asking for,” he says, voice low and dangerous.

“I’m not a child.”

His grip tightens. “No. But you’re still soft. Untouched. Reckless.”

“I’m not reckless,” you say, breath catching. “I’m choosing this.”

Lucius stares at you, something furious and protective and almost...devastated flickering behind his eyes. “You think that makes you ready? You think you know what it means to be with a man?”

“I know what I want.”

"You don't want a man like me."

"I do. I know I do!"

“You want danger. You want control taken from you and handed to someone who knows better.” His voice is a low rasp now, eyes flashing. “You want to be ruined. And I-” he cuts himself off, jaw clenched. “I’m trying not to give in.”

Your pulse pounds in your ears. You try to pull your wrist back. He doesn’t let go.

“You’re playing games,” he breathes. “But I don’t play. I take.”

You tilt your chin up. “I want you to.”

His eyes flick down. To your mouth. Your neck. Lower still.

“No you don't,” he murmurs.

“If you don’t touch me right now, I’ll scream.”

“And if I do?”

“Then I’ll beg." Lucius exhales sharply. Like he’s been struck.

His grip loosens, then releases. He steps back but he doesn’t leave. He looks at you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters. Like he’s fighting for his soul and losing.

Then he says, rough and quiet, “Get on the bed.”

The mattress dips beneath you as you climb onto the bed, knees sinking into soft linen. The silk of your gown shivers over your skin. You sit back on your heels, hands folded in your lap, eyes fixed on Lucius.

He watches you.

His chest still rises and falls with that same coiled restraint, but his eyes… his eyes are wild. Dark. Unforgiving.

“You look like a lamb waiting for slaughter,” he mutters.

"Then be the blade, Lucius. Just don’t leave me waiting." You smirk at the muscle that ticks in his jaw.

He crosses the room in slow, heavy steps, his boots loud against the floorboards. He stands at the foot of the bed and looks down at you, something unreadable flickering behind his gaze.

Then he reaches for the leather straps of his armour, tugging them loose with practised ease. One by one, pieces fall away. His shoulder guards go first, then the chestplate, and the belt at his waist.

When his tunic comes off, your breath catches. Not just because of the body, which is broad and strong and marked by battle, but because for the first time he looks like a man, not a soldier.

He steps forward again, kneels one knee onto the bed, and grabs your ankle gently, guiding your foot forward so you’re flat on your back. You let him move you. His hand is warm, calloused, rough in all the right places.

“You want to be mine,” he murmurs, voice low, rasped, eyes dragging over you.

“I already am,” you whisper.

Lucius makes a sound in his throat; half laugh, half groan, and leans over you. One hand plants beside your head. The other brushes down your side, fingers skimming the silk of your dress. When he finds the ties at your hip, he doesn’t yank. He pulls. Slow, deliberate, dragging each ribbon loose with maddening precision.

Your skin prickles as the fabric shifts. One shoulder bare. Then the other.

He drags the neckline lower with the back of his knuckles. “You don’t even know what you’re doing to me.”

“I want you to show me.”

That earns you a sharp, quiet laugh. “Gods help me,” he mutters, and leans in to kiss your throat.

His lips are warm, mouth hot as he trails lower. You arch beneath him without meaning to. His hands slide under the fabric of your gown, pushing it up, higher and higher, until it bunches at your waist.

His eyes flick to yours. “Lift your hips.”

You do.

And he pulls the gown over your thighs, down your legs, off.

You’re bare beneath him.

Your face flushes, but you don’t hide. You don’t cover yourself. You look at him, this man who is older, stronger, and dangerous.

Lucius groans quietly. “You are going to ruin me.”

He moves slower now, like he’s memorising you. His hands settle on your hips, thumbs pressing gently into your skin. His mouth finds your collarbone, your breast, lower still. Each kiss is reverent. Every touch is earned.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, and you believe him.

You reach for him, grabbing his hand, his wrist, whatever you can hold. Needing something solid.

He guides you gently, shifting your legs apart, fitting his body between them.

Then he moves.

His fingers first, slow and careful, coaxing sounds from you you’ve never made before. He watches every reaction, like he’s studying you. Learning what you like. What you can take.

Your breathing turns ragged.

Lucius kisses you hard. “Look at me.”

You do.

“Good girl.”

You whimper and he keeps going, steady and slow, until you’re shaking.

Then he stops. Only for a moment.

You gasp when he pulls away, ready to protest, but he’s already undoing the ties of his trousers. You’re bare, trembling, and breathless.

And he is going to ruin you in the best way possible.

Lucius kicks off the last of his clothing, and your breath stutters. It's the way he looks at you, like you’re something sacred. Like he’s already in too deep.

He comes back over you, his body bracketing yours, heat radiating from his skin. One hand cups your face, thumb brushing your cheek. “Tell me again.”

“I want you.”

“No,” he breathes, dragging his nose along your jaw. “Tell me you want me inside you.”

You swallow hard, spine pressing into the mattress, thighs shaking. “I want you inside me.”

He groans like the words cost him something. Like he’s barely holding himself together.

Then, finally, he pushes inside.

You gasp, hands flying to his shoulders. The stretch burns, but his touch grounds you. He doesn’t move right away. He watches your face, studies your every reaction like it’s the only thing that matters.

"So fucking tight-" his jaw tightens, eyes wild, "so bloody innocent, what are you doing to me?" His hand clenches in the sheets beside your head. "You’ve never done this before." You shake your head, cheeks flaming.

"Tell me no one’s ever had you. Say it."

"You're the first Lucius."

That makes him groan again, lower this time, deep in his chest. “You should hate me for this.”

“I don’t.”

His hand covers yours where it clutches at his shoulder. “Breathe, sweetheart.”

So you do. And when he starts to move, it’s slow. Careful. Like he’s afraid you’ll break. You cling to him, your body gradually adjusting to his size, to the overwhelming fullness of him.

He presses his forehead to yours, his rhythm deliberate and steady. His other hand slides beneath your thigh, lifting it higher, deeper.

“Doing so well,” he mutters, kissing your cheek, your throat. “So brave. Gods, you feel like heaven.”

You whimper his name.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers. “You’re mine now, sweet girl. Say it.”

“I’m yours.”

“Louder.”

“I’m yours, Lucius.”

His hips snap harder, once, and your breath catches. He chuckles, low and dangerous. “Good girl.”

Every thrust sends you spiralling. The sting of the first few moments fades into something molten, dizzying, unbearable in the best way.

You wrap your legs around his waist. Your fingers tangle in his hair. “Don’t stop. Please.”

“I won’t,” he says, mouth at your neck. “Not until you’re shaking for me.”

And you do.

It builds slowly, unbearably, the pressure mounting in your belly until it breaks. You cry out as your release crashes through you, body trembling beneath him, back arching off the mattress.

Lucius groans, lips at your ear. “That’s it. That’s my girl.”

You’re still gasping, trying to recover, when you hear footsteps. A shuffle outside the door.

Your eyes fly open in alarm.

Lucius doesn’t stop.

He reaches up, hand over your mouth, holding you still as he keeps moving inside you. His rhythm stays measured, deliberate.

He leans down, voice rough against your ear. “You started this,” he growls. “Now you’ll take everything I give you.”

Your eyes roll back. “Quiet now,” he murmurs. “Be good for me.”

You moan under his palm, helpless, hips twitching beneath him.

Even when the footsteps pause outside the door, Lucius doesn’t break pace. His hand tightens gently. His eyes stay locked on yours.

And still, you can’t look away.

Whoever’s out there moves on. The sound fades.

He keeps the pace slow for a few more strokes, teasing you, until your nails are digging into his shoulders, your legs trembling around his waist.

And then, something in him snaps.

His rhythm shifts. No more gentleness, no more mercy. He pounds into you, deep and unrelenting, and you sob out a sound you didn’t know you could make.

“Tell me you can take it,” he growls.

You nod, desperate, wrecked. “I can...I can Lucius-”

It hits like lightning.

The tension in your belly coils impossibly tight and then detonates. Your body clamps down around him, stars bursting behind your eyes. You cry out, shaking beneath him, your entire body seized in ecstasy.

He curses against your neck, voice breaking. “Fuck. That’s it. Just like that.”

You’re still convulsing around him, riding the waves, when he groans again and thrusts deep one last time.

Lucius stills. And then you feel him hot and thick, spilling inside you, his mouth catching your moan with a kiss. His whole body trembles with its force, arms locked around you like he’ll never let go.

It’s primal. Unrestrained.

Perfect.

He doesn’t move right away. Just breathes. His forehead presses to yours, and you feel his pulse hammering in his throat.

“That,” he breathes, “was never supposed to happen.”

Then slowly, reluctantly, he pulls out. He kisses you, softer now. Gentle. His thumb strokes your cheek where his hand had silenced you.

“You alright?” he murmurs.

You nod.

Lucius doesn’t speak as he moves to help you. His hands are gentle and careful as he dresses you, the soft laces of your nightgown slipping through his fingers with a reverence that seems almost out of place after everything.

But then, his voice cuts through the stillness. It’s hard, jagged. “You know this changes everything.”

You want to say something, but the weight of his words settles in your chest like a stone. You don’t need to ask what he means. You already know.

Before you can gather your thoughts, there's a knock at the door.

You freeze, your heart stuttering in your chest. Panic flares in your stomach, but Lucius, ever calm, is already on his feet. His movements are swift, efficient, like a predator on alert. He doesn’t falter, doesn’t hesitate.

In a few seconds, he’s dressed, the sharp edges of his military demeanour snapping into place as he approaches the door. The sound of the knock feels like it echoes through the room, and you hold your breath, waiting.

Lucius opens the door like he owns the godsdamned world.

And maybe he does, because when Lord Aldryn’s son looks up, all cocky confidence from earlier is gone. The boy freezes.

Lucius is shirtless, his chest still rising and falling from exertion, his skin sheened with sweat. There’s a faint red mark trailing down his neck. Probably your teeth, if the boy’s smart enough to notice.

He doesn't move aside.

“She’s resting,” Lucius says, low and deliberate.

The boy shifts, glancing past him. His gaze lands on the tangled bedsheets, on your bare legs disappearing beneath them, on the bruises blooming along your throat, the kind only one man gets to leave.

Lucius watches him take it all in. Watches the exact moment that hope dies in his eyes.

“Ah,” Lucius murmurs. “So now you understand.”

The boy swallows hard. “I- I didn’t mean to intrude-”

“But you did,” Lucius cuts in smoothly. He leans against the doorframe, arms folding across his chest, utterly at ease. “You came to try. That’s what stings, isn’t it?”

The noble’s son flinches, colour rising to his cheeks.

Lucius smiles. It’s not kind. “Next time, don’t mistake a look for an invitation. She was never yours to chase.”

The boy stumbles over some half-formed apology before retreating fast down the hall, boots echoing like a retreat from war.

Lucius shuts the door with slow satisfaction. Then he turns back to you.

His eyes roam over your skin, your lips, the marks he left. And when he speaks again, it's with a dark, amused glint in his eye.

“He thought he could touch you,” he says. “Thought he might steal something that already fucking belongs to me.”

He grabs the discarded blanket and joins you back on the bed, pulling it over you both. You’re still trembling, still trying to believe it happened.

Lucius shifts beside you, propped on one elbow. “You don’t get to flirt with boys anymore.”

You smile, dazed. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

His fingers trace lazy lines down your side. “Good.”

There’s a beat of silence before you whisper, “You’re going to pretend this didn’t happen tomorrow, aren’t you?”

Lucius meets your eyes. “No.”

You blink.

He brushes a kiss to your forehead. “But you should.”

You fall asleep wrapped in his arms. Spent. Claimed. Safe.

And completely, utterly his.

The next morning, you wake tangled in the sheets, Lucius’s body still close to yours. His arm is draped across you, the warmth of his skin seeping into yours.

The door to your room creaks open, and a servant’s voice breaks the stillness.

“Your father arrives tonight, My Lady.”

The words hit like a sudden gust of cold air. Your stomach drops. Lucius stiffens beside you, his muscles tensing as if someone had struck him. His gaze hardens, and for a long moment, he doesn’t move. His face is unreadable, but his eyes betray him; there’s panic, yes, but something darker beneath it.

The room is suffocating now, and you can feel the tension coil between you like a wire stretched to its breaking point.

Lucius’s body shifts, but he doesn’t speak at first. His jaw clenches, and his fists twitch at his sides. His gaze doesn’t leave you as he stands, moving to dress swiftly, his hands more methodical now, almost mechanical in the way he pulls on his clothes.

He’s slipping back into the role of the soldier, the guard, the man who is bound to your father, but there’s something there, something that fights against the ease with which he assumes that persona.

You look at Lucius. He looks at you.

The danger is real now.

But despite that danger, despite the weight of the consequences that hang in the air, you both remain silent. Neither of you moves to leave the room, nor do you speak, as if the world has stopped turning for just a moment.

Finally, Lucius steps toward you. His eyes are intense, burning with an emotion you can't quite place, possessiveness, anger, fear. His voice is low, gravelly, but there’s a tenderness in it that wasn’t there before.

“Don’t worry, sweet girl,” he says, his words quiet but firm. “No one will take you from me. Not even him.”

I really enjoyed this, that's all I have to say 😅

[astrids-blog333]

Last One Standing

Lucius Verus Aurelius x Reader

Fandom: Gladiator II

Summary: You were never meant to leave the arena alive. They tied you to the centre post and set monsters loose, with only one to protect you.

Warnings: graphic violence, blood and injury, descriptions of gore, death, arena combat, threat of execution, imprisonment.

A/N: This is a classic damsel in distress situation, based on a brilliant idea from @londonalozzy. I hope you like it, I had a lot of fun writing this, also sorry for any potential errors in the fighting, I've never murdered someone so I'm not up to date on the details lmao.

MASTERLIST - REQUESTS (OPEN)

WC: 3.2k

The cell is quiet.

Stone walls press in on you, the weight of what’s coming pressing heavier still. Outside, you can hear the crowd already gathering in the arena, distant and ravenous, chanting for blood.

Your blood.

Lucius stands by the weapons bench, strapping on his armour with calm, measured movements. His back is to you, wide and scarred.

You swallow, your palms clammy. “They said… they said it starts soon.”

He doesn’t turn. “It does.”

You’re not sure what you expect from him, comfort? Rage? But he gives neither. Only silence, and the metallic click of a buckle being fastened tight.

Your eyes fall to the armour pieces still on the bench beside him, his shoulder guard, the second bracer, the chest straps that cross over his back. His hands move to reach for one, but stall. It’s the kind of fastening that requires another person.

You step forward before you can second-guess yourself.

“Let me help.” That makes him pause. He glances over his shoulder, dark eyes unreadable. Not suspicious, but not grateful either. Just watchful.

“I’ve done it before,” you add quickly, voice a little steadier than you feel. Still, he doesn’t answer. But he doesn’t stop you either.

You take it as permission.

Crossing the final distance between you, you pick up the leather strap and step close. Close enough to smell the steel and leather and blood on him, and something warmer underneath. The heat of a man forged to survive.

His skin is still marked from wounds that are not fully healed. A shallow gash runs across his ribs, angry and red. You try not to look at it for too long.

Silently, you loop the straps across his chest. Fasten the buckles. Tighten each one with careful fingers.

“You’ve done this before?” he murmurs, low and rough. You glance up. “My brother fought, I helped him prepare.”

His gaze lingers on you. Then he looks ahead again.

You fasten the last buckle, fingers brushing his shoulder. You mean to step back. But something keeps you there.

The silence stretches.

“You don’t have to do this,” you say suddenly, too suddenly. “Fight for me.”

Lucius turns then. Fully. And now he’s looking at you, really looking. His eyes flicker down your face, your jaw, the quiver in your breath you try to hide.

“I was ordered to,” he says simply.

You nod. “I know.”

He’s quiet for a long moment. Then he leans down, slightly, enough for his voice to drop to something dangerous.

“Stay behind me,” he says. Not a plea. Not a suggestion.

A command.

Your throat tightens, and you look away.

But as you turn to leave the cell to face the horror waiting outside, he catches your wrist.

You freeze.

You meet his eyes. And nod once.

The sunlight is blinding.

It hits your face the second they shove you through the gate, and you stumble into the harsh glare of the arena, bare, unarmed, wrists bound, dust clouding the hem of your thin tunic.

The roar that greets you could rival thunder.

It rolls down from the stands like a wave crashing over your body, your bones, your lungs. Thousands of people, all screaming. Not in protest. Not in horror.

In excitement.

You keep your head down. If you look up, you might see their eager, bloodthirsty faces. You don’t want to see the two brothers who decided your life was worth less than their entertainment.

Your breath hitches as they drag you to a wooden post buried in the sand at the centre of the arena. The iron shackles at your wrists are undone only long enough to pull your arms behind the post, and then you are tied, this time with a rough rope. You flinch as they tighten, eroding into your skin.

The guard spits at your feet as he steps back.

“You’ll last longer if you scream,” he grins.

The sun scorches your skin. The sand already burns through the soles of your sandals. And the crowd is still cheering, but not for you.

More gates open, one after the other. And they step out.

Gladiators.

Not the raw recruits you’ve seen training in the lower pits. No, these are monsters of the Colosseum. Men the crowd knows by name. Men with kill-counts like legends.

They move into the ring one by one, forming a loose circle around you, all muscle, scars, metal and malice. Some laugh. Some twirl their weapons lazily. One cracks his knuckles and grins at you like he’s imagining how you’ll scream.

Your mouth is dry. Your knees want to buckle.

But you don’t give them the satisfaction.

Not yet. Not until the last gate creaks open.

Not until the crowd goes silent.

Because they do, suddenly. As if a single breath is sucked from every chest at once. You turn your head, and there he is.

Lucius.

He steps out alone.

Armoured in iron and leather, shoulders broad beneath the glinting pauldrons you helped him tie. His sword is sheathed for now, slung low on his hip. His hair is still damp from the morning’s rinse, but the breeze lifts the edges as he walks forward with the same measured stride you’ve seen in every corridor, every shadowed courtyard.

Except this time, he doesn’t look at the crowd.

He looks at you.

His face is unreadable. Calm. Hard. But you know what you see.

The crowd stirs again, whispering now, not cheering. This wasn’t what they expected. This wasn’t in the script.

You can hear it in the shift of bodies, the calls between nobles.

They don’t understand, and Lucius doesn’t care.

From above, a lazy voice cuts through the noise.

“People of Rome,” calls Geta, already drunk on wine and cruelty. “Today’s games shall honour the gods, the empire, and the cleansing of traitors.”

The crowd yells, on cue.

Next to him, Caracalla lifts his goblet, smirking. “This girl,” he says, gesturing down at you like you’re meat on display, “well, her father stands accused of conspiring against the crown. Of betrayal. Of secrets too dangerous to be left alive.”

The cheer this time is deafening.

“And so,” Geta continues, lounging back in his seat, “we offer her a gift, the chance to die like a soldier, like we gave to her brother.”

Caracalla grins. “In the sand.”

“With lions?” someone shouts from the crowd.

“No,” says Caracalla. “With something far more entertaining.”

His hand sweeps toward the circle of gladiators. Toward Lucius.

“And with one... protector.” The word echoes like a bad joke.

The gladiators jeer. One of them, the biggest, laughs and slaps his sword against his palm.

“She’s not gonna make it five minutes,” he yells, eyes never leaving you. “Even with him.”

Lucius doesn’t respond; he hasn’t moved since stepping onto the sand.

You see the twitch of his fingers near the hilt of his blade. The set of his jaw. The storm gathering behind his deep, blue eyes.

And still, he looks at you. Never at them.

Just you.

The sand feels even hotter now.

He steps toward you, slow, deliberate, as if he’s measured every step in his mind, every inch of ground he’s crossed to get to you. You’re tied to the post, but he doesn’t stop when he reaches you. His hand lands on your arm, gently, like a warning.

He shifts you without a word, turning you just slightly.

"Remember, stay behind me," he murmurs, the words soft but unwavering. His hand is still on your arm, a firm touch. But now it feels like an anchor, pulling you into something more than just the madness of this moment. He doesn’t need to look at you again. His stance is already perfect, his focus absolute.

The crowd is deafening. Roaring. The nobles jeer, the commoners scream in fevered anticipation. Then, a single gladiator steps forward.

The loudest, the cockiest, the one who thinks this will be easy.

His movements are arrogant as he steps into the sand, shaking his wrists out. He looks at you with a sneer, as if you’re already dead. He doesn't know who he’s up against.

Lucius does.

His hand grips his sword, and you see the tension coil in his body, the slow breath he takes before he lets it out in a near-silent exhale.

The crowd goes silent. The gladiator takes another step forward.

And Lucius moves.

It’s a blur. A flash of steel and muscle, so fast, so precise, it’s almost impossible to track. One second, the other gladiator is advancing with his weapon raised. The next, Lucius’s blade is already inside his guard, the tip of it biting into his ribs, just beneath the man’s arm.

The gladiator gasps, eyes wide in shock, but Lucius doesn’t stop. There’s no mercy here. No hesitation.

In one smooth motion, Lucius twists his body, his sword ripping through the man’s ribs, cutting clean.

The man stumbles back, his breath coming in ragged, panicked gasps. He tries to lift his sword, but his arm goes slack, blood spilling from the wound as he crumples. He falls to the sand, groaning, twitching.

The gladiator is dead before he hits the sand, and the crowd goes silent again.

Lucius stands over him, blade in hand, breathing hard. But there’s no visible strain in him. No sweat, no sign of exhaustion. His eyes lock onto the next opponent, daring them to try their luck.

The gladiators around him shift, eyes darting from one another, unsure who will make the first move.

But Lucius stands still. His gaze is unwavering, cold, calculating. And then, like a switch has been flipped, the chaos erupts.

They charge.

Two, three at once. A flood of bodies, weapons flashing, claws reaching. The sound of swords scraping against shields, feet pounding the sand. The arena suddenly comes alive with brutal violence, the kind that makes your blood pump harder and faster.

Lucius doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t hesitate.

He moves like a machine, methodical and ruthless. A flash of steel as he slices through one man’s ribs, a brutal strike to another’s head. He doesn’t fight to entertain.

He fights to destroy.

The gladiators around him seem to falter as they realise the fight isn’t going their way. They come in waves, but Lucius is always one step ahead, cutting them down with cold efficiency.

His muscles flex with every blow. His body moves with the fluidity of a predator. There’s no pause, no mercy, just the relentless assault of a man who knows what it’s like to fight for his life. And he does it effortlessly, as if it were second nature to him.

You can only watch, tied to the post, your heart pounding as you try to steady your breath. The noise of the arena fades as you lock your gaze on Lucius.

The world around you is a blur of steel and blood.

But then, a gladiator breaks through the chaos.

He's charging toward you, faster than you can react, faster than you thought possible. His face is a mask of fury, his weapon raised high, and for a split second, you think you’re done.

You flinch, expecting the worst. You brace for impact, the cold steel that you know is coming, that will end it all.

But then there’s a roar, not a loud one, but a primal sound that cuts through the noise, and in the next instant, everything shifts.

Lucius is there.

He moves faster than the eye can follow. He’s on the gladiator in the blink of an eye, his hands wrapping around the man’s skull with a sickening crack.

You hear it before you see it. A sickening, bone-crushing sound that seems to echo in the very air around you.

Lucius’s grip tightens, and with one brutal motion, he twists the man’s head, snapping his neck like a twig.

The gladiator crumples to the ground in an instant, lifeless.

Blood splatters your cheek before you even realise what’s happened. Warm, thick, it lands on your skin like a reminder that this is real, that there is no escape. You can feel the pulse of it, and for a moment, the world goes silent.

You freeze, heart hammering in your chest, your mind racing to catch up with what just happened.

Lucius stands above the body, chest heaving, his expression dark, feral, something primal inside him unchained. His hands are covered in blood, the man’s skull still in his grip, like a trophy, a symbol of the rage he’s unleashed. His eyes flicker toward you, but you’re too stunned, too shaken by the brutality to fully comprehend what you’re seeing.

The remaining gladiators back off, circling Lucius but not daring to approach too closely. The roar of the crowd grows louder, more fevered, but it sounds distant to you.

But it’s not over yet.

The others begin to regroup, rallying around him. They may have faltered, but they are not stupid. They’ve seen the kind of man they’re dealing with. They’re calculating now, biding their time, knowing that they can’t make their move too soon.

His bloodied hands clutch his sword again, his eyes scanning the arena as he waits.

Then it starts again.

It's a cacophony of clashing swords, grunts, and the desperate sound of men fighting for their lives. Lucius stands amidst it all, a bloodied, towering figure in the centre of the storm.

You know he’s taken more than a few hits, his chest heaves with each breath, his muscles strained with exhaustion, his movements slower now, heavier. His once-perfect form is marred by blood, sweat, and the harsh reality of the fight.

He’s still standing, though. Still moving.

The crowd roars, but you barely hear them. All you hear is the pounding of your own heart, the feeling of dread tightening in your chest with every passing second.

Lucius’s gaze flickers to the other gladiators circling him. His eyes are sharp, but you see the strain beneath them. The fatigue is starting to catch up with him.

He swings his sword again, cleaving through a gladiator’s defenses, pushing him back with a powerful strike. Another one moves in, but Lucius doesn’t flinch. He fights like an animal backed into a corner, his movements more violent now, his fury carrying him through the pain.

You watch, eyes wide, heart racing. Every time Lucius takes another blow, it’s as if you feel it too, the impact, the cost.

But you can’t tear your eyes away from him.

He’s a force in motion, unstoppable, a whirlwind of muscle and death.

And yet, you see the strain, the way he’s slowing down, limping as he sidesteps another blow, the blood soaking through his tunic and pooling in the sand beneath him.

Your stomach drops, fear settling deep.

A gladiator, one you hadn’t even noticed, moves swiftly behind him. Lucius doesn’t see him coming; his back is turned, his attention focused on the others still trying to land a blow. The gladiator is nearly there, his weapon raised, and for one terrible, gut-wrenching second, you think this is it.

This is how you die.

You don’t even think about the fear that’s gripping your heart. You don’t think about the consequences of what might happen. The only thought in your mind is that Lucius, your protector, the man who has kept you safe this long, is about to be overwhelmed.

The gladiator raises his weapon, his steps silent in the chaos around them. His eyes glint with victory, but you know better.

This is the moment when everything changes.

You brace yourself, not sure if you can bear witness to the brutality about to unfold. Your breath catches in your throat.

Before you can even react, you see it in slow motion. Lucius’s hand moves, as swift and sure as ever. A dagger is in his grip, and with the precision of a man who’s spent years mastering death, he throws it.

The dagger spins through the air, its trajectory perfect. The blade catches him in the throat with a sickening thud, and he falls to the ground, his blood splattering the sand in a sudden, brutal burst.

You gasp, your hands clenching into fists at the sight, your breath escaping in a rush. Lucius doesn’t even flinch. He doesn’t stop.

He’s already moving again, stepping over the fallen body like it’s nothing, his sword raised high as he engages with the next opponent.

It’s like the world has stopped spinning for a moment, and then the noise comes rushing back. The crowd roars, but it sounds distant, muffled as if you’re underwater.

You don't know how long it continued, but now the arena is still.

The chaotic roar of the crowd, the clashing swords, the grunts of the fallen gladiators, all of it has quieted. It’s as if the world itself has come to a halt, held in the suspended silence of what’s just occurred. The dust swirls in the air, the blood-soaked sand beneath your feet a cruel reminder of the carnage that just unfolded.

All the others are dead.

