#acacius x ofc | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

trulybetty · 5 months ago

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I really enjoyed this and seeing the growth of Leaena at Acacius' side and the softening of him with her now with him.

This was a great read, thank you for sharing!

Creature Comfort

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x Female Reader/OFC

Word Count: 7.6k

Summary:

Waiting out there is General Marcus Acacius. A real man of flesh and blood, strength and power. The legendary Atlas Lion himself.

Your husband-to-be.

Rating: M / 18+ only

Warnings: Language, at least a million historical inaccuracies, referenced smut, references of blood + war + death, weapons, too many lion/animal references and metaphors to count, reader has self-esteem issues, arranged marriage, domestic life, cameo of reader's parents, switching povs,

- Reader has no name and no physical traits described in detail. Reader wears clothes such as a toga + wedding outfit

Author Note: This started as me simply wanting to write a fic where Acacius is compared to a lion and Reader's his wife and then it quickly led to me having a complete emotional breakdown that caused me to quit writing entirely for several months. Not one of my finest moments, but 🤷‍♀️ that's life I guess. It's nice to finally toss this fic out here, hopefully someone somewhere enjoys it 🧡

Special thanks to @wheresarizona for putting up with my emotional highs and lows and answering some questions about Rome for me and for just being an overall too-nice-for-this-world person I'm lucky to have met on here 💗

The morning of your wedding you can barely stomach your breakfast. Nerves are natural, your mother assures you, watching with a critical eye as the female servants of the house help dress you.

Your impending ceremony has severed your protection of your family’s household gods, leaving you spiritually defenseless until you’re officially wed to your husband. Maybe that is the true source of your worries, dark spirits playing wicked games with your heartstrings. Or maybe it’s your mother’s looming presence coupled with her stubborn determination to see you safely married off, analyzing every inch of your bridal outfit to root out the tiniest of imperfections, that has your stomach tied up in knots.

The wreath atop your head is thick with summer blooms, their scent potent and almost sickly sweet, tickling the inside of your nose. You’d sneeze if not for the veil covering your face, attached to a headband beneath the tangled greenery, its deep yellow color identical to the slippers donning your feet.

You’d personally woven your tunic on your family’s loom, a task expected of every new bride, intertwining every fiber into tangible proof to show your husband you were ready for the responsibilities of managing his household. Linen had been your initial choice, but your mother insisted wool was the better material to repel the forces of evil. The garment is heavy beneath your matching white stola, but rather than irritating there’s something oddly comforting about the weight. Almost like a warm embrace.

It’s tradition for weddings to take place in the home of the bride’s father. You can hear the arrival of guests now outside your room. Friends and relatives and other miscellaneous people here to witness and celebrate the union. Every minute brings you closer to a new stage of your life, and if not for the servants’ steadying hands, your weak knees might send you crashing to the floor. Fainting would surely be interpreted as a bad omen, derailing the whole ceremony before it even truly began.

You suck in a quiet breath, shoving down the worst of your anxieties. This day–your wedding–has been on your mind practically your whole life. You’d learned from a young age the importance of marriages arranged between families for political and financial purposes. You’d also learned you wouldn’t be the one choosing your future husband, that decision would be made by your father alone.

Of course, you’d be lying if you said you didn’t imagine marrying someone who was your own choice. Someone kind and handsome and as loyal as your household’s guard dogs. Someone who loved you above all others.

But waiting for you out there isn’t the imaginary stranger who's starred in your most intimate dreams. Waiting out there is General Marcus Acacius. A real man of flesh and blood, strength and power. The legendary Atlas Lion himself.

Your husband-to-be.

When the pronuba arrives to accompany you to the ceremony, the servants disperse but your mother lingers a beat longer, running her fingers over your shoulders to smoothen out non-existent creases. Neither of you mention the shiny gleam of her eyes or the trembling of your hands.

Then, with a firm nod of her head, your mother declares, “She’s ready,” and leaves without another look to join your father’s side.

Your mother is not prone to lying. If she says you’re ready, then ready you must be.

You take another deep breath before linking your arm through the elder matron’s, but it’s the gentle patting of her hand on yours which calms you most. A reassurance of good things to come.

Stepping out into the atrium, you’re met with a packed crowd, locals and soldiers mixed as one, craning their necks for a glimpse of you. Their clothes resemble yours and the groom’s, another tactic to confuse evil spirits, but human eyes only need to spot your yellow veil to recognize you as the bride. And as for Acacius…

Well. To mistake the Atlas Lion for another would be as foolish as mistaking fire for water. He is unique in all the world.