You’re still tied to the post, your arms aching from the restraints, your body tense.

Lucius is standing in the centre of the arena. His chest rises and falls with each laboured breath, blood dripping from his form like a war-torn flag.

His sword is slick with crimson, his tunic ripped, the cuts and bruises from the fight still fresh on his skin. His face is a mask of exhaustion, but his eyes? His eyes are focused on you, unwavering.

You thought the fight would take him down. That he might fall. But here he is, standing tall in the aftermath, the last man standing.

Lucius doesn’t acknowledge the crowd. Doesn’t look at the emperors, who are too stunned to even speak. He doesn’t wait for cheers or shouts.

The silence stretches on, unbearable, until Lucius starts moving toward you.

The space between you is closing quickly, and then, without a word, he’s at your side. His arms reach out, his grip firm and steady as he unties the ropes that bind you to the post. The rough touch of his hands on your skin sends a shiver through you, but there’s no time to think about it.

Lucius doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to.

He lifts you effortlessly into his arms. Your body presses against him, blood slick between you. You can feel the heat radiating off of him, the power in his arms, but also the exhaustion. All that matters is that he’s carrying you, and that you’re finally leaving this cursed place.

His steps are sure as he carries you toward the gates, the crowd silent behind you. The emperors don’t make a sound. No one moves.

Lucius doesn’t wait for permission. He doesn’t need to. There’s no one left who can stop him. He doesn’t look back at the bloodied arena, at the bodies strewn across the sand.

He’s already made his choice.

[astrids-blog333]

The Guarded

Guard!Lucius Verus Aurelius x Noble's Daughter!Reader

Fandom: Gladiator II

Summary: She was born into power. He was forged in it. But some walls don’t keep danger out, they keep it close.

Warnings: 18+ SMUT, age gap (non-specified), power imbalance, violence, forbidden love, assault, possessiveness, toxic family dynamics, themes of control and protection.

A/N: Guys, I can now confirm I am going through a strong Lucius phase, so expect the fics to come flooding ;) If you have any requests please please please let me know, I just want to write abt him, I have a bunch of ideas already.

MASTERLIST - REQUESTS (OPEN)

WC: 5.4k

Your father buys Lucius on a Tuesday.

You remember because it rained that morning. Not soft spring rain, heavy rain, a relentless downpour that filled the gutters, turned the streets into rivers, and could soak through even the driest of bones. The kind of rain that brings the sharp scent of wet stone and iron up from the soil, cutting through the air with a bitterness you can taste. The sky was the color of bruised flesh, and everything in the world felt heavier, darker.

They drag Lucius in through the side gate, his hands bound in rough iron shackles. His chest is bare, a mess of scars, and his skin is streaked with dirt and blood. There's a fresh cut across his cheekbone, and the dark stain in his hair could be his own or someone else’s. But it doesn’t seem to matter.

Even in this pitiful state, he radiates something dangerous. Untouched by the grime, the limp, the fatigue, his posture is rigid and unbroken.

The guards call him The Bull of Numidia, a nickname that fits. But not your father, your father prefers a simpler name: 'my new dog.'

You’re supposed to be practising music. The lute lies forgotten in your lap as you stand in the corridor, pretending to focus on your lessons while stealing glances at the man being dragged through your father’s estate.

“He’s strong,” the trader’s voice drifts through the door. “Brutal. No discipline yet, but I have no doubt he’ll learn.”

Your father’s voice, deep and pleased, cuts through the heavy air. “Doesn’t matter if he listens. I only need him to kill.”

Lucius doesn’t flinch at the words. He doesn’t even acknowledge your father, or the guards, or anyone at all.

His eyes instead find yours.

You try to look away, but the pull is magnetic. Even as his eyes stay locked on yours, the rest of his body doesn’t move. It’s as if he’s waiting, not for permission, but for a moment to take you in.

You force your attention back to your lute, but his gaze lingers on you, burning through the air.

You tell yourself it’s hatred. It’s easier to convince yourself of that. To label it. Cleaner. You try to remind yourself of the stories, the way he’s been fought and beaten, reduced to a piece of property. He’s nothing but a tool, an object to be controlled.

But as the days stretch on, you realise something far more unsettling.

He doesn’t look at you like the others do.

The dinner happens on the seventh day.

Your father’s guests have arrived, an assembly of senators, generals, and some men in between. They’ve come for alliances, for the whispered promises exchanged in shadowed corners.

They look at you like a reward to be earned, but not in the way you’d like. Not as a woman. As a pawn.

Your fingers trace the edge of your glass, but you don’t drink. The fine wine has no taste, not when your mouth is full of other things. You smile at all the right moments, your expression has been carefully crafted, perfect and practiced. But you eat nothing, you never do. The emptiness inside of you is so much bigger than anything food can fill.

Lucius stands against the wall. His muscles are tense beneath the bronze and leather armor. He’s been bathed, but it does nothing to tame the wildness that still clings to him. There’s something about his posture, soldier-straight, he's a warrior even at rest. It makes everyone in the room uneasy. And even though the chain is gone from his neck, every man at that table knows it’s been replaced with something far more dangerous.

The leash is still there. They all feel it, even if they can’t see it.

You try not to look at him, but you can feel him. His presence tugs at the edges of your focus, and every time you glance toward him, he’s there, silent, watching.

It’s maddening, but you can’t stop.

One of the guests does look at him. He’s older, balding in places, with a belly that’s gone soft from years of indulgence. He reeks of wine, of entitlement. A man whose hands have always wondered. His fingers are always too low, his hands settling where they shouldn’t, pressing against your back in ways that make your skin crawl. You never forget the heat of those hands, the way they linger.

You feel it before it happens, the pressure of his stare on your body, the anticipation in the way his eyes track your movements.

It’s inevitable.

You stand, half-rising, ready to excuse yourself from the table, but the man stands too. His smile is broad, lazy, and full of arrogance. His hand reaches toward you, as if you were a prize, an object to be passed around.

“Let me escort you,” he says with a drunken slur, but it’s not an offer. It’s a command.

And then, his hand closes around your upper arm, his grip tighter than it needs to be, his thumb pressing into the soft flesh just below your shoulder. Not guiding. Controlling. His fingers slide, just slightly, as though he’s done this before and expects to get away with it again.

Lucius moves.

The motion is so fast, so sudden, that time seems to stop.

One second, the man’s hand is on your skin. The next, he’s on the floor, choking, gasping for air. Lucius’s hand is around his throat, unyielding, and his knee is buried in the man’s ribs, pinning him to the cool marble tiles. The sound of the man’s body hitting the floor is a sickening thud, and the blood that pools beneath him darkens the marble, spreading like ink.

The room falls silent.

Not even your father speaks. The air thickens, charged with the power of what just happened. Lucius is still, his body pulled taut, his eyes locked on the man beneath him. There’s no rage, no emotion on his face. He’s calm, as if he’s deciding whether the man is worth eating or letting go.

It’s chilling.

Your father’s voice cuts through the stillness. “Release him,” he orders, his tone tight, controlled. But there’s something else there too. A subtle crack of fear beneath the command.

Lucius doesn’t move. He doesn’t even blink.

“He’s a guest,” your father says, the words coming out like an afterthought, as if he’s trying to convince himself, not Lucius.

The silence stretches, thick and suffocating.

Lucius shifts his grip, just enough to make the man gag. His body jerks, begging for breath. It’s deliberate, languid, like the predator enjoying its prey’s panic.

You take a step forward, your body moving before your mind can catch up. You shouldn’t do this. You shouldn’t interfere. But something pulls at you, a compulsion, maybe?

“Lucius,” you say, your voice surprisingly steady.

He looks at you then. Only you.

His gaze is still calm, but it’s sharpened now, like a blade pressed against your skin. And there, in the depths of his eyes, there’s something else, something that makes your heart skip. It’s not tenderness, not kindness. It’s something darker, something far more dangerous. But you know, in that instant, he’s waiting for you.

Waiting for you to release him.

You step closer, and the air between you thickens with unspoken tension. Your fingers brush against Lucius’ arm, and for a moment, the world outside the room fades into nothing.

The man beneath Lucius gasps for air, his face pale, his eyes wide with desperation.

But Lucius lets him go. It’s a fluid movement, almost graceful, like he’s discarding an unwanted toy.

The man’s body crumples, shaking on the floor. Lucius doesn’t bow, doesn’t apologise. He doesn’t care. He simply returns to his place by the wall, his fists stained with blood, his breathing steady and unbroken.

You turn and walk out without looking back.

You don’t need to, he’s already watching.

You don’t sleep that night.

The cold emptiness of your chamber keeps you awake, and the silence only makes the memory of Lucius’ eyes burn brighter.

But it wasn’t just the violence that kept you restless. It was the weight of his stare, the quiet way he dominated the room without saying a word, the way your pulse quickened when you heard his name spoken.

You shift in the heavy sheets, the silk clinging to your skin, but it’s not the fabric that’s suffocating you. Lucius is everything you’ve been taught to fear. But somehow, everything you crave.

And as if the night hadn’t already been humiliating enough, your father decided you couldn’t be left alone anymore. So now Lucius will be guarding your chamber from inside, as if you were some wilful child in need of constant supervision.

The sound of boots on the floor disturbs your thoughts before the door to your room opens. You don’t look up. You don’t need to. The room feels charged in a way it never has before, and you know who it is before the door even clicks shut.

Lucius.

His silhouette darkens the doorway before he steps in, heavy and imposing. You hear the scrape of leather as he removes his weapons, the quiet clink of metal as his armour is set aside. The air seems to thicken as the space between you grows smaller.

He doesn’t speak as he crosses the room, his movements fluid, controlled. When he reaches the bed, you feel his presence like a weight on your chest. He doesn’t sit. He stands, watching you, waiting. His eyes are unreadable in the low light.

You could ask him to leave. You could tell him it’s improper, that this is beneath him. But you know it’s useless. He wouldn’t listen. And the truth is, a part of you doesn’t want him to.

“I’m here to guard you,” Lucius says, his voice low and steady, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You nod, but don’t look at him. You pull the sheets tighter around your body as if you could hide from him. You can’t.

You want to protest, to argue, but the words die in your throat. There’s a strange, unsettled feeling crawling up your spine, and you can’t tell if it’s dread or something else.

Finally, you meet his gaze, and the look he gives you is intense, almost knowing, like he can read every thought that flits across your mind. It makes you shiver.

He’s not like the other men you’ve known. The ones who cower behind their titles. Lucius is raw, untamed.

After what feels like an eternity, Lucius moves to sit in the chair by the window, his broad frame taking up the space with ease. His eyes remain on you, never wavering.

“You’re not afraid of me,” he says, his voice a low murmur.

You tilt your head slightly, trying to keep your composure. “I should be.” You answer, voice tight.

Lucius chuckles darkly, the sound vibrating in his chest.

You swallow, feeling the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. Lucius’ eyes narrow slightly, but the smirk that tugs at his lips tells you he’s not offended. He seems amused.

He doesn’t respond immediately, and for a moment, there’s only the sound of his steady breathing and the occasional creak of the wood under his weight. It’s unnerving, the silence between you both.

Then, just as you’re about to turn away, he speaks.

“You know, you’re the only one who doesn’t cower from me,” he says softly, almost as if he’s musing to himself. “The others, they can barely meet my eyes. But you…” He lets the words hang in the air, heavy with implication.

“I’m not afraid of you,” you say again, though this time, it sounds less like defiance and more like a challenge.

He leans forward slightly, his gaze intensifying. “Then why don’t you ask me to leave?”

Your breath hitches at the question, and you feel something stir in your chest. Lucius doesn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he stands, his movements slow and deliberate, as if giving you time to stop him. You don’t.

He crosses the room, stops at the foot of your bed. You can feel the heat radiating from him, and it’s almost too much to bear. The silence stretches long between you, thick with tension.

Finally, he speaks again. “Sleep well.”

And with that, he turns, making his way back to the chair by the window. He doesn’t say another word, but you feel him there, his presence so overwhelming, so undeniable, that you know you won’t sleep at all.

Not tonight.

For days, Lucius refuses to sleep.

Every night, he stands near the door, motionless, like a statue. His posture is perfect, his back straight, his body an imposing figure in the dim light.

And still, the air between you crackles.

You refuse to look at him at first. Your gaze is always fixed on the far wall, the firelight flickering in the hearth, the swirling thoughts in your head. You stay still, hoping the tension will dissipate if you just ignore it long enough. But it doesn’t. It never does.

The first night it happens, you wake with a jolt. There’s a sound in the room, soft, almost imperceptible, like the faint rustle of clothing. You blink, confused, then slowly turn your head. There, standing at the foot of your bed, Lucius watches you. His eyes are dark, but not unkind. It’s like he’s waiting for you to notice him, for you to do something.

You pretend to sleep, but it’s impossible to ignore the heat radiating from his presence. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t move. He simply watches.

The second night, you wake again, only to find him standing by the window, bathed in moonlight. It’s eerie how quiet he is. But it’s also maddening.

The third night, he’s closer. Nearer to your bed. His silhouette looms in the darkness like a predator in waiting.

And by the fourth, you can no longer pretend it doesn’t affect you. You begin to dream of him. Not dreams of soft or gentle touches, but of him grabbing you, pulling you close, his body pressing you into the mattress. His lips at your neck, his breath hot against your skin.

You wake in a cold sweat, your heart pounding in your chest. The sheets are twisted around your legs, but it’s not the heat of the fire that’s making you sweat. It’s the thought of him. The thought of what he could do to you if he wanted to.

It’s the fifth night when you finally snap.

You’ve spent the evening wandering the halls, restless. There’s a tightness inside you that you can’t shake. The tension between you and Lucius is unbearable. He’s too close, always too close, but never close enough. And it’s driving you mad.

The night is still, when you make your way back to your room, where you know he will be. And there he is, standing by the door as usual, just out of the reach of the firelight.

You stand still, looking at him for a long moment. A restless surge rises within you, a hunger, a frustration that you cannot suppress.

"Do you ever sleep?"

Lucius doesn’t answer.

Without thinking, the words spill out. "It is a large bed, I'm sure we could fit."

He stays silent, still only watching. The only sign he has heard you is one single arched brow.

“What, are you afraid to lie beside a noblewoman?” You taunt him, your voice sharper than you mean.

The silence stretches, thick and taut. His gaze flickers over you, over the curve of your neck, the way your fingers twitch as you ball your fists at your sides. You can see it in his eyes, the slow, deliberate focus. Like he’s tasting the words you just said, weighing them.

You don’t wait for him to make the first move anymore. The challenge rises in you. It bubbles over.

“I’m tired of this,” you say, your voice low but intense. “Tired of you standing there, looking at me. Watching me like…”

The words taste bitter on your tongue, but there’s no going back now. You’re so close to the edge. You’re so damn close to breaking.

You step closer, your body swaying, your eyes never leaving his. “Take me the way you look at me.”

He doesn’t move, but you can see it, the way his shoulders go rigid, the way his hands fist at his sides like he's fighting the urge to reach for you.

“Don’t,” he warns, low and sharp.

You stop, just for a moment. Then take another step anyway. “Why not?”

His jaw tightens. “Because I said so.”

“You look at me like you want to tear me apart,” you say quietly. “And then you act like I’m some child who doesn’t understand the world.”

He turns away from you. “Because you are.”

You move again. Closer now. You can almost feel the heat coming off him, the tension wound so tight it hums in the air between you.

“I’m not stupid, Lucius. I know what I want.”

“And you think it’s me?” he snaps, spinning to face you. His eyes burn. “You think I haven’t bled for people who looked at me the way you are now? That I don’t know exactly how this ends?”

Your voice stays steady. “Then let it end.”

He breathes like a man on the edge of something. “You still don’t understand. If I start, I won’t stop. If I touch you-”

“Then touch me,” you say, and your voice cracks with something desperate. “Please.”

That breaks him.

He surges forward, faster than you can think. One rough hand grabs your arm, the other your waist, and he slams you against the wall.

Your breath punches out of you with the impact, but you don’t flinch. You don’t pull away.

His face is inches from yours, wild with fury and restraint, and for a second, it seems like he’s going to speak again, say something cold, something final.

But he doesn’t.

He kisses you. Hard.

It’s not gentle. It’s not careful. His mouth crushes yours, and it’s angry, desperate, brutal. One hand braces beside your head, the other locks around your hip, keeping you caged against the stone.

You kiss him back, just as fiercely, your hands fisting in the front of his tunic, trying to drag him closer.

He pulls back, just barely, breathing hard, eyes flicking across your face like he’s trying to memorise you, trying to stop himself from doing something worse.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he growls, voice raw.

“I do,” you whisper, and you kiss him this time.

And something in him just shatters.

He groans into your mouth, grabbing your waist and turning you, backing you toward the bed in a daze of heat and resistance. He breaks the kiss only to press his forehead to yours, his breath ragged.

“I swore I wouldn’t touch you,” he mutters.

“Then break your vow.”

He doesn’t rush your clothes off. His fingers go to the ties of your dress, pulling each one slowly, watching your face the entire time.

“You don’t rush a thing like you,” he mutters, voice low, reverent.

The bodice loosens. You shiver.

He pushes the sleeves down your arms one by one, exposing skin like he’s unwrapping something sacred. His rough hands skim over your shoulders, down your back. He kisses the hollow of your throat, then lower, just above your heart.

“You don’t know what this does to me.”

“I know exactly what it does,” you whisper, pulling his hand down to your thigh.

He growls.

Then he lifts you in one swift movement, lays you down on the bed, and crawls over you. You reach for him, but he catches your wrists in one hand and pins them above your head.

“You stay still.”

Your breath catches as he reaches for a strip of silk from the bedding. He binds your wrists above your head, the fabric firm but gentle, his eyes on yours the entire time. “Tell me if it’s too much.”

His free hand moves down your body, fingers parting your thighs as his mouth follows. You can feel his breath between your legs, warm and maddening.

He glances up. “Keep your eyes on me.”

Everything inside you seizes.

His tongue is relentless. He maps you with precision, like he’s studying you, learning how to ruin you just right. You writhe, but his arms lock around your thighs, keeping you exactly where he wants you.

“You’re trembling,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice sending vibrations straight through you.

You can’t answer.

He keeps going.

When he finds that perfect rhythm, the pleasure builds fast. Your hands strain against the binding, back arching. You moan his name, broken, desperate.

A sob breaks from your throat, raw and unexpected.

Lucius stills immediately.

His head lifts, eyes sharp, chest heaving. “Did I hurt you?”

You shake your head, tears stinging your lashes. “No,” you breathe. “Please don’t stop.”

His expression softens, just a fraction. His hand comes up, brushing your cheek, his touch impossibly gentle.

“You’ll tell me if you need me to stop,” he says firmly.

You nod, but that doesn't satisfy him. "Words, sweetheart."

“Yes.”

That’s all he needs.

He goes back with renewed purpose. This time, he doesn’t hold back. His hands grip your thighs, thumbs spreading you open, his mouth working you with single-minded intensity.

You cry out, and then you break.

It hits like a storm. Your body arches, muscles locking, vision blurring as you come hard against him. He doesn’t stop until you’re trembling, spent, gasping.

Lucius finally lifts his head, lips slick, jaw tight with restraint. He watches you, his eyes dark and intense.

You can’t move. You don’t want to.

He unties your wrists, kissing the tender skin before lowering your arms gently. His hands cradle your face.

“I’m not done,” he says, voice hoarse. “But I had to taste you first.”

You’re still catching your breath, chest rising and falling rapidly, your limbs heavy and trembling. He moves over you, slow and sure, braced on his arms as his body cages you in. He’s already undoing the rest of his tunic, muscles flexing as he shrugs it off and tosses it aside.

You take him in, broad shoulders, defined chest, every inch of him cut and battle-forged. A warrior. A gladiator. Your protector.

And he’s looking at you like you’re his.

“Look at me,” he commands softly. “Do you still want this?”

“Yes,” you whisper. You reach for him, but he catches your wrists, gently but firmly pushing them back above your head.

“No,” he says. “You’ll let me do this. You’re mine to take care of.”

You nod, your throat tight.

Lucius kisses you again, but it’s slower now, much more deliberate. You feel the heat of him pressing between your thighs. His hand slides down, positioning himself against your entrance. The tip of him brushes you, and your breath catches.

“This’ll hurt,” he says, voice raw. “But I’ll be gentle.”

You nod again, biting your lip.

“Breathe.”

Then he presses in, slow, steady, giving you time.

The stretch is sharp at first, your body adjusting to the size of him, and you gasp, hips twitching beneath him. He stills, his grip tightening just slightly as he holds himself back, muscles trembling with restraint.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmurs, kissing your temple. “Just a little more.”

You whimper, hands curling into the sheets, and then he’s fully seated inside you. You feel every inch of him. Thick, hot, pulsing deep.

Lucius doesn’t move right away. He leans over you, his forehead resting against yours as he waits.

“You’re okay?” he asks, voice low and serious.

“Yes,” you breathe, eyes fluttering open to meet his.

“Good girl.”

Then he starts to move.

His hips roll slowly at first, his body heavy and hot above yours. Each thrust is deep and deliberate, his weight pressing you into the mattress. His hands pin your hips in place as he drives into you, taking his time, watching every reaction.

You moan softly, the pleasure growing steadily with each stroke. His strength surrounds you, every movement, every breath a reminder that he’s holding back just for you.

“Lucius,” you gasp, nails digging into his shoulders.

“Tell me what you need.”

“You. Harder.”

A growl escapes his throat. He draws back and thrusts in harder.

The sound of skin meeting skin fills the room, each motion more powerful, more demanding than the last. His control starts to crack, his rhythm turning fierce, claiming you completely.

You can’t think. Can’t breathe. All you can do is feel.

His mouth crashes onto yours again, swallowing the sound of your cries as he drives into you. Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively, anchoring yourself to him.

His pace turns brutal. Perfect.

“Such a tight little body,” he groans. “You were made for me.”

You sob again, but this time it’s pleasure, unbearable and raw. Your body tightens, your second climax rushing up like a wave.

“Lucius... I-”

“I’ve got you,” he growls. “Let go for me.”

You do. You break with a scream, your walls clenching around him, body locking, and Lucius snarls in response, his rhythm faltering as he follows with a sharp grunt. He pushes deep, grinding against you as he spills inside.

You lie tangled together, panting, drenched in sweat and satisfaction. His weight presses into you comfortingly, his arms still braced around your head.

He gently shifts to the side, bringing you with him, pulling you into his chest.

You feel his lips on your temple. “You did so well, sweeheart.”

You curl into him, every part of you aching and full.

Lucius strokes your hair, his voice quiet now. “You’re mine. And I’ll protect you with everything I have.”

It’s the following week when it happens, when things start slipping out of control.

You should be at your embroidery lesson. He should be stationed at the western gate. Neither of you are where you're supposed to be.

Instead, you’re pressed against the cold stone wall of the eastern corridor, hidden behind one of the larger statues, the scent of dust and heat heavy in the air. Lucius has you pinned there, one hand splayed against your lower back, the other gripping your jaw as he kisses you like he’s starved for it.

You hadn’t even said a word, just passed each other in the hallway, your gaze lingering a second too long, and that was all it took.

You shouldn’t be here. It’s the middle of the day. But gods, it’s like you can’t stop.

“Lucius-” you whisper, breathless against his mouth.

“I know,” he growls. “I know. But I need you.”

His hand snakes up under your skirts so quickly it makes you gasp. You shudder as his fingers trail over your thigh, rough and calloused.

“Here?” you hiss. “Are you mad?”

He doesn’t answer. His hand finds the apex of your thighs, and you let out a soft whimper, grabbing onto his shoulders for balance. He’s already pressing his body to yours, the bulk of him shielding you from view, his lips moving down your neck as he hikes one of your legs around his hip.

“Can’t wait,” he mutters. “You’re driving me mad. All week, in that dress, walking past me like you don’t know what you do to me.”

Your protest dies on your tongue when he presses against you, hard and unmistakable, through the rough fabric of his trousers. You’re already soaked for him, he feels it as his fingers slide beneath the thin cotton of your undergarments.

“You’re not helping,” you manage, your voice shaky.

He smirks against your skin. “No, I’m not.”

You barely have time to bite back a moan before his fingers sink into you, two of them pushing deep with no warning. You writhe against the wall, hips bucking helplessly as he thrusts them inside you, thumb rubbing tight circles that make your knees buckle. It’s fast. It’s sloppy. It’s everything it shouldn’t be.

“Lucius- please, someone might-”

And then you hear it. A footstep. A distant voice.

Lucius stiffens, but his fingers don’t stop. He shifts slightly, body shielding yours completely. One hand flies up, clamping over your mouth just in time to muffle the desperate moan clawing out of your throat.

“Quiet,” he whispers into your ear, voice dark and low. “Be good. Stay still.”

You nod, barely.

The footsteps fade. The corridor is still.

But Lucius doesn’t move away.

Instead, he growls. “Look at you, so wet and twitching on my fingers while your father’s men pass by.”

You whimper against his hand. Your walls flutter helplessly around him.

He pulls his hand from between your thighs. You’re too dizzy to think, too lost in the rush. He undoes his trousers with his free hand, pulls himself out, and positions the thick head of him right against your entrance.

Your eyes widen. “Lucius-”

“I won’t take long,” he mutters.

He doesn’t. He pushes in with one hard thrust. The stretch, the heat, it’s all too much too fast, and you can’t help the muffled cry he has to swallow with another palm over your lips.

His hand stays there, firm, while he fucks you hard and fast against the wall, every thrust a full-bodied press that forces a soft thud out of the stone. Your leg slips from his hip, but he catches it, lifts it back up with a grunt, not slowing down for a second.

“You love this,” he pants. “Don’t lie to me. You love the risk.”

You nod, because it’s true. It’s wrong. It’s dangerous. And you love it.

You feel your release rushing up before you’re ready, your body tightening, your thighs trembling.

“Lucius-” you sob against his hand. “I’m close,” you manage, and that’s all he needs.

His hand drops from your mouth just as his pace slams back into full force. He grits his teeth, fucking you through the wave of it, his hands locked around your waist like iron.

Your climax hits you with a sharp cry you barely manage to swallow. You dig your nails into his shoulders as you come around him, your walls spasming so tight he groans and chokes on his own breath. He follows with a rough, guttural sound, burying himself deep inside you.

For a long moment, there’s nothing but the sound of harsh breathing, the drip of water from the stone ceiling, the far-off hum of the estate’s life resuming outside this shadowed corner.

Lucius leans his forehead against yours, still catching his breath.

“This is madness,” he mutters.

You nod, still panting. “Then don’t stop.”

His lips twitch. His eyes narrow.

He pulls out slowly, tucking himself back in with a hiss, then crouches to adjust your clothes for you, smoothing your skirt over your thighs like a man not seconds removed from fucking you against a wall.

He stands, towering over you, his voice grave. “You need to go. If someone sees you now-”

You nod, smoothing your hair, your cheeks flushed.

But before you turn to leave, he grabs your wrist, pulls you back for one last, deep kiss.

“This isn’t over,” he breathes against your lips.

You know it isn’t.

Not even close.

I'm like actually in love with this man, it's a problem. I don't know if you can tell lmao but I'm just writing lots of self-indulgent stuff at the moment. Hope you enjoy it!

[astrids-blog333]

A Ruin of His Making

Emperor!Lucius Verus Aurelius x Reader

Fandom: Gladiator II

Summary: You’re engaged to an emperor you hate. One night, in the palace halls, hatred turns to something much louder, and far more public.

Warnings: 18+ SMUT, enemies to lovers, hate sex vibes, power imbalance, semi-public, possessiveness, manhandling, dirty talk, ref to past trauma.

A/N: Set post Gladiator II, deviates from the original plot (help sorry I can't resist). All physical interactions are consensual within the story's context, despite emotional intensity and imbalance. The reader is not weak or passive; she is angry and complicated and chooses to stay. That being said, if you are triggered by cnc situations, maybe skip this one <3

MASTERLIST - REQUESTS (OPEN)

WC: 5.6k

The city smells of sweat and heat and gold-painted victory. You stand at the far end of the atrium, among garlands and silks, your fellow nobles and senators are fawning and chattering like carrion birds circling a lion.

They say Lucius Verus has returned from war.

They say he’s changed, but you never knew him well enough to tell the difference anyway.

The guards enter first, tight-faced and too tense for a triumphal return. Then comes the man himself. He's taller than you remember, broader, somehow. His cloak hangs from one shoulder, dirt-streaked and travel-worn, and there’s blood at the corner of his cuff that no one dares mention.

He does not smile. He does not bow. He does not stop. The crowd parts for him like wheat under a scythe. His eyes scan the room once and find you.

You don’t move. You don’t flinch.

Not even when he walks directly toward you, ignoring the extended hands, the simpering greetings, the half-kneeling senators who hold out rings for him to kiss.

You stand with your back straight, chin lifted. You are not some doe-eyed virgin waiting to be gifted into this marriage like a prize pig. You were someone’s wife once. And though that man is rotting beneath the stones of a family crypt, he left you with a name. And scars.

Lucius stops a foot too close.

You feel the heat rolling off him, the stench of sweat and leather and rage barely held at bay. His jaw is dark with stubble, his mouth a tight line, unsmiling.

"You didn’t bow," he says, voice rough with the weight of months spent shouting over battlefields.

You arch an eyebrow. "I am not yet your wife."

He smiles at that. Crooked. Wolfish. “Not yet. But soon.”

You hate the way his voice drags over those words, like he’s already tasted them and has decided to spit them back out.

"Did the Senate send for you?" you ask. "Or did you run back early for your wedding night?"

Laughter dances in the crowd, polite and forced. But Lucius doesn’t join in. "I came because Rome grows soft in my absence," he replies. "And because I don’t trust them to protect what’s mine."

The air between you pulls taut.

"Is that what I am?" you ask, voice flat. "A possession?"

He leans forward. Close enough that you can see the smudge of dried blood at the collar of his tunic. You don’t know if it’s his.

"No," he murmurs. "You’re a puzzle. A provocation. And they promised you to me without ever asking whether I could stomach the taste of something so bitter."

Something ugly curls in your chest, a kind of fury that never burned out properly.

"And I suppose you think I’ll be grateful to be claimed by a monster?"

Lucius tilts his head, studying you. "Gratitude isn’t required. But you will belong to me."

He says it so plainly, so calmly, as though the matter were already settled in blood and ink. Perhaps it is. You never had much say in it to begin with.

"You don’t know me," you snap.

"I know enough."

A beat. The space between you closes, breath to breath. His voice drops lower. "I know you didn’t cry at your husband’s funeral. I know he hit you. I know you learned to lie still and quiet and pretend that was love. I know that scares you more than I do."

It hits you like a thrown gauntlet, because it’s true. There is no pity in his words. No sympathy. Just knowing. You hate that he’s read your history like some battlefield report. That he’s looked at your wounds and seen something useful.

"Then you’re a fool," you whisper, throat tight. "Because I’d sooner die than lie beneath another man who thinks he owns me."

Lucius doesn’t flinch, instead, he steps closer. A breath between you. You don’t step back. Not even when his voice curls behind your ear like smoke.

"What a shame, I happen to need you alive."

You slap him.

The sound cracks across the chamber like lightning. Every eye turns. Every whisper hushes.

His head turns with the blow, but he doesn’t strike back. Doesn’t even lift a hand.

He turns back slowly, a smile blooming like blood across his face.

There’s something almost unholy in his expression, a delight and fury which you cannot decipher for the life of you.

"Careful," he says softly. "You’re starting to excite me."

You stare at him, chest rising, blood roaring in your ears. You don't know if you want to scream, cry or push him away. Instead, you step back. Only one step.

Enough to remind yourself that you still can.

The feast had barely begun to die down, but already, the guests have begun to trickle out. The heavy scent of wine lingers in the air, mixing with the distant traces of roasting meats and sweet spices. You’ve stepped away from it all, retreating into the quiet of the balcony that overlooks the garden.

Lucius had left the feast earlier, his back straight, face unreadable, no parting words to anyone but the occasional curt nod. You watched him go, and for a moment, something like relief flickered within you.

But you hadn’t expected him to come find you.

The silence on the balcony is deafening as the shadows stretch across the marble. The cool air bites at your skin, tension now gathering between you and the man who’s just stepped into the frame of the door behind you. Lucius.

You don’t turn. The weight of his presence alone makes you stiffen, your back rigid. You can feel his eyes on you, watching, waiting.

Finally, he speaks, his voice low, a whisper that still manages to echo in the stillness of the night. “Enjoying the peace?”

“I thought you’d be too busy being the hero to notice,” you say, a sharpness to your words, though you refuse to turn to face him.

“You think so little of me?” he asks, the amusement in his voice somehow making it even more infuriating. He’s close now, so close that you feel the heat of him behind you. Every inch of space seems too small for the way his presence presses against you.

“I think you’re entitled,” you mutter, fingers tightening against the stone railing in front of you. “And I think you act like you're entitled. To everything. To the power. The land. The people. And whatever part of me you can claim.”

He steps closer, his boots soft against the marble as his hand rests on the stone next to yours. His voice drops lower. “You think you’re the only one who’s been forced into this?”

You scoff, unable to hold back a short, mocking laugh. “Please. You live for this. For control. For dominance.”

His face is inches from yours now. You don’t flinch when he leans in, his breath a whisper against your ear. His voice low and venomous. “You think I enjoy this, do you? Do you really believe I enjoy being forced into a marriage I don’t want? To a woman who can’t even look me in the eye without thinking herself superior?”

The words sting, but you don’t show it. Instead, you match his venom with your own.

“If you’re so miserable, why don’t you find a way out?” The challenge is clear in your tone, daring him to try, to do anything that might make him leave you be. “But you won’t, will you?”

Lucius steps in even closer, so close now that his chest nearly brushes against your back. You can feel the heat of him, the power he exudes, and yet you still refuse to give him the satisfaction of turning to face him.

His fingers trail dangerously close to your neck, and you can’t help but shiver at his touch. “You want to make me angry, don’t you?” he says, his voice thick with something darker. “You want me to lose control.”

Then, with a suddenness that has you gasping for breath, his hand shifts, gripping your chin and tilting your head just enough to meet his gaze. The coldness in his eyes sends a chill down your spine, but there’s also something dangerous flickering there, a hunger.

For a moment, the world is silent. He holds you in place, staring at you. You barely breathe. You can feel the weight of his stare, the storm building in his chest.

“You have a sharp tongue,” Lucius murmurs, his grip tightening around your chin, his thumb brushing lightly over your lips. “But I’m starting to wonder if you really want to use it.”

You feel his thumb trace the shape of your mouth.

Without thinking, you jerk away, snapping, “I don’t want this.”

Lucius steps back, giving you space, but you can feel the tension in his movements, the anger bubbling just beneath the surface. The air is thick between you and Lucius, and the moment feels like a ticking time bomb.

The silence stretches, suffocating, but somehow neither of you seems willing to let it end. The distance between you feels impossibly small, yet you can’t quite bring yourself to move.

He looks at you like a predator eyeing its prey, and you feel it in the pit of your stomach, an unsettling pull.

“Like I said, you want to make me lose my temper, don’t you?” he murmurs, his voice dark, but laced with a wicked, almost amused edge.

You want to hate him, to despise every part of this situation. But it’s getting harder to ignore the way his eyes burn through you, the way he looks at you as though you’re the only thing in the room worth noticing.

“You think you can scare me?” You bite back, stepping forward, though the words come out sharper than you intended. Lucius watches you carefully, the smallest smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“No,” he says, voice dropping lower, just enough for you to catch every word. “I don’t want to scare you, but I know I could.”

You’re both too proud to back down. You hate him. He doesn’t like you, either. But there’s something else there, something neither of you can ignore.

Lucius takes a step forward, his eyes never leaving yours, and in a single movement, his hand reaches for your arm, pulling you toward him. The movement is swift, like a coiled spring finally snapping, and before you can react, you’re pressed against the cold railing of the balcony, his body a solid wall in front of you.

Your breath catches, not from fear, but from the intensity, the rawness of it. You’re angry, so fucking angry, but that anger isn’t enough to push him away.

You manage to fight through the fog of emotion, trying to spit out something sharp, something to cut him down to size. But the words die in your throat when he presses his thumb to your chin, tilting your face up to meet his.

“I thought you were supposed to be strong,” he murmurs, the challenge in his eyes matching the taunting tone of his voice. “Or is that just a front?”

The words cut into you like shards of glass. You try to turn your face away, but he doesn’t let you. Instead, his fingers tighten on your chin, forcing you to look at him.

“You want me to hurt you, don’t you?” he asks, his voice low, almost too soft for the sharpness of the question. “I can see it in your eyes. You want me to make you feel something, anything. Don’t lie.”

You want to scream, want to tell him to go to hell. But something in you won’t let it. You hate him for it. You hate the fact that you don’t want to pull away, don’t want to run.

You press your lips together, jaw tight with defiance, and finally you speak. “I’m not afraid of you.”

Lucius chuckles, a low, dark sound that sends a shiver down your spine. “No,” he says, his voice a mockery of sympathy, “you’re not. But that’s the problem, isn’t it?”

Before you can respond, before you can even think of another insult to throw his way, Lucius closes the distance between you. His lips crash against yours in a searing kiss, ruthless, punishing. It’s not gentle, not at all.

It’s a kiss that takes, that demands.

You can’t help but gasp, the shock of it flooding through you. You don’t want to respond. You don’t want to let him win. But as his hands move to your hips, gripping you tighter, pulling you closer, something inside you unravels.

The kiss deepens, and you’re lost in it, overwhelmed by the heat of his body pressing against yours, the way his tongue demands entrance, the way he doesn’t give you the space to breathe.

“You’re a fool,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice low and dark, laced with satisfaction. “You think you can control this. But you can’t.”

You're drowning in him, and you despise that your body is reacting to him before your mind can stop it.

You push against him, trying to break free. But he only pulls you tighter, his hands sliding down your back, pressing you harder against him.

For a moment, you forget where you are. Forget that you’re supposed to be angry. Forget that this is supposed to be a confrontation.

You barely register the first sound of tearing fabric.

Your back is pressed to the balustrade, the cold stone biting through the thin silk of your gown, but Lucius doesn’t give you the chance to think. His hands are already on the fastenings at your waist, tugging hard enough to make the seams strain.

You gasp, a noise laced with fury and arousal, and push at his chest. “Is this how Roman emperors take what isn’t theirs? In gardens, like dogs?”

Lucius breaks the kiss to laugh, a laugh so low, rough, and amused in the most infuriating way. “If I were a dog, darling, I’d have taken you by now. But I’m patient. And you’re very, very close to begging.”

Your palm cracks across his cheek before you even realise what you’re doing. The sound is obscene in the quiet night, but it only seems to deepen that look in his eyes, hunger laced with something wild.

He catches your wrist before you can drop it, pinning it to the stone behind you, and leans in close enough that you feel the scrape of his breath against your jaw.

“That's the second time you've slapped me, do it again,” he growls, eyes blazing. “I dare you.”

“You’re disgusting,” you breathe, trying to twist free. “I’d rather sleep with a beast.”

His mouth finds your throat. Biting. Sucking. “Liar,” he mutters. “You’d rather sleep with this beast.”

And then his other hand rips through the neckline of your dress, fabric tearing, your breath hitching, and suddenly you’re half-bared to the open air, marble halls echoing behind you, columns offering far too little cover.

You try to cover yourself with your free hand, but he shoves it aside easily. “Oh no, don’t be modest now,” he says, voice syrup-thick with mockery. “Not when you’re standing there like a goddess meant to be ruined.”

“You arrogant bastard-”

“You like this,” he cuts in, tone taunting. “You like being manhandled. You like me doing it.”

You want to shout. Want to slap him again. Want to deny everything.

But the heat between your legs betrays you. The way your hips press forward into him, your legs shifting restlessly, you can feel how wet you already are, and you hate it.

“I hate you,” you hiss, even as he hooks a finger under the torn edge of your bodice and yanks again, exposing you further.

“I know, you keep saying that,” he breathes. “You hate me, and yet here you are, letting me touch you like this. Moaning into my mouth. Parting your legs. Do you know how sweet you sound when you're angry?”

He kisses you again, more teeth than tongue, and your wrists are pinned again before you can react, your body arched and open to him, your gown falling in tatters around your ankles.

“I should scream,” you pant when he moves to your jaw, biting there too, as though claiming.

“Do it. Let them hear. Let them see.” His voice is low, wicked. “Let the whole palace know that you're mine.”

You hate how that word coils low in your belly, how it makes something flutter in your chest.

With one arm, he lifts you like you weigh nothing, and you gasp as your back slams into the stone column behind you, your feet no longer anchoring you down. You can feel him hard against you, thick and hot even through his tunic. He grinds into you, just once, and it forces a sound out of you that doesn’t sound like hate at all.

His mouth brushes your ear. “There’s the real you,” he whispers. “You’re dripping. I could take you right here. Against the stone. Would you stop me?”

You should. You don’t.

“Coward,” you hiss, trying to reclaim the moment. “You think I’m impressed? You’re nothing but-”

He lets go of you so suddenly you stumble, but only for a moment. He catches you again, strong arms around your waist, and then he’s carrying you, half-naked, down the colonnade.

You wriggle against him, fists pounding his chest. “Put me down-”

“I will,” he snaps. “When we reach my bed. And not a moment before.”

You bury your face in his shoulder, but all he does is laugh, cruel and triumphant.

The doors of his chamber slam open under the force of his boot. He doesn’t even pause; he strides through the room and drops you onto his bed like a prize. Like a victory.

You scramble back, shaking, hair wild, lips swollen.

He unfastens his belt, watching you all the while with that same awful, smug amusement. “Still planning to insult me, or are you going to lie back and spread those pretty legs for me?”

You launch a pillow at him. “You’re the most arrogant bastard I’ve ever met!”

“And you’re the loudest little whore in Rome.”

You gasp, half outrage, half heat, and he’s on you again before you can draw breath. He's laughing low in his throat as you claw at his tunic.

“You’re still fighting me,” he says, dragging your ruined gown off the rest of the way, “but you’re wetter than any Roman virgin. Were you always this easy to break?”

“You haven’t broken me-”

“Haven’t I?”

He’s between your legs now, and the teasing stops being verbal. His fingers slide through your slick folds, slow and deliberate, and you whine when he draws one circle around your clit, just enough to make you twitch.

“You’re trembling,” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear. “You hate me so much you can’t stop shaking.”

You try to push him again, but this time he catches your hand, kisses the palm, and presses it against his chest.

“Go on. Keep hating me.” His eyes gleam. “But don’t you dare stop moaning.”

You don’t. You can’t.

Because his fingers are slipping lower, slow, deliberate, two of them curling inside you, and the sound you make is more like a sob than a gasp. You want to turn your face away, but he’s already watching too closely, already smirking like he knows.

“You feel that?” he says low, pushing deeper, twisting his wrist. “How wet you are? It’s obscene.”

“Stop-” you manage, but it’s pathetic. Your thighs are shaking.

“No,” he breathes. “You don’t want me to stop. Say it. Say you want it.”

You grit your teeth. “I want you to choke on your own ego.” He laughs again, lips brushing yours, still fucking you slow with his fingers. “Admit it, little bride. You’d rather choke on me.”

“Fuck. You.”

His grin widens. “Believe it or not, love, but that's the idea.”

Then he slams into you with his fingers, harder now, and you arch off the bed with a strangled sound. Your nails dig into his shoulders, seeking something to hold onto that isn’t your dignity.

“You’re soaked,” he mutters. “You’d let me take you anywhere, wouldn’t you? Against the column, the floor, right in front of the Senate. You like being ruined.”

“You’re disgusting,” you pant.

“And yet you’re dripping for me.”

Every roll of his fingers is pushing you closer, making it harder to breathe, to speak, to hate. You try to close your legs, to regain even the smallest control.

“Don’t,” he snaps, pushing your thighs apart. “Don’t you dare hide from me.”

“I’m not-”

“You are.” His voice dips. “But I want to see the moment you break. I want to feel it.”

You growl, but your hips are still grinding down against his hand. You’re trying to win a war on a battlefield he’s already set aflame.

Then he pulls his fingers free, wet and glistening, and holds them up between you.

“Look at that,” he says darkly. “And still pretending you don’t want me.”

You slap them away.

He grabs your wrists again, pins them above your head, and grinds his cock against you through the thin barrier of his clothes. You moan despite yourself.

“Say it,” he breathes, teeth gritted now. “Say you want me.”

“I don’t-”

He lets go. Just long enough to shove his tunic over his head, exposing the scarred stretch of his chest, the line of muscle down his stomach. You don’t mean to stare, but you do.

“Oh,” he purrs. “You’re staring. That’s new.”

You lunge up to push him, but he grabs your thigh and flips you onto your stomach like a rag doll. You yelp, trying to twist back.

He presses your chest to the bed with one hand, pulls your hips up with the other, and drags the head of his cock through your folds.

You go still.

The moment stretches.

“Ready to beg now?” he asks, tone silken.

“I will bite your fucking throat out.”

“Then I’ll fuck you while you try.”

And with no more warning, he drives into you.

You scream. Not in pain, not entirely. The stretch is sharp, unforgiving, but it’s the invasion that overwhelms you. He doesn't ease in, doesn’t wait. He sinks all the way to the hilt in one brutal thrust and stays there, one hand locked on your hip, the other on the back of your neck.

“You feel that?” he growls. “That’s mine. All of it. All of you.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you hiss, voice trembling.

But you clench around him.

He groans, deep and unrestrained, and begins to thrust. Rough, relentless. The bed slams into the wall, your moans torn from you against your will.

“You sound like a whore,” he mutters, reaching forward to grab your throat, pulling you up against his chest.

You gasp, back arching, hair falling in wild tangles as he fucks into you from behind. Your legs tremble.

“Say it,” he growls again. “Say you want me.”

“No.”

He slides one hand between your thighs again, fingers rubbing your clit in tight, relentless circles.

You break.

Your body clamps down on him so violently that it makes him stutter. He thrusts through it, snarling, riding it out as you tremble and shake, breathless and wrung out.

“Liar,” he hisses in your ear. “You wanted this. You needed this.”

You’re still spasming around him when he flips you onto your back, fast and rough, before he plunges in again. This time you cry out with every movement, overstimulated and gasping.

“You should see yourself,” he pants, rutting into you. “Hair a mess, mouth open, legs shaking. Ruined.”

“Fuck… fuck you-”

“I am.”

He leans down, bites your lower lip, and slams into you harder. You moan into his mouth.

“You’re done pretending,” he whispers. “You can’t lie anymore.”

You claw at his shoulders. “You’re a monster.”

“Then why do you keep pulling me closer?”

You hate how right he is. Hate how good he feels. Hate the second orgasm building already, tighter, fiercer.

“You’re going to come again, aren’t you?” he says, tone mocking. “My poor little bride, soaking and speechless.”

He slams into you again. Your mouth drops open, but no sound comes out.

“Thought so.”

Your eyes roll back.

He fucks you like he’s trying to prove something, not just that he owns your body, but your pride, your defiance, every last bit of control.

When the second climax hits, you cry out so loudly he has to smother your mouth with his palm.

“Too loud,” he growls. “Don’t want the whole palace hearing how well I fuck my bride-”

But he doesn’t really care. You can see it in his eyes. He wants them to know.

You collapse beneath him, breathless, soaked, undone.

He comes not long after, hips snapping, voice raw as he spills inside you with a shudder and a growl of your name.

Silence, for a breath.

Then he shifts and leans over you, bracing himself on shaking arms.

Lucius moves slowly. And when he withdraws, you feel the thick, wet ache of it. You shift, a low hiss escaping your throat.

“Too much for you?” he drawls, brushing your hair from your cheek. “Pity. You took it well enough while I was ruining you.”

You manage a scowl, though your body’s trembling with aftershocks. “I should kill you.”

“You’d miss me.” He grins. “So would your cunt.”

He rises from the bed in a single motion, his body shadowed by the low lanterns, and you don’t expect it when he leans down, hooking his arm beneath your knees and lifting you from the sheets.

“Put me-”

“No.”

Your fists beat weakly at his chest, but you’re too sore to mean it. His seed still slicks your thighs. You’re marked, ruined, utterly dishevelled. And now you’re being paraded.

He strides from the bedchamber and out into the marble corridor of his private suite, bare, flushed, and grinning like a wolf. His bathchamber lies across the hall.

The door is open.

So is your mouth when a figure, a servant, pale and wide-eyed, turns at the end of the corridor. Sees everything.

Lucius does not flinch.

In fact, he smirks.

“Get out,” he says, not even glancing their way. The command is casual, but lethal.

They flee.

You burn.

“Scandalous bastard,” you hiss.

“Shall I drop you in the corridor then?” he offers, eyes glinting.

You don’t answer.

Steam curls from the bronze basin sunk into the floor, warm and waiting. The scent of oils hangs thick in the air, clinging to your skin even before it’s wet.

Lucius doesn’t stop. Doesn’t ask. He steps straight into the bath, water clinging to the muscle beneath as he lowers himself, and you, into the heat.

You hiss when it touches the rawest places. Bruises. Scrapes. You still feel where he stretched you.

His hold on you tightens, not to restrain, but to shield.

“I was going to warn you,” he murmurs near your temple, voice silked with cruel satisfaction. “But you just had to be difficult.”

You half turn in his arms, scowling, exhausted. “You enjoyed it.”

His teeth flash. “Of course I did.”

He reaches for a cloth, dips it into the steaming water, and wrings it out with a lazy flick of his wrist. The motion is slow, like the way a man sharpens a blade, not because he needs to, but because he enjoys the ritual of it.

Then he touches you.

The cloth slides up your thigh. Gentle. Unreasonably gentle.

You flinch. He feels it.

“I’m not him,” he says, low and close behind your ear.

The cloth moves higher, over the place where his fingers left bruises. It’s tender, the touch. Not apologetic, but… reverent.

You close your eyes. “I know.”

He doesn’t reply.

Just continues, slow, precise. Cleaning you as though you belong to him and no one else may touch. The cloth traces your waist, your belly, your breasts. Over the angry red marks blooming on your throat.

“Filthy little thing,” he says, almost absently, as if it’s a compliment. “Look what I’ve done to you.”

You shift against him, half-hearted. “Is this what passes for aftercare in the palace?”

“I could leave you filthy, if you prefer,” he offers, mock-casual, dragging the cloth up between your legs now with unbearable slowness.

Your breath catches.

He smirks against your neck. “Didn’t think so.”

His free hand is splayed across your stomach, keeping you against his chest. You’re in his lap, flushed and quiet.

When he finishes, he doesn’t speak. Just leans forward, pushing your wet hair aside to press his mouth once to your shoulder, unhurried, like claiming land he already owns.

Then he reaches for a towel, presses it into your hands.

“You can walk,” he says. “Or I can carry you back.”

“I can walk,” you mutter again, clutching the towel.

He raises an eyebrow. “You’re bleeding a little.”

You pause. Then glare.

“From me,” he adds, calm as marble. “You’ll forgive my pride.”

You turn away before he can see your face twist with fury, and shame, and something deeper, quieter, that gnaws at your ribs.

But you only make it a step before he steps into your space and lifts you again, without asking, without effort, arms locked tight beneath your knees and back. The towel shifts, slipping down one shoulder.

“Lucius-”

“I’ll carry what’s mine.”

You tense, heart pounding, as he strides from the bathchamber bare-chested and unbothered, with you cradled like a spoil of war.

And then, the worst.

Not a servant.

A senator.

A senior one, older, important. His brows lift, his jaw tightens, and for a long moment he simply stares.

You freeze in Lucius’ arms.

Mortified.

Bare legs, damp collarbone, bitten lips.

You try to twist, to cover your face in his chest, but the towel shifts again, and Lucius doesn’t even slow his pace.

“Domitius,” he says, cool and smooth as ever.

“Emperor,” the man replies after a beat, eyes still sharp with thinly veiled judgement.

Lucius only smiles.

Then shifts his grip around you, just enough to make it clear you’re not just some fleeting mistress. No, he’s holding you like a bride.

“You’re not dismissing him?” you whisper furiously as they pass.

“Why would I?” he murmurs. “Let him tell the court how you looked when I was carrying you home.”

He chuckles low in his throat. “Shall I walk slower?”

“You’re disgusting.”

“And you’re trembling. Again.”

He carries you back into his bedchamber like nothing happened.

Deposits you on the rumpled sheets with the same hands that had bruised your thighs and cupped your face like glass.

Lucius lies beside you. He doesn’t reach for you. Just watches.

The fire’s down to embers now, and for a moment, it’s quiet.

“You’ll hate me again tomorrow,” he murmurs, eyes on the ceiling.

You turn your head toward him. His hair’s a mess. A dark curl falls over his forehead. He doesn’t brush it away.

“I already do.”

There’s no heat in the words anymore. Just a strange, exhausted ache. Like you’ve both burned through something and don’t know what’s left.

You lie in silence.

Until, after a long while, you feel his arm shift and settle across your waist. Not tight. Not demanding.

Just there.

You don’t move.

He breathes, slow and steady, and just before you drift, you feel him press his forehead into your shoulder.

Almost like he’s praying.

You wake to sunlight cutting sharp across the marble floor.

The bed is warm. Too warm. Your legs are tangled in silken sheets, and your mouth tastes of salt and heat and something darker still. You shift and wince.

Everything aches.

Your thighs. Your hips. Your throat.

You drag the cover up as you sit, slowly, wincing again when the bruises sing beneath your skin. There are fresh marks on your wrists. On your collarbone. Teeth, fingers, his name written across your body in touches no one will dare speak of aloud, but everyone will know.

The door creaks.

Lucius enters fully clothed.

Hair swept back. Tunic dark and rich, imperial red. There’s a goblet in his hand and a parchment tucked under one arm.

He looks at you like a man admiring the aftermath of war.

“Sleep well, betrothed?”

You glare. “Barely.”

A slow smirk.

He steps forward, sets the goblet down beside the bed and takes the seat across from you like you’re in court again.

“I expect the palace has already heard.”

“I expect the city has.”

He tilts his head. “Let them. What can they do?”

You stare at him, this man who had torn you open with teeth and hands and never once begged forgiveness. He’s not softened in daylight.

You pull the covers tighter.

He watches.

“Say it,” you snap, before you can stop yourself.

“Say what?”

Whatever insult he’s been sitting on. Whatever cruel line he’s crafted for the moment he saw you like this, rumpled, silent, aching from him.

Instead, he leans forward, rests his elbows on his knees.

“I like you better ruined.”

Your breath catches.

And he smiles, slow and hungry, like he already knows that when he touches you again, you won’t fight quite as hard.