You see him standing at the altar with the high priest, clad in a purple toga embroidered with a lion’s head in golden thread. A reward in honor of the general’s triumphs in warfare. The placement of the lion above his heart is deliberate, you suspect. A warning of what lies beneath the surface. A guarantee all the tales of his savagery and blood lust passed from mouth to mouth from the battlefields to the city streets are true.

Is it terrible that a part of you–an inane, minuscule scrap of a thing you’ll never verbally acknowledge, not even under oath–is fervently captivated by the notion? You should be listening to the high priest’s prayers to Juno, paying attention to the omens he reads in the entrails of the sacrificed ram upon the altar. But Acacius’ brown eyes, burning with the radiant June sunshine and something else distinctly dangerous, put a flame to your focus and narrow your vision to one central, all-encompassing point.

Is it terrible that you can meet a lion’s stare without a modicum of fear? You wonder how many have been able to say the same, if anyone else at all.

The priest deems the relationship blessed by the gods, carrying on with the proceedings, oblivious to your state of mind. He asks Acacius to make certain his intentions, if you are an acceptable wife.

Acacius draws himself up to full height, an immovable mountain firm in his convictions. “She is mine to me,” the timbre of his gravelly voice drags over you, eliciting a shudder down your spine you pray the elder matron does not notice. “I will want no other.”

Then it is your turn, and your voice is only a little hoarse when you confirm, “He will be my husband. My only choice.”

The slightest quirk of a smile curls the corner of Acacius’ lips. Instinctively, you return it with a small grin of your own. And even though he can’t physically see your face behind the veil, you think, somehow, he does see you.

It’s only after signing the marriage contract with crimson seals that the pronuba places your right hand in Acacius’, officially uniting you as one. The general’s palm is callused, fingers thick and gnarled from past wounds, but you can’t find it in yourself to hate them, or recoil, or do anything else than keep holding on.

“Raise the veil,” the priest says.

You swallow, the fingers of your left hand spasming against your side, then slowly reach for a fistful of the yellow fabric. Pulling it up over your head, you carefully watch the lines of Acacius’ expression, heartbeat fluttering at the way those brown eyes widen, taking you in for the first time. Absorbing everything like it might be his only chance. Like you’re something wondrous worth memorizing.

Acacius starts leaning forward, sending every last thought in your head scattering with his nearness. He’s massive, radiating such intense warmth, thumb stroking a line of heat along your wrist. There’s a fire igniting in your chest, lungs choking on the smoke, yet you’re trembling when he cups your face, the quietest of whines escaping your parted lips.

Please, you start to beg, the whooshing of blood thundering in your eardrums, plea–

Acacius swallows the silent plea with his own mouth, kissing you like a starving man. This isn’t love–no, it’s too soon for such sentiment–this is carnal passion, roaming tongues and clashing teeth like you’re no better than animals committed to the hunt of this new territory, this new taste.

The eruption of applause yanks you back to reality. You tear yourself away with a choked gasp, and it’s satisfying seeing the heave of Acacius’ broad chest with each ragged inhale as you both struggle to catch your breaths. You did that. You’re the reason for the flare of lust in his eyes and smear of spit across his bottom lip.

You’ve heard people say no man’s looks can compete with Adonis’ striking beauty. A fallacy, you realize in that moment upon seeing General Marcus Acacius in purple and gold, dark curls caressed by the gentle breeze, a constellation of freckles along the tendons of his neck, hardened by violence yet holding your hand so heartachingly sweet.

The rest of the world can have Adonis.

And as for you–boldly and selfishly, you’ll keep this man. The legendary Atlas Lion himself.

Your husband.

The wedding feast afterwards is a blur of lavish food and wine, the jovial notes of flutes accompanying fescennine songs with interjections of salutations shouted from inebriated lips. Every touch of Acacius’ hand against your arm, your waist, everywhere sends sparks skittering along your nerves. It’s as bewildering as it is thrilling, like you’re balancing on the edge of a precipice, and you wonder if this is what Icarus felt moments before he flew too close to the sun. Falling, falling, falling…

You can only hope you meet a different, kinder fate.

When the sky begins to change and darken with the promise of encroaching evening time, you find yourself standing in the middle of your childhood home, trying to etch into memory everything from the slope of the roof to the tiny cracks in the stone floor. All the noises and voices seem to fade away, granting you this moment to yourself.

Once you step outside, there will be no familiarity to cling to. You’ll be escorted by the crowd of guests to Acacius’ secondary home—smaller, but no less grand than his main domus in Cosa. A port city to the south you’ll have to learn to navigate from square one—and then, once alone with the general, taken to his bed. His body will be another, far more intricate labyrinth you’ll need to learn and recognize the details of.

A new city, a new spouse, a new chapter of life with new expectations…

It’s overwhelming to say the least.