I'm so tempted to write a part two to this, but I have another Lucius fic idea I want to write first. If anyone would be interested in a part two to this, lemme know and I can bump it up in my priorities 🤗

[astrids-blog333]

Beneath the Silk - Chapter Three

Emperor!Lucius Verus Aurelius x Reader

Fandom: Gladiator II

Chapter Three Summary: The walls Lucius has built finally start to crack. As the weight of fear, obsession, and desire reaches its breaking point, so does he. You're caught in the storm.

Warnings: 18+ SMUT, darkish, loss of virginity (so there is some pain), overstimulation, possessiveness, manhandling (oop), power dynamics, obsession, intense emotional themes, explicit language, mentions of blood (non-graphic).

A/N: This is the last chapter of my three-part fic! All my fics are fem!reader, and in this the reader is deff AFAB. This got quite intense and kinda dark, and there is a very thin line they walk, but it is all consensual. If you're triggered by any form of CNC theme, then maybe skip this one. Please comment, like, and reblog; it really helps a lot. Hope you enjoyed this fic <3

MASTERLIST - REQUESTS (OPEN)

WC (Chapter Three): 5.0k

chapter one - chapter two

You're in his bed now.

Not just your now shared chambers, not a second bed next to his. His bed. The sheets smell like him; warm cedar, faint leather, something darker beneath. The scent clings to your skin, seeping into every inch of your being. You lie still beneath the covers, the wound at your side no longer dressed, but still tender, the skin new and still quite sensitive.

It’s nearly healed. You told him that. You told the medic, the guards, even yourself.

But Lucius does not believe in nearly, he wants certainty.

The door opens without warning. No knock, no quiet call of your name. Just the sharp sound of hinges and the heavy tread of boots on marble.

Lucius enters like a man walking into battle.

He’s already removed his outer tunic, sleeves rolled to his forearms, revealing the strong muscles beneath his skin. His brow is drawn, mouth set like stone in a thin line. You barely manage to sit up before he’s by the bed.

“I said I’m fine,” you begin, but the words are weak, even to your own ears. You wouldn't even believe yourself, so why in the world would he?

He doesn’t answer. Just sits beside you, so close the mattress shifts beneath his weight. One gloved hand moves to the blanket pooled at your hip, and pauses.

“I want to see it,” he says quietly, matter-of-factly.

You search his face. “Lucius…”

“I need to.”

There’s no anger in his voice. No command. Just something low visceral. As if asking is a formality, not a requirement. As if this is the only way he can breathe. He was never not going to look.

You nod.

The silence is thick as he peels the covers down with aching slowness. His gloves come off. He sets them aside with meticulous care; he’s always precise, but there’s a shakiness to him now, like he’s fighting the instinct to grab you and never let go.

His hands reach for the hem of your nightdress.

And still, he says nothing.

The fabric draws upward, inch by inch. First the blanket slips down, then the linen of your shift, revealing the soft curve of your waist, the faint bruising that’s now yellowed with time. His knuckles brush the side of your thigh, and the breath in your throat hitches.

Then his fingers find the wound.

It’s barely there now. No blood or even a scab, just a pale, healing scar beneath your ribs. But he looks at it like it’s still freshly bleeding. His thumb traces the edge, slow, reverent. Not with lust or want. This is something else.

Grief.

He touches it like he blames himself.

“Does it hurt?” he murmurs.

“No.”

He doesn’t stop touching. His hand flattens just beneath it, spanning your side, his palm warm and solid. You feel his breath hitch.

“You almost died,” he says. “I’ve seen it. Every night. Over and over.”

“I’m still here.” You speak before you can think, desperate to anchor him to something real, to convince him of your health.

His gaze lifts.

And something in his face cracks.

“I know,” he says, broken. “But my body doesn’t believe it.”

You don’t know how to answer that, so you don't. You stay silent whilst his hand moves higher, now splayed between your ribs and your heart, the pads of his fingers brushing over sensitive skin. His thumb strokes absently along the underside of your breast, not quite a caress. But it's not unintentional either.

It steals the air from your lungs.

He leans forward, not to kiss you, but just to be closer. His forehead almost touches yours, but doesn’t. His voice is hoarse now, low enough that it vibrates through your chest where his hand rests.

“I keep thinking-" he gulps down a breath of air. "If I’d been faster. If I’d kept you closer. If I’d never let you be alone then-”

“Lucius-”

“I told them not to touch you,” he cuts in suddenly, sharper. “When I found you there on the floor. I told them I’d kill any man who laid a hand on you, even to stop the bleeding.”

Your breath stutters.

His hand tightens against your side, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you that he could.

He has killed with less than this.

You don’t pull away. He looks down at you like you’re a miracle that hasn’t stopped happening.

His touch softens again. Drifts. His fingers ghost down the line of your ribs and back to the scar, tracing it again and again like it’s a wound in him.

And then, he lies back on the bed beside you, propped up by the headboard.

He sits next to you, his arm draped over your shoulders, his head tilted back against the wall.

You don’t speak.

You just lie there, his hand anchoring you, his body wrapped tight around yours. Like he needs to feel your pulse under his palm to believe you’re real. Alive.

Sleep tries to pull you under, but you fight it.

Because the way he holds you, it’s not comfort.

It’s devotion.

You fall asleep to the sound of his breathing.

Not peaceful. He is never peaceful anymore. Each inhale is rigid, held too long in his chest. He breathes like a soldier, even in sleep, its like he believes you will shatter if he dares to let go.

But when you wake, he’s gone.

The sheets are cold. The fire is nothing but embers now, pulsing faintly like a dying heartbeat. You sit up, blinking at the dark. The ache in your side has dulled to a memory, but the absence beside you is sharp. You reach for the place he’d been. Still warm. But barely.

Then the door slams open.

You flinch, breath catching in your throat. A gust of cold air follows him in.

His silhouette is wild in the doorway. His shirt is half-open, hair mussed, eyes wide and panicked. He looks like he’s been torn from some battlefield. His breath comes ragged. You can see it in his face even from here.

Madness.

“Lucius?” you whisper.

But he doesn’t answer.

He’s already moving.

Across the floor. Faster than your newly awake state can process. His hands are on you a heartbeat later, dragging the blanket away before you can react, eyes devouring every inch of skin like he’s searching for wounds that no longer exist.

“It’s healed,” you say, but your voice is too small.

He doesn’t stop.

His hands skim your waist, your ribs, your thigh. He's checking the stitches that have long since dissolved. There’s no blood, but he acts like there should be.

“You’re fine,” you breathe. “I’m fine.”

His jaw is clenched so tight you think he might shatter it.

“You could have torn it in your sleep,” he mutters.

“I didn’t.”

“You don’t know that.” The words are cracked and brittle. Like he’s speaking through splinters.

“I would’ve woken up-”

“And what if you didn’t?” His voice snaps like a whip. “What if I’d come back and found you cold? Stiff? What if I was too late, again?”

You stare at him.

He’s kneeling beside the bed now, but it doesn’t feel like he’s beneath you. It feels like he towers over the entire room.

The firelight catches his face, drawn, pale, fever-bright. His hands are still on you, palms flat against your ribs like he's trying to count each breath.

He doesn’t trust what he sees, only what he feels.

“Lucius,” you try again. “You’re scaring me.”

He doesn’t move. Not even a blink. And then, so slowly, almost reluctantly, he lifts his eyes to meet yours.

“I know.”

He says it like an admission. Like a failure.

“I don’t want to scare you,” he continues, softer. “But I can’t- I can’t live like this. Every time I close my eyes, I see it. Your body. The blood. My hands. And I wake up and I don’t know if any of it’s real.”

You shake your head. “It’s not. I’m here. I’m right here.”

“No,” he says, and his hands press harder, like he’s trying to push your soul back into your body. “You’re not. Not really. You’re always leaving. Always bleeding. Always just out of my reach.”

He lowers his forehead to your bare stomach, breath shuddering against your skin. The heat of him is blistering.

“I’ve lost battles,” he whispers. “I’ve buried comrades. I’ve watched legions fall. But none of it, none of it, touched me like this. You dying in my arms, even if it wasn’t real- gods, it was real enough.”

His fingers dig into your waist now, tight. Possessive. Anchoring.

You stay still.

Because there’s something dangerous in him tonight. Something wild and untamed. Not violent, but primal. A wolf circling the last thing it loves.

You open your mouth. Try to say his name.

But then his hands slide up your side, slow, trembling, reverent, and he cups your face like he’s praying to something. His thumbs brush your cheeks. Your lips. Your throat.

“You’re too quiet,” he says. “Say something.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

His jaw clenches. His eyes, a dark blue so wild they're nearly black, search yours for something. A reason to stop.

He doesn’t find one.

“I can’t keep pretending,” he says roughly. “I’ve tried. I’ve stayed away. I’ve let you heal. But I think-” his voice falters, “I think I’m going insane.”

You try to speak, but the words tangle. Because you see it too. The way his hands tremble. The way he’s holding you like a lifeline.

The way his pupils are blown wide, not with lust, but with a need.

“I wake up,” he says. “And you’re not breathing. I hold you, and I can’t feel your heartbeat. Even now, I think I’m dreaming. That you’ll fade if I let go.”

You press your forehead to his. It’s the only thing you can think to do.

“I’m here. I'm yours. Don't worry.”

He exhales, but it’s not relief. It’s a release of tension so great it nearly buckles him.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he says. “But if I already have, if this is just some trick of my mind, then I want to feel it anyway. I want to know.”

Your heart hammers in your chest, threatening to break out of your ribcage.

His hand slides to your throat. His thumb strokes the pulse there. His lips part.

“I’m going to kiss you,” he murmurs. “Unless you tell me not to.”

Your voice is gone. Stolen by the weight of everything between you.

He waits. Just long enough for silence to become answer.

Then he kisses you.

Not gently. He kisses you like a man breaking.

You don’t remember falling back. You just feel the weight of him follow you down, his hands anchoring you, so rough, so fast, too much. The mattress dips beneath your spine, and Lucius comes with it, mouth still on yours, devouring you like he’s forgotten how to breathe without you.

He pulls away once, just once, to tear the blanket from your body, baring you to the firelight. His eyes drag down like he’s committing you to memory, and then his hands are back on your waist, your hips, your thighs, possessive and frantic. He’s trying to map every inch before it disappears from him again.

“Say it again,” he rasps, voice frayed with disbelief.

You blink, still catching up. “Say what?”

“That you’re mine.”

His grip tightens on your hips. Just enough to leave you breathless.

You hesitate. A second too long.

He growls, an animal sound torn straight from his chest, and suddenly you're pinned beneath him, one wrist trapped above your head in a single large hand. The other hand cages your thigh, spreading you open without gentleness. Not cruel, not violent, but desperate. Frantic. The message is clear.

Stay still. Stay with me.

You suck in a breath that never quite makes it to your lungs. You can’t move, not really. His body is a wall of muscle against yours, unyielding and warm and trembling with failing restraint.

“I’m yours,” you whisper, pulse thudding in your ears.

Something in him cracks.

He kisses you again. Rougher this time, with teeth, with fire, his mouth moving fast and hungry. It’s not calculated. Not careful. He’s not seducing you, he’s unraveling. Every kiss is a breaking point.

His hand leaves your wrist to frame your jaw, forcing your head back as his mouth trails hot down your throat, nipping, sucking, claiming. You don’t think he knows what he’s doing anymore. You don’t think he cares.

“You don’t know what that does to me,” he mutters against your skin. “You have no idea- how close I am- how much I-”

He cuts himself off with a sound like a choke, his breath hitching.

Then his hand slides between your legs. No warning, no slow coaxing. Just the heat of his palm and two fingers pressing low and firm, dragging slickness in a slow, possessive circle.

You gasp. Buck. It’s too much too fast.

He doesn’t let up. His hand stays there, stroking you in slow, deliberate movements that feel more like a claim than a caress.

“Lucius-” you breathe, half-begging, not even sure yourself if you want him to stop or keep going.

He doesn’t answer.

He pulls back just far enough to yank his tunic off, and the firelight catches on scars you’ve never seen. His chest is sculpted in violence, in victories. His arms, his stomach, all lean strength and coiled threat. But his eyes are locked on yours like you’re the thing he’s afraid of.

This man is not a dream. Not a fantasy.

He’s war made flesh.

And he’s looking at you like you’re his last salvation. You reach out before you can think, your hand skimming the side of his neck, down the slope of his collarbone. “Lucius…”

He doesn’t speak.

He moves.

In one motion, he grabs you beneath the thighs and drags you closer to him, up the bed, under him, knees parted around his hips. You gasp, the movement too sudden, your body scrambling to keep pace with his.

You feel his length, hard and heavy, pressing against you.

And then you realise, this is happening. Your heart stutters in your chest.

He pauses, just barely. “Tell me to stop,” he says. “Now. It’s the last chance I can give, I won't be able to stop.”

You don’t. You can’t.

Because you see it again in his face, that breaking, frantic need. Like he’s clinging to you to stay alive. Because a part of you also wants this.

So you nod.

Lucius doesn’t need more than that.

One hand braces beside your head on the plush pillow. The other holds your hip, thumb digging into the soft flesh as he pushes forward, and then-

Pain.

A sharp, searing stretch that has your fingers clawing at the sheets, digging into the flesh of his shoulders. He goes still, barely even inside you yet, chest heaving, every muscle in his body locked down like a dam ready to burst.

Your breath catches. He’s watching you again, intently, studying you.

“You’re-” His voice cracks. “You’ve never-”

You shake your head once. Still panting. Still stretched taut.

Something shifts in his eyes. The frenzy falters, but it doesn’t fade.

His grip loosens, just enough to let you breathe, but not enough to let you go. He kisses your cheek, your temple, your jaw, but it’s a broken rhythm, unpractised, erratic.

“You should’ve told me,” he whispers. “I would’ve…” He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t know how to.

Instead, he touches your face again, almost reverently this time, then lowers his forehead to yours.

“We’ll go slow,” he promises, though he sounds like it’s killing him.

But there’s no time to ask what he means by slow because he’s moving again, inch by inch, trying to keep control, trying not to break. Your body trembles beneath his, breath caught in your chest.

You whimper without meaning to.

His hand covers your mouth, not to silence you, but to ground you. “Breathe,” he says hoarsely. “I’ve got you.”

You nod into his palm. His grip on your hips tightens, forcing you to stay still as he buries himself deeper inside. You can feel him in places you never imagined, and the pain that comes with it is almost too much to bear.

You bite your lip, trying to suppress the sound building in your chest, but it’s futile. You can’t help it. The pain is raw and unforgiving. Your hands clutch the sheets, trying to ground yourself.

Your lungs hitch. Every inhale feels too shallow, your chest rising too fast as the pressure builds. But it’s too hard when his body is pressed so closely to yours, and you feel every inch of him, like he’s carving himself into you.

“Shh,” Lucius murmurs, his voice rough, full of something unrecognisable. “You’re fine, just breathe. It will feel better. I promise.”

His words do little to soothe you. Part of you wants to push him away, tell him to stop, but something in you won’t let you. Maybe it’s the way he’s holding you, the way he’s already marked you, and the knowledge that you belong to him now, in this raw, vulnerable moment.

You don’t understand why it hurts so much. You don’t understand why your body won’t relax, why every time he moves inside you, it feels like too much.

And then, suddenly, the pressure shifts.

It’s slow at first, but as he pulls back and thrusts for the first time, you feel it. The sharpness begins to dull, replaced by something else, something deeper, something hotter that surges from the ache between your legs, curling up your spine. It’s not the pain you felt before. It’s a pleasure, sweeping through you in slow waves, tender at first, but building, gathering speed as he continues to move. It’s like your body is slowly adjusting to him, like it’s finally learning how to respond.

The pleasure comes in waves, gentle at first. You are still overwhelmed by the shadow of pain that lingers in the back of your mind, but the pleasure is growing, building, becoming a sensation you can’t quite name.

You gasp, trying to catch your breath as your body shudders beneath him. There’s a pull deep inside, a coil tightening in your stomach, and you feel yourself melting into him as your body starts to follow his rhythm.

Lucius grunts in your ear, his voice low and desperate. “That’s it... take it... You’re doing so well for me, so perfect.”

As he moves, his hands shift on your body, tightening again, pulling you closer, almost desperately, and you can feel his own restraint slipping.

He groans, his thrusts becoming more urgent, more insistent. “I’m not hurting you,” he growls, his words both an assurance and a plea. “Tell me if I am. I need you to tell me.”

You open your mouth, but no words come out. Instead, you find yourself trembling, your body quivering with an unfamiliar sensation. Your hands grip the sheets harder, and you turn your face into his chest, trying to hide from the overwhelming feelings crashing over you.

You can feel him in every inch of your body, stretching you, claiming you. Your body tenses, overwhelmed by the sensation, the sudden deep thrusts that send waves of discomfort mixed with pleasure shooting through your core. It’s too much, and yet, you want more. You need more.

You try to keep your breath steady, but it comes out in shallow gasps, your chest rising and falling with each powerful movement. He’s relentless, the rhythm of his hips unyielding. His hands are all over you, pulling you closer, forcing you to match his pace, his hunger. But even as you start to adjust, the discomfort doesn't fade. It changes.

He growls against your ear, his voice low and filled with desperation. “You feel so good… so fucking perfect for me.”

You can barely process the words before another wave of pleasure rolls through you, pushing you higher, making your pulse race. You gasp, feeling yourself nearing an edge, but the sensation is so overwhelming, it’s almost too much. You clench your jaw, trying to hold it together as he continues to push deeper.

And then it happens again. The first climax crashes over you, sending your back arching off the bed, your body trembling beneath him.

You cry out, for him? For the gods? You don't know.

The intensity of it all rushing through your veins like fire. But just as you start to come down, he doesn’t stop. His hips don’t slow. Each movement draws a new sound from your throat, his hands branding your skin, and suddenly, the pleasure shifts.

It’s too much. Every nerve in your body screams. He’s not slowing down, not letting you catch your breath, not letting you recover. His thrusts are hard and deep, his body pounding into you like he’s trying to possess you entirely.

His voice is thick with desperation, “No one else will have you. No one can touch you. Not while I’m breathing.”

You can barely focus on his words. The second wave of pleasure hits you before you’ve even recovered from the first. Your body spasms, hands clawing at the sheets as you try to push away the overwhelming sensation. But Lucius doesn’t let you escape. His grip on you tightens, pulling you closer to him, forcing your body to accept more, to take everything he has to give.

You try to speak, to beg him to slow down, but the words are lost in the noise of your breathing, in the desperate gasps that escape your lips.

“Lucius, please…” You manage to gasp out, but your voice is weak, lost in the frantic heat between you.

But he doesn’t listen. He can’t. His only response is a growl, and then his lips crash down on yours in a kiss that is more frantic than ever. He tastes like desperation, like something too powerful to resist, and it only fuels the fire that’s already consuming you.

“You’re mine,” he growls again, but this time there’s something darker in his voice. “And I’ll make sure no one hurts you. No one touches you ever again. I won’t let it happen.”

He’s repeating it, like it’s a mantra, like he’s trying to convince himself as much as you. His words mix with the rhythm of his hips, pounding into you, making your head spin, your body weak with exhaustion and pleasure.

The overstimulation makes your senses go haywire; every touch, every movement, every thrust is so intense it’s almost unbearable. You’re losing yourself in him, in the feeling, in the power he has over you, and there’s no escaping it.

You can’t even try, you don't want to either.

Lucius is still moving, his hands pushing you back, forcing you deeper into the bed, as if he needs to feel you, to ground himself in the connection. His breath is coming faster now, and his thrusts are desperate, frenzied. You can feel his release building, the way his body starts to shake, his grip tightening even further on your hips.

He’s not letting go, not slowing down, even as you start to squirm beneath him, unable to take it anymore. He is breaking you apart.

“Lucius…” you try to gasp, but he doesn’t hear you, or he doesn’t care. His body is slamming into you, his eyes wild with hysteria and need. His lips are on your neck, on your chest, kissing you feverishly.

And then, finally, with a guttural cry, Lucius pulls you in one last time, thrusting deeper as he finally reaches his peak. His body shudders against yours, his breath ragged, and he holds you there, still inside, as if he never wants to let go.

His forehead rests against yours, his breathing uneven, as you both try to catch your breath. He doesn’t move. His hands are still gripping you, his fingers trembling slightly as they rest on your skin. For a moment, the world is silent, save for the sound of your breathing, and the weight of his body pressed against yours.

You’re exhausted, both physically and emotionally, but something in his words settles in your chest, wrapping around your heart like a chain.

Lucius pulls away just enough to look at you, his gaze softening, though there’s still a wildness in it. His hands move to your face, cupping your jaw with a tenderness that contrasts with the roughness of who he was a minute ago.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he murmurs. “I can’t.”

And just like that, the world slows. The frantic energy, the frantic need, it all melts away. He kisses you softly, testing the waters, as if you’re both trying to come back to something solid.

Lucius’s breath comes in ragged gasps, his body tense as he pulls back slightly, eyes scanning your face for any signs of discomfort.

His gaze flickers down to where you’re still joined, his fingers instinctively trailing over your skin, checking for any sign that the pain has been too much.

“Did I hurt you?” His voice breaks, a soft plea mixed with guilt. He’s still holding himself too tightly, as if the raw intensity of what just transpired has left him struggling to regain control.

You try to steady your breath, your chest still heaving from the overwhelming experience. “No, Lucius. You could never,” you whisper, voice barely audible, betraying the vulnerability you feel in this moment.

His expression darkens again, and his thumb brushes across your jaw. “I didn’t want to hurt you. But now…” His voice falters, and the possessiveness in his gaze hardens.

You feel the weight of those words, the possessiveness in them, the claim he’s made over you. It’s overwhelming, but somehow, beneath the intensity, you feel a sense of relief, like the world has shifted and you’re finally in your rightful place.

He pulls you closer, kissing your forehead softly, trying to reassure you as his hand trails down your side, touching you again with a tenderness that contrasts sharply with the earlier desperation.

You can’t speak. Not because you don’t want to, but because there’s a part of you that doesn’t have the words for what you’re feeling. You’re still fragile, still too sensitive. His hands move again, this time more confidently, tracing over your skin, the earlier tenderness giving way to something deeper, more primal.

He doesn’t wait for your answer before his body shifts against yours, his desire still urgent, still consuming. There’s a moment where you feel his eyes on you, dark and possessive, and before you can think, he moves again, slowly this time, gently.

The pain, the sharpness of it, flares again as he pushes further into you, and you wince, but Lucius doesn’t stop. He watches you, eyes searching for any sign of distress, but as the moments stretch on, the pain begins to fade, replaced by an unfamiliar, almost dizzying sensation that makes your head spin.

The tension in your body eases, and for the first time, you feel the full pull of pleasure, the connection between the two of you deepening in a way that feels almost like a dream.

His body moves against yours, and the pleasure swells again, the confusion becomes clearer. You want this. You want him. You want all of him. His touch, his words, the way he consumes you. There’s no more hesitation, no more fear. You’re his.

He moves again, more urgently this time, the intensity of his possession making your breath catch. It feels like a collision of pain and pleasure, a storm that builds between you, and you realize you’ve crossed a threshold.

You’re no longer just a woman in his arms; you are the center of his world.

His hands grip you harder, possessively, and you gasp as the tension tightens again. Lucius doesn’t stop. He’s frantic now, his movements desperate, but there’s something else in his eyes, a look that speaks of something deeper. As he moves inside you again, you feel the tension snap in both of you, the final barrier between pain and pleasure completely dissolving.

When it’s over, the room is heavy with silence, save for the sound of your shared breaths. Lucius pulls you into his arms. His body trembles, and you can feel the rawness of his emotions in the way he clings to you, his hand smoothing over your hair, his lips pressing tender kisses to your forehead.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, his voice softer now, filled with a kind of regret. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. But I needed you to understand… you’re mine. You always have been.”

You don’t speak. You don’t have the words, not yet. But as he holds you, his warmth enveloping you, you know there’s no turning back now.

You do belong to him, and you agree. In some strange, inexplicable way, you’ve always belonged to him.

There’s nothing more to say. Instead, you let him pull you close again, these last remnants of your union still fresh between you. And as he slips back inside you, his body so close to yours, he holds you tightly as you both drift into an exhausted slumber, his warmth the only thing you feel.

Oh my god, yay! I finished this! It got darker than I thought it would when I started lmao but I really like how this turned out! I hope you like it! I want to write more for Lucius soon, so please request if you have any ideas, I'm open to it all!!!

[astrids-blog333]

Beneath the Silk - Chapter Two

Emperor!Lucius Verus Aurelius x Reader

Fandom: Gladiator II

Chapter Two Summary: After a tragedy shocks the palace, Lucius senses its meaning before anyone else does. In the days that follow, he stays near, touched by a fury and fear he refuses to name. You notice the change in him, such as the quiet gestures, the way his eyes continue to linger.

Warnings: Angsty, Slow-Burn, Violence, Injury/Blood, Nightmares, Emotional Suppression, Hurt/Comfort, Feral Emperor Energy

A/N: This is part two of my three-part fic, a reminder that Chapter Three will be 18+. It is set post Gladiator II, and there are slight deviations from the original plot (i.e he never married and is emperor). I try not to refer to the reader physically, but in this, she has hair long enough to braid. Please comment, like, and reblog; it really helps a lot. Hope you enjoy this chapter <3

MASTERLIST - REQUESTS (OPEN)

WC (Chapter Two): 4.7k

chapter one - chapter three

The lazy morning sun filters through the sheer curtains, casting long, delicate golden shapes across the tiled floor of your chambers.

For the first time in many days, you are alone.

You stand near the open window, letting the breeze graze over your skin. Below, the city continues on with its usual noise, market vendors shouting, cart wheels rattling over the stone roads, but here, everything is strangely still. As if the palace has drawn in a breath it isn’t ready to release yet.

You turn the stem of a fig between your fingers, not feeling very hungry, not quite at ease. You haven’t slept well, again. You tell yourself it’s nerves. That these sleepless nights will pass soon.

Suddenly, a knock sounds at the door, three precise taps. Before you can answer it, the heavy wood creaks open.

Lucius steps inside, deciding not to wait for permission.

He looks different in the daylight. Less like the Emperor whom Rome respects and fears, and more like a man who hasn’t slept in days. His cloak is unfastened, hanging heavy from one shoulder, and deep shadows ghost beneath his eyes.

You straighten, your hands falling to rest at your sides.

“Was I summoned?” you ask, trying to keep your voice light. “Or have you taken to surprising women in their chambers?”

Lucius says nothing for a beat. His eyes sweep the room before they land on you. “You shouldn’t leave your doors unbarred,” he says. “Even here.”

Something in his tone makes your stomach tighten. He's not scolding or commanding. The tone of his voice is not threatening in any way, just… low. Quiet.

“I wasn’t expecting visitors,” you reply, softer now. “I didn’t think I needed to be afraid in my own quarters.”

He takes another step closer, not quite touching, but close. Too close, perhaps?

“You shouldn’t think that,” he murmurs.

You frown. “Think what?”

He towers over you, all rippling muscles gleaming in the light, his blue eyes bearing into yours. The way he looks at you then, not in the way he usually does, when duty weighs down every glance, but in a way that makes it hard to breathe. Slowly, he steps to your side. His hand lifts, hesitates slightly, and then rests lightly on the small of your back.

It is nothing. Barely there. But it feels like something else entirely.

“I’ll walk you inside,” he says quietly, though you are already in the room.

Still, you don’t stop him.

His touch remains as you move, his palm a silent pressure that guides without forcing. As though he needs to be sure you’re real. That you will move if he asks you to.

You let him lead you a few steps further in, away from the window, and only when you reach the centre of the room does his hand fall away.

The silence thickens between you.

He turns slightly, about to leave. “There’s a sense,” he says, almost to himself, “that something is coming. We don't-" he pauses and looks up,

"I don’t know what it is yet. But you should be careful."

You study him. “Is this about me? Or about you?”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t answer.

And in this moment, you realise that he isn’t simply here out of concern. Or suspicion. It’s something else, unspoken and raw, flashing behind his eyes. Not affection, Lucius does not have time for or allow himself such things. But something close enough to burn.

He moves toward the door at last, pausing just before it. “Lock it after I leave.”

“Lucius-”

His name feels strange on your tongue. You haven’t meant to say it. He stops.

You don’t know what else to offer, what to say. So you only nod, and he leaves without another word.

And you lock the door behind him.

The fire in the hearth is down to smouldering embers, shadows climbing the walls in jagged lines as the night outside deepens. Your handmaidens have long since retired, as you asked them to, as you find peace in the moments of your day where you can sit alone, undisturbed.

A fragile sort of peace.

Sleep feels distant tonight. You’ve undressed save for your night-robe, hair braided loosely down your back, and still your mind spins. Not on politics. Not on your father’s letters or the latest news from the border. But on the Emperor.

On Lucius.

Your mind replays the way his hand lingered on your back. That subtle, careful touch, clearly no accident. For the first time, it was no mere formality.

You shouldn’t think of it. It is nothing. But you do.

You rise from the desk and cross the chamber slowly, pacing near the terrace doors, drawn toward the cool air that drifts in from the world outside. The moon is a pale coin above the city, bathing everything in silver. You move to close the doors, fingers brushing the brass handle-

A sound. The faintest scuff of leather on stone.

You pause. You scan the shadows. The terrace is eerily quiet. Empty. You lean out slightly, peering toward the colonnade. But nothing moves. You turn away, and the moment you do, someone is behind you. A shape. A shadow.

An arm snakes around your chest. A hand clamps down over your mouth.

You want to scream, you try to, but the sound dies in your throat. The grip around you is solid, practised. Not frantic nor sloppy. This is someone who has done this before.

You twist instinctively, your legs scraping against the floor, but it’s useless. He’s taller than you, stronger. You feel the rough press of linen and leather against your back. A forearm braced hard beneath your breasts, pinning you against him. He’s dragging you, slowly, back into the room.

"Quiet," the voice hisses at you, low and breathy, not urgent. "Make a sound, and I’ll gut you like a pig."

Terror steals the air from your lungs. You nod once, just once, and the pressure on your mouth lessens slightly, but he doesn’t let go. You glimpse a glint of metal in his other hand as he moves you toward the centre of the room, where the shadows are thickest.

This man is not here to steal. He says nothing more. Doesn’t ask who you are. Doesn’t ask for coin. This cannot be a mistake.

He came for you.

Your knees weaken, but you force yourself upright. You try to breathe. Try to think. But your limbs are heavy, your thoughts slow.

A knife presses against your side, just under your ribs. He shifts slightly, and then- pain. A sharp, blinding slice tears through your side.

You cry out, not loud, not enough. It’s more a gasp than a scream, broken and small.

Warmth floods the front of your night-robe. Your hand instinctively flies to the wound, and you feel wetness, thick and fast, trickling between your fingers.

He lets you go and you fall to your knees. You can’t move.

Your blood is soaking through the linen in seconds, and already your vision is swimming. You try to crawl toward the bell pull, but your limbs don’t listen. You slump onto the floor, one hand pressing feebly at the cut, the other slipping against the marble floor.

You hear him retreat, soft footfalls, fast and measured. Clearly, he doesn’t need to stay. He’s done what he came to do.

Your breath comes shallow now. Every heartbeat is slower than the last, heavy and dragging. The pain sharpens, then dulls, then begins to recede, not because it fades, but because your mind begins to float above it.

You are dying.

You know that.

The room is tilting. Spinning. You think you hear someone shouting, but the sound is distant, like it’s coming through water. A door slams open. A rush of motion. A shape. A different shadow..

Familiar.

Lucius.

He’s there.

You glimpse his face, just for a moment. His eyes are wide and dark with fury and fear. His voice cuts through the fog, sharp and low, but you don’t understand the words. He’s speaking to someone. Calling for help? Speaking to you? Cursing? You don’t know. You can’t tell.

The marble beneath your cheek is cold now. Your hand slips from your side. The blood is everywhere. You feel it pooling, warm at first, then cooling fast. You can’t feel your fingers anymore. You try to speak, you try to say his name, but your lips barely part.

Lucius drops beside you. You don’t feel his hands, but you see him reach for you.

Your eyes close before he touches you.

The world returns to you slowly. First as sensations, then as sounds.

You feel the weight of your own body before anything else. Pain throbs behind your eyes like a slow drumbeat, your head feeling like it's going to fall off. Your arm, your side, your throat, they ache. Everything aches, but it’s the softness beneath you that first jars you. You’re in a bed, not your bed, admittedly, but a bed. You're not dead on the stone floor.

A gasp slips through your cracked lips, and at once, movement stirs beside you.

“Easy,” comes a voice, low and quiet but unmistakable.

Lucius.

You blink, the room is dark, and you see the world in shadows. He emerges from them, not as a ruler, but as something quieter, more human. He sits at the edge of the bed, dressed still in the clothes he wore earlier, though the tunic is wrinkled and darkened at the hem. His eyes are rimmed with sleeplessness.

“You’re awake,” he murmurs. There’s no triumph in it. Only relief.

Your mouth is too dry to speak. You try anyway. “What…?”

“Don’t,” he says softly, reaching for a cup. “Drink first.”

He helps you sit, one arm steadying your back, careful not to press where the bandages lie. His hand is warm. The contact is brief, but it grounds you more than the water ever could.

He watches you as you take the water, sipping gratefully.

When you’re settled again, he doesn’t pull away, not immediately. His thumb lingers at the edge of the blanket, brushing the fabric where it rests near your shoulder. A touch you would have missed, had you not been so aware of him now.

“You lost a lot of blood,” he says at last. “The cut was deep. They meant for it to be worse.”

The memory returns like a jolt. The hand over your mouth. The knife. The sting of it. Your breath catches.

“I have him,” Lucius says. His voice is no longer soft.

Your eyes meet his.

“I found the man who did this. He is in the cells.”

There’s something terrible in the way he says it. Cold and final.

“You-” you swallow. “You stayed?”

“I did.”

For how long, you don’t ask. You can see it in the slant of his shoulders, in the way his posture has begun to collapse under its own weight. He hasn’t slept. Hasn’t left.

“I didn’t know you-” you start, but the words falter. Cared, you almost say. But that feels childish. Too hopeful.

“You are under my protection,” he says, but the formality of it rings hollow. Too rehearsed. He doesn’t even look at you as he says it.

The room is silent for a while. Only the fireplace crackles. Outside, Rome lives on-unaware.

His hand shifts again, brushing a loose strand of hair from your cheek. The gesture is slow. Careful. Like he’s touching something fragile.

“I should have foreseen it,” he mutters.

You frown. “How could you have?”

“I see everything. I should have seen this.”

You study him. His jaw is clenched. His gaze is fixed, not on you, but just beyond. As if he's already somewhere else completely, far from this room.

“I won’t let it happen again,” he adds, quieter this time.

His eyes flick briefly to the room, then back to you.

“You’ll stay here now. Permanently.”

"Where is here, exactly?" You counter, and he sighs, "These were my chambers, and now they are ours."

There’s no room for argument in his tone, but somehow, it doesn’t feel like a command, more like a promise.

You could thank him. You could ask what he’ll do to the one who hurt you. But something tells you you’re safer not knowing. Not yet.

Still, the weight of him beside you feels less like intimidation, more like gravity. He’s still Lucius, your emperor. But right now, he is something else.

He is Lucius, your husband.

And he hasn’t left your side. “Get some rest,” he murmurs. His hand adjusts the blanket again, tucking it with unnecessary precision. “This is your room now.”

You close your eyes, but sleep does not come quickly. You feel his presence like a flame just beyond reach.

The city hums with tension.

You feel it even from behind the heavy curtains of Lucius’s chambers, there is a shift in the air, like Rome waiting.

You're seated by the window, still in a loose robe, your wound freshly dressed. The sunlight spills over the balcony, but you’re not watching the sky.

You’re listening.

Below, in the courtyard, servants pass, going about their day. You catch fragments of conversation, their voices low and quick as they slip by.

“He’s reopening the arena.”

“Today?”

“It’s not for sport. It’s for blood.”

“They say he’s fighting.”

Your breath stutters. You turn your head slowly, gaze drifting toward the Forum in the distance. The old stone arches of the arena loom like the ribs of a sleeping beast.

Lucius is fighting. Why?

You know what the arena has become under his reign, it is no longer a place of spectacle, but justice. Executions, when necessary, are private. Quiet. Never something he parades before the people. He despises the arena, for good reason too. And since he was last there, as a gladiator, he’s never entered the sands himself.

You notice the difference the moment you’re brought outside.

There is no festivity in the air, not like the parades or games you've attended before. There’s no music. No painted banners. Just a low, simmering energy, like the storm that gathers before lightning splits the earth.

You’re still healing, but Lucius's orders had been clear: She attends.

So you do.

The guards flank you closely as you’re led through the imperial corridors, past archways of polished stone, toward the old heart of Rome, the Colosseum. You hadn’t thought you’d ever return here.

Your steps falter at the entrance to the imperial box. A sound rolls across the crowd like distant thunder. It isn’t joy. It’s anticipation.

The kind that makes your skin crawl.

You’re seated high above the dusty, yellow sands, under a stone archway veiled with crimson cloth. The sun hits the sand below like a spotlight. The arena itself is bare; there are no staged props, no beasts in cages. Just open earth and silence.

And then Lucius steps out.

But it is not the emperor who enters. This is someone older.

He wears no laurel crown, no robes of marble-white. Just a black tunic bound at the waist, dark as the blood which he once stained this very floor with. His sleeves are rolled, revealing arms marked by scars you’ve never seen before.

He carries a sword. Nothing more. The crowd begins to cheer, not wildly, not mindlessly, but like a tide pulled by the moon. Every movement he makes is met with something primal.

But then, he lifts a hand. And speaks.

His voice cuts through the arena like steel.

"People of Rome, today, we do not fight for glory. There is no honour here. Only consequence."

The sound ripples outward, reaching every mouth, every ear.

“A few mere nights ago, my wife, The Empress, was attacked. She was attacked in our own home." The crowd goes silent, some turning to catch a glimpse of you.

"Today, let Rome remember that justice was never meant to entertain, but justice will always be served.”

And then the second gate opens.

They drag the man out in chains, your attacker.

You feel your breath catch, your fingers curling into your lap. He stumbles, already beaten, one arm hanging limp, bloodied from what must have been hours of interrogation. They toss him a blade. Small. Dull. An insult.

Lucius doesn’t move until the man charges.

And even then, it’s not a fight.

It’s a lesson.

You watch as Lucius sidesteps the wild lunge, carving a deep cut across the man’s thigh. He circles, not slow, not cruel, but with lethal intent. Like a wolf among sheep.

The crowd does not jeer. They do not laugh.

They watch. Because they remember.

They remember who he was before the laurel crown and the throne. Before marble halls and purple robes. They remember the arena when it belonged to him.

When the man tries again, Lucius disarms him in a blink, and the dagger skitters across the sand. The crowd begins to chant now, not for sport, but for judgment.

“Imperator. Imperator.”

You can feel it in your bones.

This is not a spectacle. This is Rome remembering why it should fear its emperor, why it should respect its emperor.

Lucius drops to one knee, pinning the man down with the weight of his body. A final blow would be easy now. Merciful.

But mercy is not what today is about.

Lucius leans in close to his victim, says something you can’t hear. The man’s scream is short. Choked.

The sword goes in clean.

Silence follows.

Then the crowd erupts.

Not in raucous joy, but in raw reverence. They are on their feet, roaring his name like he is both executioner and god. Some are weeping. Others chanting. All eyes are on him.

Lucius stands in the centre of it all, breathing hard, blood on his hands, his chest, even splattered up his throat.

And then he lifts his gaze.

Straight to you.

It’s like being struck.

His eyes find you in the crowd, and for a moment, everything else disappears away from you, the chants, the dust, the sun. All of it fades.

He looks like a man made of fire and control, and you are the one thing anchoring him to the earth. You are ushered away before he can reach you. Guards at your sides, the noise of the crowd echoing in your ears like a distant wave.

Later, when you have returned to the palace, you sit in his chambers, you still forget they are yours as well, it all still seems so...foreign. This space is colder, darker, than your old ones, but somehow still softer. The bedding is finer. The curtains are heavier.

The scent is different here. Earthier. Clean linens, polished wood, iron and sandalwood and something faintly smoky. You sit on the bed, still, blinking against the low light, and then shift.

Suddenly, he walks in, heavy footsteps the only thing announcing him.

His tunic has been changed, but there’s still blood beneath his nails. He looks at you not like an emperor, not like a man who just killed with his bare hands, but like someone afraid to breathe too loudly in case it disturbs you.

He speaks first.

“I swore justice." He comes closer to you, "but there is a part of me that…” His voice drops. “I did not do it for Rome.”

You don’t speak. You simply reach for his hand, finding it where it now rests beside you. His fingers are warm.

“You moved me here, to your chambers,” you say quietly. “Why?”

Lucius’s jaw flexes, but he doesn’t answer right away.

Then, softly, “Because I couldn’t stand to open your door and find it empty.”

The air between you thickens.

And when he brushes a lock of hair from your cheek, you let him.

You’ve been in Lucius’s chambers for several days now. The pain is subsiding, but your body still aches as your strength slowly returns. He’s never far from you, he's always there, even when you think he’s gone. When you wake in the middle of the night, his presence is there, like an unspoken shield surrounding you.

Sometimes, you catch him standing by the window, his gaze fixed far away, as though he’s staring at something only he can see. Other times, you hear him in the corridor, his heavy footsteps approaching, always alert, always vigilant. You never quite hear him enter the room, but you feel him before you see him, you feel the air change when he is near.

There’s a quiet tension between you, a shift you don’t know how to name. There’s a gentleness in his touch now, when he brushes your hair from your face, when he adjusts your blankets, but it’s more than that. It’s the way his fingers pause too long, the way his gaze softens, just for a moment, before he masks it again with the same cold composure he’s always worn.

It’s the way he watches you when you sleep, as if afraid you might slip away, as if this fragile moment between you could vanish at any second.

One night, you wake to find him sitting beside your bed. The dim light of the lantern flickers, casting shadows across his face.

He doesn’t speak, but you see the tension in his shoulders, the exhaustion in his features. He hasn’t slept. You can tell. His fingers twitch, like he’s unsure whether to reach for you or pull away. You pretend not to notice as he brushes a strand of hair from your face, his fingers grazing your skin so lightly you almost wonder if you imagined it. But you didn’t. You can feel the warmth of his touch lingering long after he pulls his hand back.

You want to speak, to ask if he’s all right, but instead, you turn away, closing your eyes, as if pretending to sleep will shield you from the truth.

Later, in the early hours of morning, you wake again to the sound of his voice, its low, strained, like he’s speaking in his sleep.

Your name.

It’s a whisper on his lips, a murmur that sends a shiver down your spine. You don’t know if it’s the dream or the man himself that haunts you, but it’s real. He’s calling you, even in his unconscious state.

When you do finally sleep, the tension doesn’t ease. It’s there when you wake again, thick in the air. You know it’s in his eyes, in the way his gaze flicks over your face, lingering a second too long. You’ve noticed that when he touches you, it’s softer, slower, like he’s afraid of breaking you.

He never speaks of the dreams, of these visions which haunt him in the dark. But you know. You see it in the way his eyes flicker with a distant pain whenever he looks at you. You hear it in the quiet rasp of his breath when he mutters your name at night, like he’s trying to grasp something that’s slipping from his fingers.

You watch him, and you can’t help but notice the way his eyes are framed with dark circles, the fatigue in his movements. He hasn’t been sleeping. You know it now, even though he tries to hide it beneath that iron exterior. His eyes are always scanning, alert, never at rest.

One morning, as the first light of dawn filters through the curtains, you sit at the edge of your bed, watching him pace by the window, his back to you.

You know he’s been up all night again.

You move closer, tentative, as if afraid of breaking something fragile. The distance between you has always been there, both physical and emotional, a barrier of steel and stone. But lately, it feels thinner, like the walls have begun to erode.

“Lucius,” you begin, your voice barely above a whisper, but he stills at the sound. Slowly, he turns to face you, his eyes flickering to yours for only a moment before he looks away.

You hesitate, but the words are already forming. “You haven’t been sleeping,” you say, almost gently. You don’t want to push him, but the concern is there, sharp and real. He has been haunted by something; you can see it.

Of course, you can see it.

His jaw clenches, and for a brief moment, you think he’ll dismiss you. But instead, he exhales, a deep, measured breath, like he’s deciding how much of the truth to give you. His voice is low, strained, like he’s been holding it together too long.

“It’s nothing.”

You don’t push, but you don’t let him hide either. There’s something in his eyes, something raw and vulnerable.

“It’s not nothing,” you murmur, more to yourself than to him. “What’s going on, Lucius?”

He steps closer, just enough to close the space between you. His hand brushes against your cheek, so lightly you almost think you imagined it. But it’s there, lingering, like he’s afraid to pull away.

“I’ve seen you hurt,” he says softly, his voice betraying something, a trace of fear, a fear he’s trying so, so desperately hard to hide.

“I can’t let that happen again.”

You swallow, feeling the weight of his words settle deep in your chest. It’s not the first time he’s said something like that, but there’s something different in his tone now, something more visceral.

He moves even closer, his body almost touching yours. You can feel the heat radiating from him, the tension that wraps around the two of you like a thin thread, pulled taut with every breath.

His hand slides to the back of your neck, fingertips grazing the skin there, just above the collar of your gown. The touch is light but possessive, as if he can’t help himself.

You feel your pulse begin to quicken.

You’ve never been this close to him, never felt the weight of his presence like this. He is so overwhelmingly close, so palpable. His eyes drop to your lips, and for a moment, time seems to slow.

You feel his breath on your skin, feel his chest rise and fall.

Then, without warning, his hand moves to your waist, fingers brushing the curve of your side. It’s so gentle, so intimate, and yet, it shakes you to the core. He’s giving you a choice without giving you one at all. He’s asking without speaking, telling you everything with the way his body is pressed so close to yours.

The moment hangs between you, fragile as glass. You can feel the weight of it, the unsaid things that bubble beneath the surface, things that neither of you dares to acknowledge.

And then his mouth is so close to yours that you can feel the heat of it. His lips are a breath away from yours. You close your eyes, heart pounding, but just as you lean forward, just as you’re about to close that distance, he pulls away.

He steps back abruptly, the distance between you widening once again.

You barely hear the words, but you feel them. “Please don’t tempt me,” he says, voice tight, strained. “Not when I’ve just learned how much I could lose you.”

His words are like a bucket of cold water, dousing the fire that had been building between you. You can see it in his eyes, the control, the restraint.

He’s afraid.

Afraid of something he can’t hold on to. And that fear, that need to protect, pulls him back, away from you.

You stand frozen, unable to move, unable to breathe, as he turns away, his back to you once more.

For a moment, you think he might say something more, but he doesn’t. He just stands there, shoulders tense, as if every part of him is screaming to turn around and finish what was started. But he doesn’t.

And neither do you.

You’re starting to feel something. Something real. You’re sure of it now. But what it is, you’re not sure.

And you’re terrified to find out.

all parts of this series are out now, hope you enjoy 🫶

[astrids-blog333]

Beneath the Silk - Chapter One

Emperor!Lucius Verus Aurelius x Reader

Fandom: Gladiator II

Chapter One Summary: A political marriage to Lucius is forged to secure the empire’s fragile peace. Though emotionally distant, Lucius is drawn to your quiet grace, while you struggle to navigate the undercurrents of power within the Roman court. But even the smallest kindnesses draw his gaze, leaving you both uncertain of where duty ends and attraction begins.

Warnings: angsty, slow burn, injury/blood (mild), anxiety and stress, manipulation, power imbalance, alcohol consumption.

A/N: This is a three-part fic I've been writing, and I'm hoping to get all three parts out in the next day or so, FYI Chapter Three will be 18+. It is set post Gladiator II, and there are slight deviations from the original plot (i.e he never married and is emperor). PLEASE PLEASE comment/like/reblog it really does help. I love the Gladiator movies so much, and I love him so much. Anyways, hope you enjoy <3

MASTERLIST - REQUESTS (OPEN)

WC (Chapter One): 3.8k

chapter two - chapter three

The halls of the imperial palace stretch far before you. You’ve been in this palace many times, yet today it all feels different. Your feet feel heavy, and every step you take seems to echo off the marble floors, louder than the last.

A summons to the Emperor’s court, a marriage proposal from Lucius Verus himself, does not go unanswered. As the daughter of a senator with ambition for more power, more influence, you have a duty to follow his wishes.

This meeting is not just an opportunity; it is the beginning of a marriage that will secure your family's future, a political alliance forged in the name of power and stability.

Your family’s future.

The door ahead opens, revealing a room bathed in golden light, its shadows stretching far along the stone floors. From it, a servant steps forward, bowing low. “My Lady, the Emperor is expecting you.”

With a nod, you move forward, your nerves hidden behind a composed exterior as you step into the room.

You are struck by the sheer presence of the man before you.

An Emperor.

He sits tall, his posture regal, yet there’s an edge to him, something dark that seems to pull the very air towards him. His gaze lifts as you enter, his eyes sharp, cold, but also appraising. The moment your eyes meet, you feel an unsettling stillness settle over you, the kind of quiet that could erupt into a storm at any moment.

He says nothing at first, his gaze lingering on you, as if taking measure of your very soul. The corners of his lips curl into something that could almost be mistaken for a smile, but there’s a coldness to it that sends a shiver down your spine.

"My Lady," he finally speaks, his voice smooth. "I’ve heard much about you." You hold his gaze; this is a game of power, of politics, and you are determined to play it well.

“I’m honoured to meet you, Emperor,” you reply, your voice steady even though your heart is racing inside your chest. You’ve heard the rumours, but now, standing before him, you understand.

Lucius Verus Aurelius is not just a man.

"You are just as your father said," He continues. “A woman of duty.”

For a moment, his expression softens, a flicker of something more human crossing his features. But soon it's gone again, replaced by that same cold, calculating gaze.

“The court is full of men and women who are all too eager to present themselves,” Lucius adds, his voice lower now, almost thoughtful. “But it is rare to find someone who doesn’t seek the approval of others.”

Lucius looks at you for a long moment, something unreadable passing across his features. Then, without another word, he turns and gestures to the throne beside him. “We shall see how you fare in Rome, My Lady."

The days following your first meeting with Lucius have blurred into a single long string of formalities, discussions and countless meetings. The whispers around the court grow louder, as does the weight on your shoulders. This marriage, your marriage, which was once discussed in vague terms, is now an inevitability. Your father has spoken on your behalf, assuring the Emperor that you are prepared to fulfil your duties.

This marriage is not simply a union of you and Lucius; it is a bond that must strengthen the empire, settle the mounting tension between factions, and solidify his reign. The senators, the generals, and the noble families all have their eyes on this union, their agendas clear.

It is political. It is power. It is survival.

You stand by the window of your quarters, gazing out over the sprawling city below. The weight of this arranged marriage presses in against your chest, and the reality of what it means is finally sinking in.

You are not marrying Lucius for love. You will never marry for love. The two of you, bound by the will of those in power, are being forced into unity, and regardless of the greater good, it leaves a bitter taste in your mouth.

Lucius, you’ve learned, is a man who does not easily show emotion. In your brief interactions with him, you’ve seen the icy exterior he wears like armour.

The few words you’ve exchanged with him since your first meeting have been curt, formal. There has been no warmth, no kindness, no hint of empathy. He seems determined to keep things strictly business.

The door to your chambers creaks open, and your father steps in, his expression as unreadable as ever. His presence fills the room, and for a moment, you feel as though you are being suffocated by his expectations.

“They’ve confirmed the date,” your father says, his voice low. “The wedding will take place in two weeks. Everything is now in place, finally.”

Your throat tightens, but you hold your composure. “Two weeks? That is quite soon, is it not?”

He nods, his eyes calculating. “It’s necessary. The tensions between the eastern provinces have been growing. The marriage will solidify our alliance with the eastern legions and quell any dissent within the senate.”

You nod, but inside, a cold knot begins to form. You are a pawn in this game. Your father, the Emperor, the senator, all of them are using you as nothing but a tool.

As your father speaks of the preparations, you can’t help but wonder about the man you are to marry.

The thought lingers in your mind, but you push it away. There’s no room for feelings in this arrangement.

Only duty.

The door closes behind your father as he exits, leaving you alone once again. You stare out at the city as the last light of the day fades into the dark night.

You know that there is no turning back now.

The grand hall is filled with the soft murmur of conversation, the clink of shining golden goblets, and the rustle of expensive, fine silk. The air is heavy with the scent of roasted meats and perfumed wine.

This is the atmosphere of celebration, of happiness, but you feel anything but celebratory, or happy.

You stand near the edge of the room, your sharp gaze occasionally drifting to Lucius, who is surrounded by the usual assortment of nobles, advisors, and foreign diplomats seeking favour with their ruler. His posture is far too perfect, his expression unreadable, as it has been all evening. He is, as always, a flawless picture of regal composure.

But something about him tonight seems different.

Your marriage ceremony had been short, almost perfunctory, with little fanfare or flourish beyond the required vows and rituals. Now, as tradition dictates, you find yourself at the centre of a sea of well-wishers, all of whom are eager to congratulate you on your new role as Empress.

You watch Lucius from a distance. He stands in a circle of powerful men, but his gaze keeps drifting toward you. It’s subtle, a brief flicker of his eyes before he turns away again, agreeing with a senator or nodding to some advisor's boring anecdote.

You don't envy this part of his job, of his duty.

But the glances, those you catch. You catch the way his jaw tightens for a fraction of a second, how his fingers grip his goblet just a little too tightly. He’s noticing you, even if he’s trying to hide it from both you and himself.

You take a sip of your wine, your nerves beginning to settle as the alcohol warms your insides. You’re not sure if it’s the drink or the fact that everyone’s watching you that makes you feel so exposed. You can feel their eyes on you, their judgement lingering on you like a shadow.

You look to Lucius again, this time locking your eyes with his. This time, neither of you looks away.

You can’t put your finger on it, but you sense the conflict within him. The coldness he wears so effortlessly seems at odds with the tension in his gaze.

The music plays on, and slowly, the crowd around Lucius begins to thin. The revelry continues, but you remain rooted in place, watching him. But then he turns towards you again and starts through the crowd in your direction.

Your breath catches in your throat, and suddenly, your palms feel clammy. The warmth of his presence envelops you, his scent intoxicating, a fine balance of rich leather, smoke, and something darker, more primal.

For a short moment, neither of you speaks. The silence stretches. The world around you fades into a dull hum as you lock eyes with him. The tension is so thick it’s almost suffocating you where you stand.

“I hope you’re enjoying the festivities,” Lucius finally says, his voice low and even, betraying nothing.

You can’t tell if it’s his disinterest or something else, but you know you’re being measured, evaluated. “I am,” you reply. “But I do find myself wondering what happens after all this. Once the celebration ends, once the court has gone, what is left for us?”