Your eyes cut to Acacius across the room, widening when you catch him already watching you. Something in your chest aches upon realizing you don’t know him well enough to read his face. If he’s angry, pleased, or just totally indifferent. But you can’t look away. Caught and cornered.

Like prey, you think, loathing the thought as soon as it forms. A lion cannot have a mouse for a wife. Imagine the shame of being an unworthy partner of one of Rome’s highest-ranking generals. Your name dragged through the mud, an embarrassment to your family and a blight on Acacius’ esteemed reputation—to say nothing of how the gods would react to your ruining of a blessed union. You’d be as insignificant as the fleas on a dog’s pelt in their eyes.

You must be stronger. Braver. Better.

Where Icarus fell, you must fly.

Maybe Acacius senses this change stirring within you, or maybe he grows impatient with this lengthy staring contest, either way he suddenly draws closer, weaving between bodies until he comes to a stop in front of you. Purposefully within grabbing reach. The ache in your chest lessens at that, replaced by a spike of adrenaline as awareness dawns.

“Is it time to leave?” you ask.

“It is,” he answers. Then, quick as lightning and just as unexpected, he pinches your waist.

You jerk away at the teasing touch, gaping like a fish. “Do you touch all women in that manner?”

“No.” A smug smirk spreads across his handsome face. Relishing his next words. “Only the woman who belongs to me.”

Possessive brute. Your eyes narrow even as heat envelops your body, toes curling in your shoes.

“You haven’t taken me yet. My body has no claim.”

Acacius’ jaw clenches at that. Like he’s holding onto his restraint by a mere thread. It’s practically tangible, a siren song tempting you to flex your claws.

“Answer me this, general, because it remains unclear to me.” Tilting your head, exposing the column of your neck for his hungry gaze to feast upon, your tone is deliberately provoking. “Are you a passionate man of action? Or merely a man of empty words?”

“Bite your tongue,” his tone is low, closer to a snarl than actual speech. You almost believe he’s angry, if not for the glint in his brown eyes, aroused and impressed by your antics in equal measure.

“I’d rather you bite it.”

The fragile thread snaps.

Acacius is on you at once, his large hands seizing hold of your arms. You wrestle against his grip, delivering a solid kick to his shin that draws an irritated hiss. He puts up with your struggling for a bit longer, unaffected by your inexpert blows to his torso, then ends it with a harsh tug, pulling you flush against his brick wall of a body. He sticks his face in your neck, breath hot and ticklish, mouthing at your thrumming pulse with blunt teeth. Oh gods. You slump against him, letting his thick muscles take the brunt of your weight, mind sinking like a stone in the overflowing well of new and overwhelming sensations. Desperate for more, more, more.

The deep rumbling of his chuckling vibrates through your bones, and you have the deliriously greedy thought of cutting out a piece of yourself to store the sound there.

“You’ve caused quite a scene,” he murmurs into the underside of your jaw, sounding just as wrecked as you feel. But beneath the raspiness, you detect the unmistakable lilt of amusement.

“It’s tradition,” you breathe, conscious of the numerous stares watching your every move, including your mother’s. Your pretending of resistance must have been satisfactory enough for her to not intervene.

Acacius leans back just enough to look at you, cradling you in the cage of his arms and chest. You place your hands upon his waist, absently clutching the purple-dyed wool between your fingers.

“Tell me how to call you.” It’s not a request.

“What?” Yet another tradition to appease household gods is meant to happen later after you had arrived at the threshold of Acacius’ home and smeared the doorway in oil and fat. He would ask you your name, to which you answer, taking your husband’s and modifying it: where you are Marcus, I am Marcia. And at last, excluding the event of a bad omen occurring, he would carry you inside. Your brow furrows, not understanding why he’s changing the order of things. “Shouldn’t we—”

“Not the name tradition wants, nor the one your parents and the gods assigned you,” he interrupts. “Tell me how I will call you when we’re alone.”

Oh.

You bow your head to hide your smile, pleased to have a choice. Your eyes fall upon the golden lion head.

Oh.

“Where and when you are Leo,” you tell him, trailing a finger along the perfectly stitched mane before tapping the spot where his heart resides. “There and then I am Leaena.”

{His bride is too innocent, too unaware of the ruthless nature of the Empire’s politics to endure what is expected of her as a general’s wife. This marriage should never have been blessed by the gods.

Still, Acacius can’t stop his gaze from following her every movement, intrigued to know the thoughts running through her head. Can’t stop himself from touching her either, drawn to her warmth, the rightness of her body in his hold. The ceremony was mere hours ago, yet seeing her in his bed, flesh bare and soft and trembling beneath him, the woman has already become the most important treasure of his life. His to worship and protect for the rest of his days.