Lucius tilts his head to the side slightly, intrigue crossing his otherwise stoic features. “That remains to be seen, My Lady.” His words are polite, detached. “Marriage is a... business arrangement. Nothing more.”

The words sting, but you manage to keep your composure. It’s what you expected, what you have been prepared for your whole life. A loveless marriage with a man who wishes not to be with you, who wishes for nothing to do with you.

“Perhaps,” you say, taking a small step back, giving yourself some space to breathe, “but even some business arrangements can be... complicated.”

His eyes narrow just a fraction. “Complicated, yes of course.” His voice deepens. “But I don’t believe you are the complication I expected.” The words hit you like a stone to the chest, and you can feel the sudden weight of everything pressing down on you.

He doesn’t touch you, but the intensity of Lucius's stare almost feels like physical touch.

Before you can even think to reply, he steps back, his posture relaxing slightly as he adjusts the clasp of his cloak. His gaze lingers on you for one final moment.

As quickly as he appeared, Lucius turns away, his figure swallowed one again by the crowd.

You exhale, not realising you’d been holding your breath the entire time.

The palace is a maze, and you can feel the harsh looks follow you down the corridors. Today, you have the chance to walk through them, away from the crowd of courtiers and their insistent chattering.

The hall stretches before you, lined with columns that give the space a sense of grandeur, but the silence, which is only broken by your footsteps, is almost unsettling. You are alone in your thoughts, but there is no real solitude here, not when you can feel the eyes upon you at all times.

As you round the corner, you spot a young girl struggling, trying to steady herself while clutching at her side. It's such a subtle shirt in her stance you nearly miss it, but you can see the discomfort in the way she winces as she tries to carry on her task.

You slow as you watch her. It is a brief interaction, just a glimpse of vulnerability, but enough to catch your eye. You can’t possible ignore it.

Without thinking twice, you approach, stepping carefully so as not to startle her. “Are you all right?”

The girl, startled by the sound of your voice, looks up. Her face is flushed, and she quickly straightens, hiding her discomfort behind a forced smile.

“I’m fine, my lady,” she replies, her words quick, too quick. There is a slight tremor in her voice that betrays her. You study her for a moment, something isn’t right.

“I don’t believe you.” You keep your tone even so as to not scare her, but your eyes are sharp, persistent. “Let me see.”

She hesitates, glancing down at her hands, before finally lifting her sleeve. The sight of the deep gash in her arm catches you slightly off guard. It isn’t too serious, but it has clearly been left untreated to long as blood has begun to stain the fabric of her tunic.

“Why hasn’t someone seen to this?” you ask, lowering your voice.

The girl's eyes dart to the side, refusing to meet your gaze. “I didn’t want to trouble anyone, my lady,” she murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Sit,” you instruct, your words firm but gentle as you gesture to a nearby chair. “I’ll have it cleaned.”

As you move to tend to her wound, you feel the air shift. The sudden silence is broken by footsteps approaching from the other end of the corridor.

You don’t need to look up to know who it is. Lucius’s presence, even without words, seems to fill the space.

Without a word, he appears in the doorway. His eyes briefly flick over the scene before locking onto you. His brow furrows as he observes you kneeling beside the girl, your attention wholly focused on her.

For a moment, there is no movement, just the quiet exchange between you two. Lucius takes a step forward. His voice, when it comes, is low.

“You would... help those beneath you?”

It isn’t an accusation. It is a question, a quiet observation wrapped in the careful tone of someone trying to understand something they don’t quite grasp. Perhaps he refuses to believe that you, a Lady of the Roman Empire, who was born into wealth and prosperity, would even think to help a lowly servant girl.

You don’t look up immediately, your attention still on the maid as you clean her wound. “Everyone has a place,” you say, not pausing in your task, “but kindness should have no rank.”

Lucius is silent for a moment. When you finally look up, you address him, "Would you not agree, Emperor?"

You catch the brief flicker of something in his eyes. It isn’t exactly surprise, but it isn’t disregarded either. For the first time since your marriage, you see a different side of him, something unexpected that seems to make him seem faintly protective.

He nods, his gaze softening for the briefest of moments before his expression shifts back into something guarded. “I’ll have someone fetch a healer,” he says, his tone returning to its usual clipped edge. “Stay here.”

You don’t have time to dwell on it, though, as the girl's soft voice interrupts your thoughts. “Thank you, my lady. I... I don’t deserve this.”

You smile, brushing a strand of hair from her face as you finish cleaning the wound. “You do. We all deserve kindness, even when the world sometimes forgets it.”

Lucius pauses for a moment in the doorway, watching, listening, before disappearing down the hall again to carry out his command.

The night has long since fallen, and the grand halls of the palace are quieter now, the hum of courtly chatter and the heavy clang of armor replaced by the soft rustling of distant servants and the occasional glimmer of torchlight reflecting off the polished marble. It is the kind of night that promises solitude, a rare gift in a world so full of eyes, all pointed towards you. You find yourself walking the halls alone once more, needing nothing more than the silence to clear your thoughts.

You had spent the better part of the day in meetings, your role at the heart of Rome’s politics growing clearer with each passing day. The weight of your new position, all of the alliances, the shifting balances of power, and the many expectations are all beginning to wear on your mind and body.

The only place you can find any peace is in the gardens. They have become your sanctuary, so you find yourself slipping away from the palace’s watchful eyes to find some reprieve among the trees. The night air is cooler here, and the stars overhead shine brightly.

The sound of footsteps draws you out of your thoughts. At first, you think it’s just another guard or servant going about their duties, but as the figure comes closer, you realise it is him.

Lucius.

His presence is a shadow before it becomes a figure, tall and commanding, moving with purpose even in the utter stillness of the night. He doesn’t say anything as he approaches you, his eyes scanning the garden briefly before settling on you. You’ve seen him in many situations, in the heat of power struggles, in the midst of grand gatherings, but in this, this stillness, this quiet, he is different. It is almost as if you can hear the thoughts churning beneath his calm exterior.

“I didn’t expect to see you out here,” you say, your voice softer than usual, unsure of how to read the situation.

Lucius says nothing for a long moment. He merely looks at you. His lips part slightly, as though he might speak, but then he chooses not to. Instead, he takes a step closer, and you notice, almost imperceptibly, that he is giving you space.

“What are you thinking?” you ask, the words escaping before you can hold them back. It isn’t an ordinary question; this isn’t about politics or alliances. It is more personal, an invitation into the silence he carries with him, the part of him he keeps locked away. You wonder whether one day he will share them with you, his wife.

His eyes flick to yours, and for a second, there is a hesitation, a hint of something that makes you wonder if he’ll answer truthfully.

“Nothing worth saying,” he finally replies, his voice cool. He is always in control, always aware of what he reveals, to whom and when.

But tonight, it seems, something about the air between you has changed. Perhaps it is the quiet, the absence of everyone else, or maybe it is the sheer weight of the responsibilities that both of you now carry. Some of these responsibilities you now carry together.

“I don’t believe you,” you say softly, your gaze not leaving his. It isn’t defiance, it’s just the truth. You’ve learned enough in your time here to know that Lucius is a man of many layers, many masks, and that some things can be seen even if he never speaks them aloud.

His jaw tightens, but there is no anger in his features, no sharp rebuke. Just the unshakable, steady gaze that has become his trademark.

The only sound is the gentle rustling of leaves in the night wind.

Finally, he breaks the silence, "I've seen you in the gardens before, what draws you to them so?"

You pause, thinking for a moment before answering. "The night reminds me of home." He looks at you, raising an eyebrow slightly, prompting you to continue.

"I have never lived anywhere but my childhood home, so coming here has been...difficult, to say the least." You pause, unsure of how to continue.

"I found that even though my whole life has been turned upside down, the night sky has not changed. The stars are in the same place they have always been, so when I look up to them, I can forget everything else, and I could just as easily be home again."

His eyes narrow, as if measuring your words. "You don't seem as disillusioned as most would be," he observes. "Most would be angrier, most would resent being used as a pawn in the empire’s games."

You tilt your head, a small smile playing at the corners of your mouth. "And yet, here I am. No resentment, simply...remembering." You pause, glancing down at your hands, seeing they tremble slightly.

"Just doing what I must."

Lucius steps closer, the sound of his boots against the stone floor drawing your attention. "And what if your duty requires something more than you expected?" His voice drops, a thread of vulnerability threading through his usual detached tone. "What if you’re asked to choose between what’s right for the empire and what’s right for you?"

The question hangs in the air like a challenge, but you meet his gaze without any hesitation. "Then I will choose both, Lucius. I will find a way."

He speaks again, softer this time.

"Earlier, when you helped the servant..." He pauses, his voice a little quieter, almost as if uncertain of his own curiosity. "Why did you do that? It was nothing more than a small injury, but you treated it as if it were life or death."

You bite your lip, the memory of the servant’s injury still fresh. It had been a simple cut, nothing that would have warranted a second glance from anyone else. Yet, something in you had insisted on helping. It had felt… right.

"You see, Lucius," you say, carefully choosing your words, "in a place like this, where everything is always about power and control, it's easy to forget the little things. The ones who are dismissed, the ones who are invisible. It's not much, but I can't help but think that if we forget them, we lose something essential to who we are as people."

He is quiet for a long time, his gaze never leaving you. There is something unreadable in his expression, something buried deep beneath the surface.

"You're different," he finally says, his voice low. "Most would never think twice about such a thing. They would walk past, their eyes trained on the bigger picture, and yet..." His gaze softens, though he quickly masks it with a brief glance away.

You swallow hard, "I just... I just want to do what’s right."

A fleeting silence passes between you two, heavy. The moment feels fragile, like something could shift at any moment, pulling you closer or pushing you apart.

Lucius steps closer again, the distance between you shrinking even further. You can feel the heat radiating off him, the power of his existence wrapping around you like a clock.

There is a stillness in the air, a charge that hums between the two of you, and then, almost unnoticeably, his hand brushes yours. It is so light, so momentary, that you almost think it is an accident. But the sensation of his skin against yours sends a jolt of something through you.

Your breath catches in your throat, and for a moment, neither of you moves. His hand hovers just a fraction above yours, as if unsure whether to pull away or linger. His gaze flickers between your eyes and your hand, and you can see the battle within him, something he isn’t willing to show, but still cannot completely hide.

But then, just as quickly, he pulls away, his hand falling back to his side.

"I should go," Lucius says, his voice returning to its usual coolness. "There are matters to attend to."

You nod, though the tightness in your chest makes it difficult to breathe. "Of course."

As he turns to leave, you can't help but watch him, your thoughts swirling. For all the power he wielded, for all his control, you know there is something more to that man.

all parts of this series are out now, hope you enjoy 🫶

[astrids-blog333]

To Have and To Hold

Jon Snow x Reader

Fandom: Game of Thrones

Summary: Jon returns from battle, bloodied and victorious. But all you care about is the fact that he came home to you.

Warnings: SMUT 18+ (at the end) ref to canon-typical violence, blood/injuries, mild gore, strong language, ref to war.

A/N: I will forever love Game of Thrones, and I just rewatched it for the millionth time to distract myself from exams 🤭 this doesn't follow the plot specifically, but I imagined season 6 Jon :)

dividers by @cafekitsune

MASTERLIST - REQUESTS (OPEN)

WC: 2.6k

The wind cuts through the open expanse of the North, sharp and cold against your face as you stand above the large gates of Winterfell.

The men of the North have returned.

You can hear the rumble of horses' hooves long before they appear over the ridge, the sound growing louder and louder. The warriors ride in, exhausted but victorious, with cheers from the village ringing out behind them.

The familiar scent of the north fills your lungs, the fresh pine, the earth after rain, and a lingering trace of smoke from the fires burning in every hearth. You look at the soldiers, some of them grinning, others barely able to keep themselves upright.

But all eyes are on Jon. He’s at the front of the group, shoulders broad, head held high. His dark hair is matted with dirt and blood, and his clothes are stained with the gory aftermath of battle.

But to you, he’s perfect. He's your king.

Your husband.

You’ve been waiting for this moment for so long, the worry that’s been gnawing at you since he left now turning into relief that he's come home to you unscathed.

You can’t wait another second.

Without thinking, you break into a run, your feet pounding against the stone as you sprint toward him. The villagers part to let you through, some giving you nods of respect.

Jon’s eyes lock with yours in the crowd, his gaze intense, even from a distance. His lips curl into a half-smile as he urges his horse forward. You’re almost there, and in a moment that feels as though it’s been months in the making, he’s dismounting before the horse even comes to a full stop.

He’s there, in front of you, a storm of emotions swirling behind his dark, brooding eyes. You reach him in a heartbeat. Your arms are around his neck, and before he can protest, you feel the heat of his body engulf you. He tries to pull back from you.

“No, love, I’m covered in blood-”

But you don’t listen. You’re already in his arms, his chest hard and solid as he pulls you against him, lifting you off your feet in a tight embrace.

The cheers from the soldiers and villagers fade into nothing as his lips find yours. It’s hungry and desperate, as if the entire world has melted away, leaving only the two of you. His mouth tastes like salt, iron, and something raw. His arms tighten impossibly around you, pulling you closer, as if he’s afraid you’ll slip away from his desperate grasp.

You feel his chest heaving beneath your fingers, his body trembling every so slightly, but there’s no hesitation in his touch. He holds you like he’s never going to let you go.

His lips break away from yours, just for a moment, but you’re still tangled in his embrace, your breath shaky. His forehead presses against yours, and you can hear the weight of his voice as he mutters, “I was worried, you know. I couldn’t stand the thought of you here all alone, and no one being here to protect-”

“I’m fine,” you say, cutting him off, your hands sliding up to cup his face. You smile up at him, feeling the rush of love flood your chest. “You’re back. That’s all that matters.”

Jon holds you even tighter, his hand cupping the back of your head as he buries his face in your hair. The world around you is still roaring with celebration, but in this moment, all you hear is his heartbeat and the sound of your own breath.

“You have no idea how much I missed you,” he whispers, his voice low and hoarse. His words send a shiver through you, and you can feel the weight of everything that has happened settle.

All the brutal battles, all the bloodshed, the distance.

But now he’s home.

You hold him tighter, not caring about the blood or dirt staining your dress. You’ve missed him in ways words can’t express, and all that’s left is the overwhelming need to be close to him, to hold him, to remind each other that the war is over for now.

You don’t pull away from him, your arms still tightly wrapped around his neck, but you can feel the weight of his blood and dirt pressing against you, the remnants of the battle that still cling to him. You can’t wait to get him inside, where you can finally help him relax and tend to his wounds.

Jon pulls back just slightly, his hands still resting on your hips as he looks down at you with a soft smile. His thumb brushes across your cheek, as if checking to see if you’re truly real, as if this moment is just as overwhelming for him as it is for you.

He seems to notice the way your eyes scan him, analysing the cuts littering his body.

“I’m fine,” whispers, his tone soft but still with that familiar stubborn edge. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

You give him a look, a silent challenge to let you help, and Jon simply chuckles, his shoulders sagging slightly as he lets out a long breath.

Inside the warmth of your chambers, the two of you are finally together, alone.

You move toward the bathing area, prepared to clean him, tend to him. Jon doesn’t protest. He stands, his broad frame slightly slumped, and begins to undress slowly. His movements are tired, but there’s a quiet strength in them. You can see the exhaustion in his eyes, the lingering pain from the battle.

This is the moment where you can care for him, take away the stress, even if just for a little while.

He steps into the water, sighing as the warmth envelops him. You kneel beside the tub, reaching for the cloth. The water swirls around him, dark with the blood and dirt he’s carried back from the battlefield.

You step closer, a cloth in your hand, your presence drawing his gaze. His eyes soften as you approach, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Didn’t think I’d get a personal healer today,” he murmurs, his voice low but teasing. “I’m used to the battlefields, not the bath.”

You smile back, dipping the cloth into the warm water. “Well, today’s your lucky day.” Your fingers brush against his shoulder as you gently begin cleaning the blood and grime from his skin, the warmth of the water combined with your touch allowing Jon to finally relax.

Jon’s gaze never leaves you as you tend to him. His chest rises and falls with each breath, and you can see the exhaustion in his eyes, but also the trust. His hand reaches up to run through his wet hair, pushing it away from his forehead. The tension in his body slowly melting away.

“You always know how to make me feel better,” he says quietly, his voice soft, adoring.

You chuckle lightly, dipping the cloth into the water again and pressing it gently against his side, where a fresh wound is healing. “That’s what I’m here for.”

But there’s something in the way his eyes watch you that makes this moment feel different, more intimate than usual. His fingers brush over your arm, light, like he’s just feeling the softness of your skin, but it’s enough to send a small spark through you.

“Do you need to be so gentle?” he asks, his voice teasing but with a hint of something else in it, like he’s testing the boundaries. “I’m tougher than I look, you know.”

You glance up at him, catching the glint of amusement in his eyes. “I’m not worried about you,” you reply, rising to his bait. “I just like taking care of you.”

His lips curl into a smile, and he leans back, clearly at ease, letting you work. “I’m starting to think you like it a little too much.”

You raise an eyebrow, not missing the playful tone in his voice. “Maybe I do,” you smirk, the smile on your lips matching his. “But you deserve it.”

You move down his body slowly, checking over his wounds, making sure each one is clean and free of dirt. As your fingers graze over his skin, you notice his attention shifting. He’s watching you more closely now, the mood subtly shifting as his gaze moves from your hands to your face.

There’s a quiet pause before he speaks again. “You’re always so focused when you care for me. It’s... comforting.” His voice drops.

You meet his gaze, not backing down, but instead letting your hand trail along his arm as you finish cleaning the last of the blood from his side. "Like I said, I want to make sure you're alright."

Jon leans in slightly, his eyes never leaving yours. “I’m more than alright with you here.”

The room falls into silence, the only sound being the gentle splash of water as you shift and move around him. You finish cleaning his wounds, your hands lingering just a little longer than necessary on his skin. He’s close now, his body warm against yours.

With a final look over his chest, you step back, letting him relax into the water.

“All done.”

Jon leans back again against the stone side of the tub, his eyes still focused on you. There’s a moment where neither of you speaks, just enjoying the quiet. Jon’s hand reaches up, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face, his touch lingering just a little longer than necessary.

Finally, Jon stands from the bath, his muscles glistening with water. He reaches for a towel, but before he wraps it around himself, he turns toward you.

“You’re right, you know,” he says quietly, his voice laced with both affection and something deeper. “I’ve fought battles, but this... this is different. You make everything easier.”

You don’t say anything at first; you just watch him, and your heart is swelling for the man standing in front of you. You move to help him dry off, your hands slow.

But Jon isn’t finished yet. He steps closer to you, his body warm and solid against yours as he cups your face gently in his hands, bringing you in for a soft kiss.

His lips are so soft, and you feel his hands move from your face to your waist, pulling you toward him until your bodies are flush against each other.

For a moment, you both simply stand there, caught in the kiss. His lips are a little desperate now, pressing against yours harder, deeper, he can’t get enough. His hands slip lower, sliding around your waist, and before you can even react, he lifts you off your feet. You gasp into the kiss, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he carries you across the room.

You cling to him, your heart racing, as he walks toward the bed, never breaking the kiss. His hands feel like fire on your skin, his body solid and strong against you.

You’re completely at his mercy, and you can feel the desire pumping through you. When he reaches the edge of the bed, he gently sets you down, taking a moment to look at you.

“You’ve no idea how much I’ve waited for this,” he mutters, voice thick and rough.

You reach for him, pulling him closer, unable to wait any longer. "Show me," you whisper back, your hands sliding down his chest, feeling every inch of him.

And without another word, Jon closes the space between you.

As you lie back on the bed, Jon hovers over you, his dark eyes heavy with desire, his fingertips grazing your skin. His breath is shallow, his chest rising and falling with the anticipation.

“You’ve no idea what you do to me,” he growls, his lips trailing down your neck, the warmth of his breath sending shivers across your skin. He finds the sensitive spot just beneath your ear, and you can't help but let out a soft moan, the sound barely escaping you.

Jon pauses, lifting his head to look at you, his gaze heated, focused entirely on you. His hand moves slowly, possessively, from your waist up to your breast, brushing against the fabric of your dress before pushing it aside. He groans softly at the sight of your skin, his mouth trailing down to your chest, kissing the exposed area before his hands start to move lower.

“Jon,” you whisper. You reach for him, but he stops you with a gentle hand, pressing your palm against the bed.

“Patience, love,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough. “I’ve waited far too long to rush this.”

Your heart races as his lips return to yours, his hands sliding down to your hips, pulling your body even closer to his. The heat between you both is unbearable, every inch of your skin aching for him.

Jon’s lips trail lower, his hands finding the lower hem of your dress. He pauses, looking up at you one more time, his gaze soft but filled with hunger.

“Are you sure?”

You nod, pulling him closer, not able to wait any longer. “Of course I’m sure.”

Without another word, Jon pulls the rest of your dress off, his eyes drinking you in as he undresses you. The moment he’s fully exposed you, his lips find yours again, hungry and wild. He presses his body against yours, his warmth enveloping you as he pushes you further up the bed.

As he first thrusts into you, you feel your body shudder in response. A sharp gasp escapes your lips, your fingers digging into his shoulders as he stretches you, filling you completely.

The initial ache melts into something deeper, something that sends heat curling low in your stomach. Each of his movements is deliberate, slow, drawing out the sensation, the heat building between you both until it feels like there’s no distance left between you.

Jon’s face is pressed against the crook of your neck, his breathing laboured as he continues to move against you. His hands grip the sheets beside you, and you can feel the tension in his body, the way he holds back, controlling the pace.

But as your moans get louder, his control slowly slips away.

He picks up the pace, his thrusts growing faster, harder, until everything blurs into a haze of sensation. You meet him with equal fervor, wrapping your legs around him, pulling him deeper, wanting more, needing more.

When the climax hits, it’s like a wave crashing over you both.

It's sudden, powerful, and all-consuming. Your body trembles beneath him, your nails digging into his back as he moves against you, his name escaping your lips in a breathless gasp. Jon follows soon after, his grip on you tightening as he buries his face in your neck.

For a moment, there’s only silence, the two of you wrapped in each other’s arms, recovering from the intensity of what just happened. Jon presses a soft kiss to your forehead, his breath still shaky as he pulls you closer.

“I love you,” he whispers.

You smile, kissing him softly. “I love you too, Jon.”

[astrids-blog333]

In His Eyes

Walter De Ville x Reader

Fandom: The Invitation (2022)

Summary: An unexpected reunion stirs something unfamiliar in Walter. At first, it's nothing, just a name from your past. But as the evening stretches on, tension simmers beneath the surface.

Warnings: SMUT 18+, violence, unwanted attention, creepy man, mention of blood, possessiveness and dominance.

A/N: Guys, I know this isn't a huge fandom, but I love him anyway and will forever represent. Again, you don't have to have seen the movie as this has nothing to do with the plot, as long as you have a liking for vampires, you're good to go 🤭 Also, Darian is a completely made-up character in this, sorry to any Darians out there :)

MASTERLIST - REQUESTS (OPEN)

(dividers by @cafekitsune)

WC: 3.9k

The ballroom hums with the murmur of conversation. Candlelight flickers against gold-trimmed walls, and the scent of warmed wax and delicate perfume seems to fill the space.

Walter stands beside you, a familiar and steady presence. His hand rests lightly on the small of your back, his fingers brushing against the fabric of your gown as he guides you through the parting crowd.

He leans in close to you, “Care for a dance?” His voice is smooth and light, almost teasing.

You smile, giving him a small nod. It isn’t often that Walter takes the lead in things like this, so you take the opportunity. And when the orchestra shifts into a slow waltz, he pulls you close. His hand is firm on your waist, and the other wraps around your delicate one.

The world outside fades away, and you can only focus on him. His high-set cheekbones, the way his dark eyes bore into yours, his perfect lips parted just enough for the tips of his canines to peek through. Everything about him was simply mesmerising.

Walter's gaze focuses on you, unwavering, as if you are the only thing in the room worth looking at. The soft glow of candlelight catches in his dark eyes, and he smiles, not wide, not showy, but something quieter and measured, but you know how much it means.

His deep stare causes your steps to falter, only slightly, but Walter’s grip keeps you steady. When you glance up at him again, his expression remains unchanged, his focus entirely on you.

When the song ends, Walter spins you into the crowd with a seamless movement. His hand doesn’t leave you for long before he’s guiding you toward the drinks table.

“Do you want something to drink?” The warmth in his voice is familiar, so is his hand splayed over your back. You turn to answer, but before the words leave your lips, you recognise an old friend of yours.

“Don't you two look marvelous,” he says, his voice easy, carrying the kind of charm that slips in unnoticed until it’s already settled.

His hand clasps yours, firm and warm, a glint of amusement flickering in his gaze.

“I’d like to introduce you to my husband,” you say, turning slightly toward Walter. “Walter, this is Darian, an old friend of mine. Darian, this is Walter, my husband.”

Walter’s grip is steady as he takes Darian’s offered hand, his expression neutral and unreadable. The handshake lingers a second too long before Walter releases him, but his attention doesn’t stay on Darian for long; his eyes flicker back to yours quickly, his hand brushing the curve of your shoulder as though drawn there by instinct.

“It’s so good to finally meet you,” Darian says, his tone smooth, too easy. “She’s told me so much about you.” Walter inclines his head.

“Pleasure.” Walter’s voice is flat, almost uninterested, as if merely stating a fact.

Darian’s smile widens, playful, but his eyes flicker with something more calculating. Walter remains still, but you feel the faintest shift of his fingers against your shoulder, a barely-there touch, light yet deliberate. Not possessive, not forceful.

Just a reminder.

When you all sit down for dinner, a few mere hours later. The first course arrives, delicate plates of soup set before each guest.

Darian, ever the charmer, carries himself with an ease that grates against your nerves.

His words are completely innocuous but too well-placed, his smiles just a touch too warm.

“You always did have exquisite taste,” Darian muses, swirling the wine in his glass. His eyes flicker toward you for a second too long before returning to Walter. “In all things, it seems.”

Walter’s fingers tap once against the table, a slight movement which goes unnoticed by most, but you know better. His expression remains impassive, his smirk still polite.

“It is only natural to surround oneself with the finest, is it not?”

Darian chuckles, sipping his wine. “I do wonder how you manage to keep it all so… untarnished. Beautiful things tend to be fragile.”

You stiffen slightly, but Walter remains motionless. He does not glance at you, does not acknowledge Darian’s bait. Instead, he turns his attention to you, reaching for your hand under the table. His touch is light, a brief press of reassurance before he withdraws, taking a slow sip from his glass whilst doing so.

Darian leans forward slightly, feigning casual interest. “It must be… consuming, living here,” he remarks, eyes flickering to you once more. “Such a grand estate, such a grand life. But does it not grow tiresome? The weight of it all?”

You open your mouth to respond, but Walter beats you to it. “On the contrary,” he says smoothly, “she thrives here.” His smile is razor-sharp. “I see to it.”

Darian’s lips part slightly, caught off guard for the first time that evening. He recovers quickly, though, forcing an easy grin. “Ah, of course. Ever the perfect host.”

Walter exhales a quiet chuckle, something dark glinting in his gaze.

However tense the evening gets, it is not until dessert is served that something in the air truly shifts.

Walter, who has played this game with such meticulous control, has exhausted his patience. So, when Darian reaches for your hand across the table, perhaps in jest, perhaps in something more calculated. But before his fingers can reach and brush yours, Walter moves.

Not hastily, not with any outward aggression, but with an ease that is almost terrifying. His own hand intercepts, gripping Darian’s wrist with deceptive gentleness.

Darian’s smile falters, just ever so slightly.

The air in the room feels heavy with silence, the kind that settles after the laughter and music of a memorable night have long faded away. The fire crackles faintly in the hearth, casting soft light across the stone walls, but the warmth doesn’t seem to reach your skin. The guests have all gone, leaving only a handful of people behind. Now it’s just you, Walter, and Darian, who is leaving in the morning.

Darian sits on the edge of his seat, his voice is low, teasing as he recounts one of his many travels, leaning in just a bit too close, as though the space between you doesn’t matter. His fingers brush against your arm when he gestures, the touch lingering for a moment longer than necessary.

You try not to think about it, you try to tell yourself it’s all harmless, but the hairs on the back of your neck stand up when you feel the light breeze of his hand moving past yours.

Walter, ever the observer, doesn’t say much. His gaze stays fixed on Darian, his jaw tight, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t break his calm composure. He shifts in his seat, his fingers brushing lightly over yours.

Darian talks on, his words still light, but there’s something sharper about his gaze now. His eyes flick over to you a little too often, his smile lingering too long.

You open your mouth to respond, but Darian speaks again, his tone softer now. “I bet you two don’t get many moments like this,” he says, his voice dropping an octave, almost conspiratorial. “With all this power, all this beauty around you. What is it really like?”

You swallow, uncomfortable under his gaze. But before you can answer, Walter’s hand is there again, a solid presence over yours, grounding you. The touch is brief but deliberate, a warning, perhaps.

It’s enough to make your pulse quicken.

Darian leans in again, his breath too warm against your ear. “She’s a lucky woman,” he says, and his words hang in the air like a challenge.

The subtle tension snaps, just for a moment, and Walter’s voice cuts through the space between you. “Is that what you see me as, Darian? A symbol of power?” His voice is quiet, but it carries weight.

Darian chuckles, brushing off the question with a wave of his hand, but his eyes are anything but casual. “No, no. Of course not.” But the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. Instead, it lingers in a way that makes your stomach tighten.

The conversation moves on, but Darian’s gaze doesn’t leave you. You feel it, heavy and possessive, every time you shift in your seat. It’s subtle at first, his eyes following you just a little too closely, his words dragging on too long.

Suddenly, Walter shifts and stands up without a word, excusing himself to another room to check on something. You didn't catch what, after all, you could always ask him later.

You watch him go, but before you can process it, Darian’s voice comes low and close again.

“You know, you don’t have to stay with him forever,” Darian murmurs, his voice rough with something darker. “You could have anyone you want... someone who knows how to truly treat you.”

Your heart skips a beat, and a cold shiver runs down your spine. You glance at him, but before you can respond, his hand reaches out, brushing yours with a cold touch that makes you pull back instinctively. His fingers tighten around your wrist, far too firmly.

“You deserve someone who sees you,” Darian whispers, his eyes dark, unsettling. “Someone who knows what you need.”

Your breath catches in your throat, your instincts telling you to pull away, but before you can do anything, the door creaks open.

Darian smiles. “You’re quite lucky, Walter.” His voice is smooth, addressing the man who just reentered the room. “To have someone like her.” His hand, which was on your wrist, moves up your arm, finding its way to your shoulder and creeping still further.

You squirm in your seat, edging backwards, desperate to get away from him. But it all happens too quickly to process.

One moment, Darian’s hand is where it shouldn’t be. Next, Walter’s grip is around his wrist, unyielding. Darian's sharp inhale that follows is the only sound in the room before he drops his hand from you.

Darian’s breath stutters. His fingers curl against the force of Walter’s hold.

“Let her go,” Walter murmurs, his voice low, even.

Darian flinches, his balance shifting as Walter twists his arm just slightly, just enough to make his point.

Darian grits his teeth. “I didn’t mean-”

Walter tightens his grip.

Darian exhales sharply, his body folding slightly toward the pressure.

“I told you to let her go,” Walter growls, his voice cold and full of venom.

You sit, frozen, watching as Walter’s strength overtakes Darian’s resistance. Darian’s other hand grips Walter’s forearm, struggling, but it’s no use. Walter’s grip tightens, and his eyes never leave Darian’s, a fury burning behind them that’s hard to ignore.

For a second, Walter’s gaze flickers to you, sharp, possessive, full of something dangerous. Then, without warning, he shoves Darian back into the stone wall with a force that knocks the air from his lungs. Darian crumples, gasping for breath, but Walter doesn’t release him.

“You don’t get to touch her.” Walter’s voice is deadly low, his eyes narrowed. “You don’t get to think for a second she’s yours.”

Darian’s chest heaves as he scrambles, trying to push himself up, but Walter steps forward again, his boot pressing into Darian’s stomach, forcing him back to the ground with a sickening crunch.

“I invited you to my home. I gave you the courtesy of a seat at my table,” Walter murmurs, dangerously calm. “And you mistook it for equality.”

Darian wheezes, gasping for air. He pulls Darian up by his collar, his face inches from his. The venom in Walter’s eyes is unmistakable.

“We are not equal.”

Finally, Walter pushes Darian away with one swift motion, his hands leaving him to collapse back onto the ground.

Walter doesn’t spare him another glance. His chest rises and falls with controlled breaths as he turns to you, his dark eyes still burning with an intensity that pins you in place.

Then, without a word, he steps toward you.

The kiss takes you by surprise. It’s not soft. It’s fierce, hungry, his lips molding to yours as his hands grip your waist and pull you flush against him. There’s heat behind it, a release of everything simmering beneath the surface, his anger, his dominance, the undeniable desire between you.

It’s a kiss that demands surrender, and you give in without hesitation.

The silence stretches when he finally pulls back, his forehead resting lightly against yours. His breath is warm against your lips, but his hands remain firm on you, steady, grounding. The world around you feels like a distant hum compared to the sharp focus of Walter’s gaze on you.

There’s something raw in his expression, something unguarded. His fingers brush along your jaw, slow and deliberate, as if memorizing the shape of you. For the first time since the night began, his touch is gentle.

"Are you alright?" His voice is quieter now, still deep, still commanding, but with a thread of something softer woven through it.

You nod, though words still evade you. Your heart pounds, not from fear, but from the sheer intensity of him, the way he looks at you, the way he holds you, the way he fought for you without a second thought or even an ounce of hesitation.

Walter’s thumb brushes over your cheek, lingering there for a breath before he exhales, his control tightening like a leash on whatever storm still brews inside him. Then, without another word, he takes your hand and leads you away.

The grip of his hand is firm, his every step deliberate, carrying you both away from the wreckage of the evening, away from Darian’s ruined pride and the tension that still lingers in the air.

He doesn’t stop until the doors of your chambers close behind you, shutting out the world beyond.

The moment the lock clicks into place, the air shifts again.

Walter turns to you, his gaze sweeping over your face, down the length of your body, as if reassuring himself that you’re truly here, unharmed. Then, in a single stride, he’s on you again, his hands at your waist, his lips brushing yours in something softer this time, but no less demanding.

"Tell me if it’s too much," he murmurs against your lips. But there’s no hesitation in his voice, only quiet certainty, the command of a man who knows exactly what he wants.

Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, anchoring yourself to him. "Don’t go slow," you breathe, a teasing smile playing at your lips, but the need behind your words betrays you.

Walter’s lips twitch, a knowing smirk ghosting across them before he claims your mouth once more. His hands slide up your back, pulling you against him, his touch steady.

He gently lowers you onto your bed, his gaze never leaving yours. His movements are deliberate, slow, but each touch, each brush of his hand against your skin makes your breath catch.

You know he’s still in control, but there’s a new tenderness in the way he moves.

His hand slides down your side, settling at your hip as his lips trail down your neck and across your collarbone. The kiss is soft at first, gentle, but with each movement of his mouth, there’s more heat, more urgency.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs against your skin.

His lips brush against your ear, his breath hot against your skin as his hands slide lower, gripping the fabric at your hips. His fingers bunch it up, pulling it up above your hips, so that your lower body is fully exposed, save for your underwear.

“You’re still so put together,” he murmurs against your neck, his voice low, a hint of amusement breaking through his tone.

“I think I prefer you undone.”

His hands move to the hem, slipping beneath it, fingertips brushing against bare skin as he pushes it higher. The cool air kisses your exposed thighs, a contrast to the warmth of his touch. He moves slowly, deliberately, letting the fabric gather in his grip.

Then, his fingers find the sensitive spot on your inner thigh, and you can’t help the soft gasp that escapes you. Your body already responds to him, your breath hitching as he spreads his hand over your leg, his grip firm but reverent.

“Relax,” he coos, voice dark. “Let me make you feel good. Let me take care of you sweetheart.”

His fingers graze higher, just barely skimming where you crave him most, teasing you, coaxing you. The heat between you intensifies, your pulse quickening as he takes his time. You feel the fabric of your underwear shift under his touch, a barely-there pressure that makes your breath stutter.

He pauses, his eyes locking onto yours, waiting, always waiting for you to yield to him completely. And then, without another word, his fingers dip lower, dipping into you. His thumb presses against you, drawing slow, deliberate circles, each movement sending another wave of shocking heat surging through you.

The pleasure builds slowly as his fingers push deeper, stretching you just enough to make you gasp in anticipation. His eyes never leave yours, watching you, loving your every reaction. You arch your back slightly, your chest rising and falling with each breath as he works you with expert precision.

"Good?" He asks, his voice is barely a whisper, but you hear the quiet edge of possessiveness in it.

It drives you wild.

You nod, unable to string together a coherent sentence, your hands gripping the sheets beneath you as your body betrays you, every slow movement of his fingers sending waves of pleasure through rocking through you. He picks up the pace just slightly, his fingers finding a rhythm.

You can feel the tightness building within you, a coil winding tighter with each press of his fingers before a wave crashes over you. You gasp, your body trembles in his hold, your fingers curling in the sheets as the pleasure surges through you. You barely have time to catch your breath before Walter’s voice fills the silence.

“That’s it love,” he murmurs, his voice a low growl.

But before you can fully come down, before the rush fades, Walter’s fingers don’t stop. He shifts between your legs, his thumb circling you again, this time with more pressure.

It’s nearly too much, too overwhelming, you’re already so sensitive that the second one comes quicker, more intense. The gentle but relentless pressure of his hand sends you spiraling once again, your body jerking beneath him as a second climax rips through you.

It leaves you breathless, the feeling almost too much to bear. His thumb doesn’t stop moving, just coaxing you through the aftershocks.

Walter watches you, his dark eyes gleaming with satisfaction as he takes in the way you tremble beneath him. He presses a lingering kiss to your forehead, his breath warm against your skin as you try to steady yourself, but the way his hands continue to roam your body tells you he has no intention of giving you a moment’s respite.

“Feel good, love?” His voice is smooth, knowing.

You nod, still breathless, and his lips find yours again, softer this time, as if savouring the moment. His fingers trace down your sides, slowing when they reach the fabric still clinging to your skin.

“Tsk,” he murmurs against your lips, his hands sliding lower. “Still dressed. That won’t do.”

His fingers toy with the waistband, tugging just slightly, enough to make you squirm. “I should take my time with this, don’t you think?” His lips brush your jaw, trailing lower as his fingers slip beneath the fabric. “After all, you look so pretty when you beg.”

You let out a soft whimper, hips shifting involuntarily, and Walter chuckles, a deep, satisfied sound. Then, without warning, there’s a sharp tear of fabric as he rips your underwear away in one swift motion.

“Much better,” he murmurs, tossing the ruined scrap aside before dragging his fingers down your newly bared skin, making you shiver. “I do like you like this, nothing in my way.”

But then his hands drift higher, fingers gathering the fabric of your dress still bunched around your waist. His lips curl against your skin as he hums in mock disapproval.

“And this?” he muses, toying with the material. “We won’t be needing it anymore, will we?”

He doesn’t wait for a response. Instead, he slips the dress over your head and tosses it aside in one smooth motion. The way his gaze sweeps over you, his eyes hungry, makes heat pool low in your stomach.

He lets his hands explore, slow and teasing, before he pulls back just enough to unbutton his own shirt. His movements are deliberate, unhurried, letting you watch as he undoes each button with practiced ease. When he finally shrugs off the last piece of clothing, his gaze finds yours again, dark and unwavering.

He moves between your legs, pressing his body against yours, the heat of his bare skin searing against yours. His touch is still gentle, still teasing, as he guides your thighs apart, positioning himself between them.

“Are you ready for me, darling?” he purrs, dragging his lips down the column of your throat. He gives you no time to answer before he tilts your chin up to claim your mouth in another kiss, leaving you dizzy.

Then, just as you’re lost in the feel of him, he thrusts inside in one slow, unrelenting motion, stretching you, filling you completely. A gasp catches in your throat at the sensation, at the way your body responds to him instantly, moulding around him in a perfect fit.

His movements are slow at first, giving you time to adjust, his hands on your hips guiding you as you both find your rhythm. He looks down at you, eyes dark with desire but filled with something more.

He’s still focused on your comfort, on making sure you're okay, but you can tell he’s losing himself in you, the control slipping with each thrust.

He shifts his hips, finding a new angle, and you gasp, the pleasure shooting through you again, sharper than before. He doesn’t pause, just continues, each thrust deep and slow, bringing you closer to the edge again.

“One more for me, love,” he whispers, his voice hoarse. “I know you can.”

His words are a challenge, a command, and you find yourself rising to meet it, your body responding to him, every inch of you connected to his as the pressure builds once again.

With each thrust, you feel your body tightening, the coil winding tighter, and when you finally let go again, it’s overwhelming. He doesn't slow, still chasing his own high. Your hands clutching at his shoulders as you lose yourself, surely leaving marks.

Then he groans, his pace faltering as he follows you, his body tense with the force of his release. He holds you close as you both come down from the high, his breath hot against your neck as you lie together, wrapped in the quiet aftermath.

“Fuck, you’re incredible,” he murmurs, his voice low. “So perfect."

[astrids-blog333]

All Eyes on Us

Ex!Lando Norris x Actress!Reader x Aaron Taylor Johnson

Summary: After a public and messy breakup with Lando Norris you attend the Oscars. You are seated next to the charming Aaron Taylor Johnson, fully aware of the paparazzi’s presence, but you no longer care.

Warnings: 16+ SUGGESTIVE content, mild angst with a happy ending, neglect, alcohol consumption, breakup (very public), media scrutiny, language, jealousy, she's an icon.

A/N: I combined two requests for this, one was for Lando where he was basically an idiot, and one was a very generic one for Aaron Taylor Johnson. Lando is basically the bad guy here (sorry Lando ily). Divider by @strangergraphics-archive

MASTERLIST - REQUESTS (OPEN)

WC: 1.6k

Fame is utterly exhausting. Not the kind that comes with long hours on set or press tours across continents, that kind of fame you’ve mastered by now.

No, it’s the kind that finds its way into your personal life, the kind that controls your life, the kind that makes your relationship feel like a spectacle instead of something real.

You and Lando had been together for nearly three years, give or take. A golden couple, they called you. Hollywood’s sweetheart and Formula 1’s rising star. To the world, it was perfect. Behind closed doors? Maybe not so much.

You tried to tell him and explain how distant he’d become, how everything started feeling like a badly executed PR stunt rather than a real, loving, relationship.

Lando never wanted to hear it.

He’d always just brush it off, tell you that you were overthinking, that he was just very busy, that of course he loved you, but still, he was busy.

When you finally ended things, it wasn’t because of some grand betrayal or explosive fight, there was no cheating or crying. It was just a conversation that turned into an argument, that turned into silence, that turned into the realization that this wasn’t love anymore, it had become a simple habit.

He hadn’t wanted to let go. Maybe you hadn’t either. But you did, you had to.

And of course the world, the press, everyone had plenty to say about it.

The whole situation became a circus. Headlines and articles analysed every piece of your relationship, fans took sides, and social media exploded with ridiculous speculation.

Some called you heartless for leaving him, others accused him of neglecting you. In every interview, and every public appearance, someone asked you about Lando.

Two weeks later, the Oscars came, and of course you were going.

The minute you step onto the red carpet you can feel the cameras eating you alive. You know exactly what they’re looking for, any hint of heartbreak, some sign that you’re still reeling and hurting after Lando.

Well, too bad for them.

As you step into the grand ballroom, scanning the room for your seat, a staff member gestures you in the right direction. Your eyes follow their directions, only to land on none other than Aaron Taylor-Johnson, already seated beside your spot.

“You look like you were expecting someone else,” Aaron muses as you take your seat beside him.

You smirk, turning to face him. “No complaints. Just surprised.”

He leans back, studying you with that easy, knowing gaze. “Better me than, I don’t know, an ex?”

You smirk, “Much better.”

The chemistry is instant and so effortless. He flirts shamelessly, and you don’t stop him. Why would you? It feels good to be seen, to feel properly appreciated for the first time in months.

And when your name is called for Best Actress, Aaron is the first to stand, clapping as if he already knew you’d win.

The walk to the stage is a blur. The speech, too. But when you glance back at your seat and catch Aaron watching you, his chin resting on his hand, that unmistakable glint in his eye, you decide to have a little fun, to adlib, just a little.

“…And finally, to everyone who thought I’d be too distracted by my, admittedly, hectic personal life to focus on my career,” you say, letting the pause hang. “Guess you were wrong.”

The audience erupts in laughter and applause. You struggle to suppress your grin as you return to your seat.

Aaron, waiting for you, shakes his head with a slow clap. “Now, that was a moment.”

But the night isn’t over yet, because you and Aaron are presenting an award together.

When you arrive on stage, Aaron adjusts the mic, glancing at you before addressing the audience. “It’s always a pleasure standing beside such incredible talent.” He pauses, his gaze lingering. “Some of us know how to appreciate a winner.”

The room reacts instantly, people letting out cheers, and murmurs, some people simply laughing.

You shoot him a look, playing along. “And some of us know how to share the spotlight.”

“Or steal it entirely,” he counters, voice dripping with amusement. “Not that I mind.”

“Right." You shoot him a knowing look. "Tonight, we are here to celebrate the best of the best.”

Aaron stills beside you, then suddenly turns his attention back to the audience, mischief in his eyes.

“And of course, we know how important it is to celebrate talent, don’t we?” He glances at you before continuing. “Because, you know, nothing’s worse than when hard work and brilliance go underappreciated.”

Someone in the audience gasps, catching onto the implication. Your lips twitch, but you school your expression into something innocent.

“Oh, absolutely,” you agree, nodding. “It’s almost tragic, really.” You pause, then add, “Though, to be fair, some people just don’t recognize a good thing until it’s already gone.”

A mix of gasps, laughter, and scattered applause fills the room. Aaron bites down on a grin.

“Brutal,” he murmurs, just loud enough for the mic to pick up.

Aaron exhales, shaking his head. “And here I was, thinking I’d be the one causing trouble up here.”

You smirk. “I like to keep you on your toes.”

The moment stretches, cameras flash, capturing every smirk, every glance, every touch that lingers just a second too long. This was definitely going viral.

Finally, Aaron clears his throat, shaking his head as if pulling himself back to reality. “Right. The award.”

“Yes,” you agree, dragging your attention back to the envelope in your hands. “Before we get ourselves in trouble.”

“Bit late for that,” he mutters, winking at the camera.

The audience laughs as you open the envelope, reading out the winner’s name. But as the applause swells around you, Aaron leans in once more, his breath warm against your ear.

“Reckon we just became everyone’s new favourite scandal?”

You glance at him, deliberately brushing your fingers against his. “Oh, absolutely.”

Hours later, you step out of the afterparty, Aaron’s suit jacket draped over your shoulders. The night air is crisp, but his arm is warm beneath your fingers as you hold onto him.

The moment the paparazzi spot you together, flashes explode like fireworks.

You know what they’ll say. What they’ll assume.

But who cares? Let them.

Aaron seems completely unbothered, tilting his head down toward you as you walk toward the waiting car. “We could give them something real to talk about,” he teases.

You smirk. “Oh? And what do you suggest?”

He doesn’t answer. Just tugs you a little closer, manoeuvring his arm to wrap around your waist.

By the time you wake up the next morning, sunlight spilling through unfamiliar windows, your phone is vibrating, nonstop.

Aaron stirs beside you, groaning. “Either someone’s dying, or the internet’s having a meltdown. Your phone has been going off for the past 10 minutes.”

You grab your phone, unlocking it to see headline after headline.

"From Heartbreak to Headlines: Actress Moves On in Style

Fast Love? Ex-Girlfriend of F1 Driver Steals the Spotlight with British Heartthrob

New Power Couple? Fans Obsess Over Their Sizzling On-Stage Banter

Is This the Rebound of the Year? Hollywood’s Newest Rumored Couple Has Everyone Talking"

And they keep coming, you giggle, scrolling through the endless speculation. “Well, they wasted no time.”

Aaron shifts closer, peering at the screen over your shoulder. “Damn. They could’ve at least picked better photos.”

You giggle, resting against him as you read through the absurd theories. But before you can enjoy it too much, your phone rings.

Lando.

The name flashes across the screen, and for a moment, you hesitate.

Aaron notices. “You gonna answer that?”

You inhale, then exhale. “Might as well.”

The second you pick up, Lando’s voice is sharp. “Are you serious?”

You sigh. “Good morning to you too.”

“Don’t do that,” he snaps. “You and—him? Really?”

Aaron, still beside you, smirks and mouths, Him? pointing at himself dramatically.

You press your lips together, suppressing a laugh. “Lando, why do you care?”

“Because—” He hesitates. “Because it’s been two weeks. And now you’re all over the news, acting like...like none of it meant anything.”

You roll your eyes. “Oh, please. I was done before we even broke up, and you know it.”

Lando exhales sharply, silent for a moment.

Then, Aaron leans in, his lips brushing your ear. “Want me to take this?” he whispers.

You grin. “Be my guest.”

Before Lando can argue, Aaron takes the phone from your hand. “Alright, mate,” he says smoothly, his voice all lazy amusement. “Let’s not do this, yeah?”

There’s a stunned silence on the other end.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

Aaron grinned, completely unbothered. “Not at all. But you know, if you called just to shout at her, I’d suggest finding something better to do with your time. We’re a little busy.” He winks at you.

Your jaw dropped as you smacked his arm, but he just winked at you, entirely enjoying himself.

Lando swore under his breath before hanging up.

Aaron tosses the phone onto the bed, smirking. “Well, that was fun.”

You burst out laughing, shaking your head. “You’re terrible.” He wraps an arm around you.

“Yeah, but you love it.” He grins, "Now, I have a really great idea of what we could be doing instead of thinking about Lando."

"What's that?"

He shifts, suddenly on top of you, running his hands down your sides.

"Well..."

[astrids-blog333]

Perfect

Jude Bellingham x Reader

Summary: After an offhand comment makes your insecurity flare up, you try to brush it off, but Jude sees right through you. He wants to make sure you never doubt yourself again.

Warnings: angst with happy ending, hurt/comfort, insecurity, self-esteem issues, cosmetic surgery (mentioned)

A/N: Sorry this is kinda short, someone requested this but I can't remember who I'm SO SORRY. This starts quite angsty but has a happy ending. I love Jude sm, and he's such a lil sweetheart in this.

MASTERLIST - REQUESTS (OPEN)

WC: 1.5k

The stadium is buzzing, the stands are a sea of voices chanting Jude’s name, roaring every time he touches the ball. He moves with all precision and control in the world, turning defenders inside out in the most effortless way. You watch, breath caught and fingers curled around the edges of your seat.

He’s incredible. Then again, of course he is.

You barely notice the looks anymore, the way people recognise and glance at you, the quiet murmurs that follow whenever you walk through the stadium. Now it just feels like background noise. But some things are always harder to ignore.

Halftime comes, and you slip down to the VIP lounge, weaving through polished tables and conversations that hum beneath the clinking of glasses. You’re not paying attention, at least, you weren't until you heard your name.

“She’s sweet, but honestly, I thought Jude would be with someone… I don’t know. Prettier?”

The words stop you dead in your tracks, you heart stopping for a slip second.

You don’t turn, don’t react. Maybe you misheard.

“She’s not ugly,” another voice chimes in, as if that would soften the blow. “It's just… when you picture someone like Jude, you expect, I don't know… a model or something.”

You swallow.

It’s ridiculous how quickly something like that can sink its claws in. You try to ground yourself, but nothing stops the twisting in your stomach, the heat creeping up your neck. You don’t even know who said it. And if you're honest, you don’t want to.

Still, the words stick.

For the rest of the match, you feel it. The weight of those words pressing in, the way they curl around your thoughts no matter how hard you try to shake them, no matter what you try to distract yourself with.

Jude plays brilliantly, and you smile, you cheer, you do everything you’re supposed to. You try to be there for him, but it's hard when all you can do is think about those two words, how you should be 'someone prettier.'

By the time the final whistle blows, it’s still there, sitting heavy in your chest. And you already know, you’re not just going to be able to brush this one off.

The ride home was quiet. Of course, you fawned over Jude. Told him how amazing he was, and asked him questions about the match, but still, the atmosphere was off.

When you get home you beeline for the bathroom, locking the door as you sink down onto the floor. You dial a number, and press your phone to your ear, smiling slightly as your best friend’s voice crackles through the speaker.

“I swear, people are so obsessed with running their mouths,” she huffs. “You know it’s not true, right?”

You force a small chuckle as you pick at a loose thread on your sleeve. “I mean… yeah, obviously. It’s just stupid. I don’t even really know why I care.”

“Because it was a nasty thing to say.” Her voice is sharp and protective. “I don’t care if they were just some randoms at the match to say that 'Jude deserves a prettier girl' like you’re not quite literally the most gorgeous person? It’s completely insane.”

Your stomach twists at the words, hearing them again. You swallow. “It’s not just that, though.”

There’s a pause. “What do you mean?”

You hesitate, your gaze fixed on a spot on the wall. “I mean, I’ve looked. At, you know… options.” The admission leaves a strange weight in your chest. “Just small things. Little tweaks. Just enough so people don’t look at me and think...”

You don’t finish the sentence.

Your best friend exhales sharply. “Okay... no. Now, I’m not gonna tell you what to do with your own face, but you don’t need to change a single thing. And you know Jude would lose his mind if he heard you talking like this.”

“Yeah, well, he didn’t hear it.” Your voice comes out quieter than you mean it to. “And he wouldn’t get it anyway, I mean, he's perfect, everyone thinks so.”

She starts to argue, but you barely register it, the words turning to static in your ears. The comment from earlier plays on a loop in your mind, digging under your skin, and settling deep in your chest.

Jude deserves a prettier girl.

You don’t hear the approaching footsteps. You don’t notice the presence in the doorway. You definitely don't notice Jude standing on the other side of the door.

And Jude does hear it. Every single word.

Jude steps into the room, his eyes fixating on the way you’re curled up on the couch, staring out of the window. The soft light of the afternoon sun catches on your face, casting shadows across your face, but there’s something distant in your gaze that he doesn’t miss. He pauses in the doorway, watching for a moment, before stepping forward into the room.

“Everything okay?” he asks, his voice gentle but filled with concern.

You glance up, forcing a smile. “Yeah, just really tired,” You reply, but the words fall flat, Jude doesn't belive you for a second. He’s been around you long enough to know when something’s off.

He steps closer, leaning against the armrest of the couch, his gaze soft.

“You sure? You’ve been kind of quiet since the match,” he adds, sitting down beside you, the space between you now shrinking.

You nod, but your heart isn’t in it. The conversation with your friend earlier still echoes in your mind, a cruel reminder of the words you had tried to push away. They keep coming back, like a bad song on repeat you couldn't get out of your head, and no matter how hard you try to shake them, they won’t stop.

He watches you for a moment longer, then he leans in slightly, his voice lowering. “Is it because of what you heard earlier? About… what you were thinking?”

You stiffen, startled that he knows, even though you hadn’t meant for him to overhear.

You look down, biting your lip.

The words you’ve been holding back finally spill out, though they come out quietly, almost too softly for him to hear. “I… I was talking to my friend about... surgery,” you mumble, your voice barely audible.

There’s a moment of silence, heavy with unspoken things, before he shifts closer, closing the gap between you. He reaches out and gently tilts your chin up, his touch like a whisper against your skin.

“You don’t believe that, do you?” he asks, his voice low, the concern in his eyes sharpening, though his tone remains impossibly soft.

You don’t answer at first. The words catch in your throat, and before you can stop it, the tears start to gather in your eyes.

Jude doesn’t wait for you to say anything more. In one swift motion, he pulls you into his arms, holding you close as if he’s afraid you might break apart. His grip is firm, but tender, like he’s offering you something more than just comfort.

“Hey, hey,” he murmurs into your hair, his voice steady and soothing. “You’re more than enough, alright? More than anyone could ever deserve.”

He holds you like that for a while, the outside world fades away, and at that moment, only you two exist. You lean into him, feeling the warmth of his body, the steadiness of his heartbeat beneath your ear. He doesn’t rush you, doesn’t try to fix it all at once.

He just lets you cry, just holds you.

When the tears start to fade, your insides finally calm, and he pulls back slightly, enough to look into your eyes. His thumb gently brushes away the last of your tears, his gaze filled with nothing but care.

“You don’t ever have to doubt yourself,” he says, his voice soft but insistent. “Not with me. You’re perfect, just as you are.”

"I love you, and only you. There is no part of you I would ever change. To me, you are the most beautiful thing in the world. Every morning, I look at you and wonder how I got so lucky. And every time I see you in the stands, you push me that little bit more—because knowing you're there means everything. Seeing you like this breaks my heart. My darling, you are absolutely perfect, okay?"

You nod slowly, the ache in your chest easing just a little.

Jude exhales softly, pressing a light kiss to your forehead as he pulls you even closer. His warmth surrounds you, steady and firm, like he’s trying to shield you from every cruel thought lingering in your mind.

“You believe me, yeah?” he murmurs against you, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

Your fingers curl into the fabric of his hoodie. “I’m trying.”

He leans back just enough to look at you, his thumb brushing gently over your cheek. “Then I’ll keep telling you every day until you do.”

Yeah, you believe him.

[astrids-blog333]

No Saint, No Savior

Walter De Ville x Reader

Fandom: The Invitation (2022)

Summary: You've felt watched for days, eyes following your every step. One eerie night, everything changes as a dangerous chase through shadowed streets shows you that not all threats are as they seem. But who is hunting you, and why?

Warnings: 18+ SMUT (towards the end), creepy men, blood, stalking, violence, lemme know if I missed anything.

A/N: This man is SO UNDERRATED and it pains me. This fic does not follow the movie's plot, and you don't need to have seen it; you just have to fw vampires. After this fic I'm writing a Jude Bellingham fic someone requested, but I forgot who, I'm so sorry. If that was you, pls lemme know so I can tag you. 🫶 Please comment or like if you enjoy, it really helps :)

MASTERLIST - REQUESTS (OPEN)

WC: 4.7k

You are responsible for your own data consumption <3

You’d felt the eyes on you for days now, even though you weren’t sure where they came from. Everywhere you went, you felt stalked, watched, hunted.

At first, you told yourself it was nothing, that it was just paranoia creeping in after too many late nights. But the feeling never faded. If anything, it grew stronger with each passing day.

Now, as you walk down the dimly lit street, you feel the eyes again. The city around you has calmed, the usual distant sound of traffic and people seeming quieter than usual—an eerie silence. You pull your coat tighter around yourself, resisting the urge to look over your shoulder.

But then you hear it. A footstep.

It is soft, almost unnoticeable, but it is definitely there. And worse, it is in time with yours.

Your pace quickens.

So do the steps behind you.

A shiver runs down your spine. Your breath hitches as you try to keep your movements natural, to convince yourself that it is just a coincidence, that someone else is merely walking in the same direction as you. After all, you are walking down a street.

Then, you hear something else—quieter this time, but closer. It is not just following. It is closing the distance. You start to run, your feet colliding with the cobbled road, footsteps echoing off the walls.

All of a sudden, from somewhere behind you comes a sharp whistle through the air, too fast, too precise, and then it is gone.

And so are the steps.

You slow, looking behind you, but there is nothing. Or at least, nothing you can see.

Then comes the sound.

A gasp. A struggle, brief and frantic. A choked-off noise, cut short like a thread being severed. And then nothing. Silence envelops the street again.

Your chest heaves, your heart pounding with every shallow breath. The only sound is the thumping of your own blood, but you can feel it. Something looming in the shadows.

You turn and come face to face with a man, so close your nose nearly brushes against his chest. He’s tall, so impossibly tall, and cold, like the night itself. His eyes are dark but steady, watching you with an unsettling calm, a sort of curiosity.

"Are you alright?" He places his hands on your shoulders to steady your trembling body.

His voice is softer than you expect, like he’s trying not to startle you. It cuts through the air, smoother than silk, but there’s something underneath it, something sharp. Your breath is still uneven as your gaze flickers over him, drawn—despite yourself—to the glint of his teeth. His canines catch the light, just a little too sharp.

You’re still breathing hard, too overwhelmed to process. "You... You were chasing me."

His eyes flicker, just for a moment, like he's trying to measure your reaction. "I wasn’t chasing you." His gaze sharpens. "I was keeping you safe."

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. The man's presence settled like a weight in the pit of your stomach.

"Safe?" You barely recognise your own voice, it’s so shaky, so small, “From who?”

"From him." His hand gestures behind him, toward the empty space behind them. "I’m afraid he's no longer a concern."

You don’t know what to say. Part of you wants to run, to question everything about this night, but you can’t move. You can only stand there, trembling, wondering if you’re even safe at all.

"I'm sorry, I'm being terribly rude" he takes a step back. "My name is Walter, Walter De Ville."

"I think," he continues, his tone softer now, but no less intense, "you’ll find comfort inside. You’ve had enough excitement for one evening."

You feel conflicted, you don't know this man, he's a stranger. "Okay..." your voice shaky. "I live about 5 minutes away." You start walking down the street, your legs feel as if they might give out, but Walter makes no move to follow you. Instead, before you can take two steps, his hand grasps your wrist, harshly.

"I know, but I am not sure I would forgive myself if I let you go home and spend the night alone. Someone could still be out there." His eyes look into yours, icy and blue. "Please, stay at mine tonight, there's plenty of space."

You stand there, you know you shouldn't agree, there is no rational reason for you to go to his house. Yet, at the same time, you feel safe. Safe in a way you cannot explain. His presence comforts you, it feels strong and sturdy. So when your voice comes out quiet, almost silent you, decide just to go with it.

"Are you sure? I really wouldn't want to impose or-."

"I insist."

Walter smiles down at you, placing a strong hand on the small of your back, leading you down the street. "I've called a car, should just be around the corner."

As you round the corner, you see the car, you can tell its expensive, with its sleek and black exterior. The man standing beside it nods at you as you approach.

"That's Mr Field, the butler," Walter explains. "We'll take very good care of you. You mustn't worry about anything."

But before you reach the car, your eyes find a huddled shape in the alleyway, and you recognise it as the same alley you ran through mere minutes ago. As you step closer, the shape becomes clear. A body. A pool of blood spreading around it.

Walter follows your gaze, his voice as even as ever. "As I told you," he says, "the man who was following you is no longer of any concern."

He leaves no room for conversation, opening the car door and ushering you inside. You follow him with your gaze as he rounds the car, sliding in next to you and leaning forward to Mr Field. "Home, thank you."

You feel the car start to pull away.

You must have fallen asleep, because you wake to the sensation of movement beneath you. A slow, steady rise and fall. Your head is resting against something firm.

Then the realisation sets in.

Your eyes open just enough to take in the dim, leather interior of the car. It’s no longer moving, and you can make out the shape of Mr Field walking away. Walter’s dark, rich, scent surrounds you, and as your mind clears, you become painfully aware that you’re not just leaning against him. You’re curled against him, tucked neatly into his side.

Your body stiffens slightly, and before you can pull away, his voice breaks the silence.

"Comfortable?" There’s a hint of amusement in his tone, making you want to disappear. You've known this man for maybe an hour and you're sleeping on him.

Heat creeps up your neck as you shift, sitting up far too quickly. "I wasn’t—"

Walter chuckles softly, turning to look at you. "You were," he corrects smoothly. "Quite soundly, in fact. It was... endearing." His gaze flickers over you.

You open your mouth to argue, but he’s already reaching over, unbuckling your seatbelt effortlessly. Before you can process what’s happening, his arms slide beneath you, lifting you bridal style as if you weigh nothing at all.

"Walter—"

"Please, call me Walt."

"Ok, Walt—"

"You’re exhausted," he states simply, stepping out of the car taking you with him. "And I did promise to take care of you, didn't I?"

You exhale, relaxing just enough to let yourself slowly doze off in his arms. Trusting him just enough.

Just a little.

You wake up slowly, wrapped in the warmth of the duvet. For a moment, you forget where you are, until your eyes flutter open, taking in the grand bedroom, the heavy drapes filtering in only the softest traces of light.

Right.

You sit up, stretching the stiffness from your limbs. On the bedside table, you see a note, folded neatly beside a dress he's laid out for you.

I’ll return by evening. Make yourself comfortable. Mrs Swift will be there if you need anything.

There’s no signature, but he doesn’t need one. Your eyes drift to the clothes he’s left for you.

You reach for the dress, your fingers brushing over the fabric, so soft it barely feels real. It’s delicate, impossibly so, as if it belongs to another era entirely. The bodice is fitted, the sheer lace hugs your skin just right. The sleeves, if they can even be called that, are wisps of mesh and the skirt flows over your body like liquid, pooling in gentle waves around your feet.

It’s the kind of dress meant to be admired rather than simply worn. And somehow, you have no doubt that was exactly his intention. Another quiet reminder that, despite everything that feels wrong, he intends to take care of you.

And yet, beneath that, there’s the lingering truth you’re trying not to think about too hard.

Walter isn’t normal.

And whether you admit it or not, you’re about to spend the day in the home of a man who you're pretty sure isn't quite human.

You decide to explore, if you're to be alone until Walter returns, you may as well familiarise yourself with the estate. The mansion is eerily quiet as you wander through its corridors. The architecture is stunning. The dark wood, the intricate carvings, the bookshelves that seem to stretch endlessly.

What captures your attention though is the lack of any personal touches. No photographs. No clutter, no sign of life beyond the perfectly arranged furniture and candlelight, even in the middle of the day.

Pushing open a door to what looks like a study, your eyes scan over the neatly stacked papers, the antique desk, the massive fireplace. And then, you notice something.

A wine glass, still half-full.

You step closer, expecting to find deep red wine, but the liquid is thicker, darker. Your stomach twists.

"Ah, you’re awake."

The voice startles you, and you turn quickly to find a woman standing in the doorway, her expression warm. She’s older, dressed neatly, with sharp eyes that seem to assess you in a single glance, despite that, you feel no threat from her.

"You must be Mrs. Swift," you say, remembering the name Walter had mentioned in the note.

She nods, stepping inside. "And you must be her," she muses, as if that alone explains something. She glances at the glass on the desk but says nothing about it. Instead, she smiles, folding her hands neatly in front of her. "I imagine you have questions."

You swallow. You should be afraid. You should. But the fear doesn’t settle, not fully. Instead, there’s a strange sort of inevitability to it. You already know the answers, even if you haven’t spoken them aloud.

Still, you meet her gaze and say, "He’s not human, is he?"

Mrs. Swift exhales, her smile tilting just slightly. "Do I really need to answer that miss?." You look at her, slowly shaking your head.

"No."

The admission should terrify you, but somehow, it doesn’t. Maybe because you’ve felt it all along.

Maybe because, despite everything, you’re still here.

She smiles, turning to leave. "Do wear the dress," she muses, a knowing glint in her eyes. "It’s a favorite of his, and I’m sure he’d love to see you in it."

The dining room is ridiculously grand, the candles flickering around you and reflecting off the polished silver. The place setting before you is pristine, the cutlery and plates are set out perfectly. It’s clear that everything has been prepared for you.

Walter sits across from you, watching with an easy, unreadable expression. He picks up his glass, the deep red liquid swirls inside, catching the glow of the candlelight in a way that makes your stomach twist.

"You’ve barely touched your food," he says, voice smooth as ever. There’s no teasing in it, he's simply observing you.

You shift slightly, pushing a bite around with your fork before finally taking it. He watches, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips, clearly satisfied.

"I still can't really believe this is happening," you admit. "Last night, I thought I was going to die. And now I’m having dinner in a mansion with—” You stop yourself, not sure how to finish that sentence.

His lips curve just slightly. "With a monster?"

You hesitate, your fork hovering over your plate. "I was going to say ‘a man I don’t know.’"

Walter chuckles, the sound low, quiet, and undeniably amused.

"Ah, but that would be a lie, wouldn’t it? You know me, at least you do now. You know what I am. What I’m capable of." He tilts his head slightly, studying you intently.

"And yet, here you are."

For a moment the room goes silent. He’s right. You could have left. You could have run. And yet, for some reason, you stayed.

"I suppose I should be thanking you," you say, nearly whispering, finally meeting his gaze fully. "For last night, I mean."

Walter lifts his glass in a slow, almost theatrical motion. "It was my pleasure," he says. "I do try to keep my guests from harm."

It should be unsettling, the way he says it, so smooth, so undeniably charming, but it isn’t. Not to you anyways.

Walter watches as you take another sip of wine. The rich taste lingers on your tongue, though you’re not sure if it’s the drink or the way he’s looking at you that’s making your head feel so light.

"You don’t seem as afraid of me anymore," he muses, leaning forward slightly. His voice is still flawlessly smooth, but there’s something else in it now, something that makes your cheeks heat up.

"Should I be?" you counter.

His lips twitch, amusement flickering across his face. "Well, that depends, darling," he murmurs, the nickname rolling off his tongue, sending a shiver down your spine. "Are you the kind of person who enjoys a little danger?"

You roll your eyes, but the increasing warmth creeping up your neck betrays you. "That sounds like something a very dangerous man would say."

He exhales a soft chuckle, tilting his head. "And here you are, dining with him. What does that say about you?"

The air shifts. This time though, it's not fear. It’s something else entirely, something that tightens in your stomach when he slowly traces his finger along the rim of his glass, his icy blue eyes never leaving yours.

"You stayed," he says after a moment, his voice quieter now, more intimate. "Even after understanding what I am. I find that... intriguing."

You swallow, pulse quickening. "Maybe I just wanted dinner."

His smile turns sharper, darker. "Mm. Or maybe," he says, his voice like velvet wrapping around you, he stands up from his chair, slowly rounding the table. You tense as he stops just behind you, the space between you vanishing in an instant. He leans down, you feel his breath ghosting against your skin, lips grazing the shell of your ear.

"You wanted something else."

The words linger between you. You should say something quick, something dismissive. But you don’t.

Because maybe he’s right.

"It's getting late," he whispers, hand reaching out to tilt your head towards his. "Perhaps it's time to retire for the night?"

His thumb brushes over your lower lip before you can answer. His touch warm despite the unsettling coolness of his skin. His eyes flicker down, watching the way you react.

He moves, placing a hand on the table beside your plate, caging you in. He's close enough now that you can feel the heat of his body, the way his breath fans over your cheek.

He picks up the delicate wine glass, turning it lazily in his fingers before taking a slow sip. His gaze never leaves yours as he lowers it again, the faintest hint of a smirk playing on his lips.

Instead of setting the glass down, he lifts it toward you.

Your fingers brush against his as you take it, and for a moment, you think that’s all it is. But then, just as you bring it to your lips, his other hand moves to your waist, steadying you as he leans in even closer. The sensation of him pressing against your side has you in a trance, his fingers tightening just slightly.

"Good?" he asks, his voice low.

You nod, though you're not entirely sure whether it’s in response to the wine or the way his lips have begun to ghost down the line of your jaw, barely touching, just enough to make your breath hitch.

All of a sudden you feel the air whoosh around you, and the next thing you know, your back meets the smooth surface of the table.

His weight hovers over you before his mouth finally claims yours. The kiss starts slow, teasing, but it deepens in an instant, his fingers gripping your waist, pulling you flush against his firm body. You run your hand over his chest, feeling the muscles working beneath his shirt.

A soft sound escapes you, and his restraint snaps. His hand slides down, fingertips pressing into your thigh as he shifts against you, lips trailing lower, over your throat, as if worshipping every inch of skin he can reach.

Just when you think he might push you further, he suddenly pulls back, breathing heavier than before. His eyes are darker now, the blue nearly completely hidden behind his blown pupils, but his lips curve with satisfaction at the way you lie beneath him, breathless.

"Not here," he murmurs, his voice rough. "I have far better places to ruin you."

Before you can respond, his arms slide beneath you, lifting you from the table. You barely have a moment to catch your breath before he carries you toward the grand staircase.

Walter’s grip is firm as he carries you. His pace is unhurried, teasing in itself, as if he’s savoring the anticipation.

The flickering candlelight barely reaches the long, shadowed hall he strides through, but you don’t need to see anything, you can feel the shift in the air, the quiet hush of the mansion pressing in around you. Then, with a slow creak, he pushes open a door, stepping inside.

The room is dark. Luxuriously so. Heavy velvet drapes block out the world beyond, and the vast bed made up with black silks dominates the space. Everything about it feels indulgent.

Walter doesn’t stop until your back meets the bed. He sets you down with deliberate care, but the moment his hands leave you, a shiver rolls through you at the loss of his touch.

He notices.

Well, of course he does, and a smirk finds its way to his face.

You raise yourself on your elbows, studying his features in the limited light. His face seems sharper now, the lines of his cheekbones and jawline more defined.

“Lie back,” he murmurs.

You hesitate for a moment before obeying, your pulse hammering in your throat, not wanting to provoke him. He watches, eyes dark with hunger.

Then he leans over you, bracing one hand beside your head while the other ghosts down your arm, fingertips barely skimming your skin.

“Keep your hands to yourself love,” he orders you and his free hand continues down the length of your torso.

It’s a test. One you already know you’re going to fail.

His lips trail over your jaw, nipping at the skin from time to time. His fingers trace the curve of your waist, his touch teasing and light, keeping you on edge. He takes his time, working his way down, his mouth grazing your throat, his hand slipping lower, and lower and lower.

You shift beneath him, body aching for more, for anything, for something to ground you. But when your fingers twitch, reaching for him, he’s faster.

His hand catches your wrists in an instant, pinning them above your head against the sheets.

Your breath hitches. You test his grip, but it’s useless. He doesn’t even strain to keep you still, it’s effortless, a quiet display of strength, of his unnatural power. The realisation sends a shudder through you, heat pooling deep in your stomach.

He chuckles, no doubt because it took you about two minutes before you failed your one simple instruction. “Impatient are we?”

He doesn’t give you a chance to answer. His lips return to your throat, trailing lower, slow and torturous. His fingers slip beneath the fabric of your dress and move your flimsy underwear to the side. When he finally touches you where you need him the most, it’s agonizingly slow, drawing a sharp gasp from your lips.

Walter watches, savoring the way you react to him.

“Let’s see how long you last, darling.”

Walter’s grip tightens just slightly around your wrists, his thumb tracing lazy circles over your skin. He doesn’t need to restrain you, you don't stand a chance against him, but he does it anyway. He loves the way your eyes beg for more, relishing in the way your pulse flutters against his lips when he places open-mouthed kisses to your neck.

His fingers work against you, and every touch sends sparks up your back. Every time you get too close to that release you've been craving, he pulls back to leave you aching for more.

When you finally whimper his name, "Walt please—" it happens.

His restraint snaps.

You barely have a moment to react before he releases your wrists, his hands shifting lower, gripping the delicate fabric of your dress.

And then—rip.

The sound of tearing fabric splits through the air.

Your breath catches as the ruined dress falls away in shreds, his hands trailing over the newly bared skin, entranced by the way the light reflects off you.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, almost to himself. Then his gaze flickers back up, dark and ravenous, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“I suppose I should have warned you,” he says, voice dripping with amusement. “I never planned on being gentle.”

He pulls away, his gaze fixed on you like a predator watches its prey. His hands, still resting on your skin, now move to the buttons of his shirt.

One by one, they come undone.

He never breaks eye contact, and you feel every inch of his control and dominance; it's suffocating, as he slowly exposes more of his chest.

The moment the shirt hits the floor, his muscles seem to shift in the dim light, the strength beneath the surface no longer hidden.

He’s flawless.

His body is smooth, sculpted, you can’t look away. Every inch of him seems designed to make you need him more.

His fingers brush over your skin again, a fleeting touch, before he reaches for his belt. The buckle clinks in the quiet room, the sound sharp, making your heart race with anticipation.

He pauses, just for a moment, like he’s savouring this, savouring the power he has over you, the way you’re looking up at him with wide eyes.

With a single fluid motion, the belt is gone. His pants follow quickly, sliding off his hips, revealing the tautness of his body. He steps out of them, his gaze still unwavering, watching you as he stands before you, tearing the boxers off his body, fully exposed to you now.

You swallow, mouth dry as you take him in. He doesn’t give you time to look away, stepping closer, his bare skin brushing against yours as he leans over you again. The heat of him is overwhelming, and you feel every inch of him pressing against you.

"You’re perfect," he whispers, low and full of hunger, just before his mouth claims yours again. His words linger in the air, the kiss hot, insistent, demanding.

The heat of him, the solid weight of his body pinning you down, only makes it worse, makes you needier. He knows it, too. The way he moves, the way he presses into you.

His hands skim over your skin, exploring, claiming, pressing into every inch of you as if he wants to memorise how you feel beneath him. He’s still taking his time, but there’s something different now. The patience and self-control he had before is slipping away with every gasp, every arch of your body against his.

You feel his breath at your throat before his lips follow, dragging over the sensitive skin there, his teeth grazing, threatening. He lingers at the pulse point, inhaling deeply, and for a moment, a moment that seems to drag on forever, he hesitates.

And then he bites.

A sharp gasp escapes you as his fangs sink into your neck, but the pain is fleeting, but it's drowned out almost instantly by a sudden, overwhelming rush of sensation. It crashes over you all at once, dizzying, intoxicating.

Your fingers dig into his arms, but you don’t push him away, you can’t. Even if you wanted to, there was no way you would be able to. If anything, you’re pulling him closer.

Walter groans against your skin, low and wrecked, his grip tightening on your waist. You can feel him shaking with the effort of holding back, of keeping himself from completely losing control.

He yanks you against him, pressing his thigh between yours, rolling his hips giving you some of that friction you'd been craving. His hands roam lower, gripping, kneading your body, setting fire to every inch of you he could reach.

When he finally pulls back to look at you, his lips are stained red, his pupils blown wide with hunger.

“You’re trembling,” he murmurs, brushing a thumb over your kiss-swollen lips. His voice is rougher now, raw with something dark and unrestrained. He shifts between your legs, lining himself up.

"You ready?" He asks, holding eye contact.

You nod, and you suddenly feel just how much he’s been holding back. The stretch is inevitable, his size enough to make you hesitate, and for the first time tonight, Walter softens, just ever so slightly.

His hand moves to your jaw, making you look at him.

“Breathe,” he murmurs, his voice a deep, soothing command. “You can take it.”

The burn is real, but so is the pleasure that chases it, growing with every slow, deliberate thrust.

He watches you, drinking in every reaction, every sound. He waits just long enough for you to adjust before he moves—a slow, rolling motion that has you arching beneath him.

And then he really lets go.

His grip tightens, his thrusts grow deeper, harder, his breath coming ragged against your ear. He presses your wrists above your head, pinning you effortlessly, and when you try to again test his strength, trying to shift, to move, you find that you still can’t.

A wicked smirk crosses his lips.

“Trying to fight me now, darling?” His voice is pure sin, teasing, taunting. “You’ll lose.”

And you do.

Walter sets a brutal, unrelenting pace, overwhelming in the way he takes you, like he wants to consume you completely.

And the worst part? You want him to.

Pleasure coils tight in your stomach, building to something devastating, something inevitable. Walter can feel it—he knows. His fingers slip between your legs, teasing, pushing you closer, dragging you over the edge slowly.

And then, just when you think you can’t take any more, he presses his mouth to your neck again, tongue flicking over the wound he left earlier—

And bites.

The sensation sends you spiraling, the pleasure shattering through you in waves so intense it leaves you shaking, gasping.

Walter follows moments later, his grip tightening almost painfully as he groans into your skin, burying himself deep one final time before he stills, his entire body rigid with pleasure.

For a long moment, neither of you move. The only sound in the room is your heavy breathing, the occasional aftershock still pulsing through your limp body.

He doesn’t move away, doesn’t give you a chance to drift too far. Instead, his body shifts just enough to wrap around you and cage you in beneath him.

You’re spent, but he stays pressed against you, arm draped over your waist, anchoring you in place. He’s not holding you down anymore, not pinning you with that unrelenting strength, but you can still feel it. The power. The possession. The quiet, unspoken claim on you.

And for some reason, you love it.

“I told you,” he exhales softly, pressing a final kiss to the pulse point on your neck, right where he bit you.

“You were always going to lose.”

And he's right, neither of you are going anywhere.

[astrids-blog333]

MASTERLIST

REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

Rules:

I WILL write smut

I will NOT write rape but i can write some cnc situations depending on the request, but please ask.

If you don’t see a character in the list below, you can still request, I have probably forgotten a bunch.

I prioritize my school, so when I have exams, I may be slightly slower, but I will do my best to be on top of requests.

All my fics are x fem!reader

Please don’t be mean to me lmao.

Who I Write For:

Formula 1:

Charles Leclerc - coming soon Lewis Hamilton - coming soon Lando Norris - All Eyes On Us 16+ (He's kinda the bad guy in this one)

Game of Thrones:

Jon Snow - To Have and to Hold 18+ Robb Stark - coming soon Oberyn Martell - coming soon Jaime Lannister - coming soon

Other Characters:

Walter De Ville (The Invitation) - No Saint, No Saviour 18+ - In His Eyes 18+ Dean Winchester (Supernatural) - coming soon Lucius Verus/Hanno (Gladiator II) - Beneath the Silk (completed): Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three 18+ - A Ruin of His Making 18+ Chapter Two 18+ - The Guarded 18+ - Last One Standing - Call Me Husband 18+ - You Again - Before the Fall Anakin Skywalker (Star Wars) - coming soon

Celebrities:

Jude Bellingham (Football) - Perfect Trent Alexander Arnold (Football) - coming soon Harry Styles (now or 1D era) - coming soon Niall Horan (now or 1D era) - coming soon Henry Cavill (or any of his characters) - coming soon Aaron Taylor Johnson (or any of his characters) - All Eyes On Us 16+ Theo James (or any of his characters) - coming soon Richard Madden (or any of his characters) - coming soon

[astrids-blog333]

yay omg i’m so excited, it was so much fun to work on this with you 🤗

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 considering you will not be bearing children...” 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 to concede.

 “You have my word.”