“Gods, you really are massive all over,” she blurts out, seemingly without thinking, feeling the press of his hard cock against her. Then immediately averts her eyes with a nervous giggle, insecure of her own inexperience. “Could–could we take it slow?”

“That’s fine, my leaena,” he assures her, kissing the corner of her mouth, addicted to her taste dangerously fast. She won’t last, he thinks, scraping his teeth along her neck. They’ll swallow her whole. “I’ll make you feel good. I’ll take care of you.” And he sees it, the exact moment the apprehension slips aside and trust rises to take its place in those big, expressive eyes. She wants this—wants him.

It’s an impulsive, raw need that has him leaning down to kiss her, licking deep into her mouth, craving something he doesn’t know the name of. Repentance, maybe, for the hell coming her way in the coming months. Or maybe he’s just a selfish man who wants this, wants her, more than he deserves.

She rips him out of his thoughts by grabbing fistfulls of his curls, tugging until they’re even closer pressed together, opening up for him impossibly wider.

Maybe he’s wrong in his initial assumptions of his bride.

Maybe she’ll be the one to take care of him.}

Cosa matters a great deal to the Empire. A strategically defendable port with close connections to sources of timber and other supplies necessary for maintaining a vast army of fleets. The city itself was built upon a hill, high enough that on a clear day one could see miles of the Tyrrhenian Sea’s coastline. The crashes of the blue-green waves against the limestone cliffs.

Accompanying Acacius into the forum provides you with opportunities to observe the city’s layout. Enclosed within an imposing circuit of walls, the community has put careful thought into every corner of limited space, separating private houses from the sacred temples and civic buildings. Necessary architecture only, no spare room for the entertainment of a theatre.

Cosa is significantly smaller than the size of your birthplace, drenched in the scents of sea salt and fish, yet there are elements of opulence if one looks close enough. Pearl necklaces adorning necks and solid gold bracelets fastened around wrists. Chairs carved from precious woods, embellished with touches of silver or bronze. Acacius’ curule seat in his tablinum is made out of pure ivory, its legs resembling a lion’s paws. A gift from the Senate after a successful military campaign.

The majority of Acacius’ hours in the public square is split between the basilica, the curia, and the comitium speaking with the aediles and magistrates. Offices of elected officials which exclude women from entry–not that you have much interest in politics anyways.

The marketplace quickly becomes your favorite place outside of your domus. A variety of stalls clustered together bustling with activity. Haggling becomes second nature to you, and when you can’t get the price you want you make trades with your weavings.

Still. Cosa is a small enough city where you’re easily recognized as someone new by the locals. More than once you’ve experienced lingering glances, examining everything from your clothes to your hair. More than once those eyes have made your shoulder blades curl with the instinct to somehow fold into yourself like the little crabs that occasionally wash up on the sandy coastline.

A week after settling in, a man in the bathhouse grabs at your palla before you can enter the women’s section, pulling harsh enough to send your mother’s brooch clattering to the ground. You press a hand over your pounding heart, scrambling backwards a few steps, all too aware of the heavy veil of silence that has fallen over the room.

Acacius calmly appears at your side, soundless in his approach, filling the whole place with his commanding presence.

A blink. That’s all it takes.

One blink and suddenly the man’s blood spatters the stucco wall as Acacius slams his skull against it repeatedly until he no longer resembles anything human. Just a gruesome muddle of scarlet and bone, life thread severed by the jaws of death.

Acacius releases his hold, then points a bloodstained finger at you. “She is mine. Anyone who touches her will face my retribution. And I won’t hesitate to add another soul to Dis Pater’s realm.”

Living under the roof of your parents, you’d thought of home as a physical structure. A place to stay in a world full of constantly moving parts.

Marriage has taught you home is so much more. It’s the soft notes you hum as you spin and weave wool. A kiss pressed to your temple as Acacius moves past. The scent of fresh citrus each morning for breakfast and the sweet taste of fine wines. Plans to visit the coast. A bowl of seashells. Gazing up at constellations when the moon is high. Feelings bubbling up, spilling out, casting shadows on the walls and slipping beneath the bed sheets. It’s the warmth of another body, touching, feeling, familiarizing, until two halves become an inseverable one whole.

Home is learning to be loved and to be in love.

Acacius doesn’t receive many guests in his tablinum, preferring to settle his business affairs in the public offices, yet he still keeps a cushioned stool in front of his desk. You sit there, elbow propped on his desk and chin resting upon your fist, watching your husband search through his shelf of scrolls. The mosaic floors have been recently cleaned, colors popping vividly in the patches of sunlight sneaking in, and the painted scenes of nature adorning the walls are masterfully done, but you can’t bring yourself to look anywhere else except him.

“Where did your name come from?” you ask, breaking up the quiet.

Acacius pauses, glancing back with a raised eyebrow. “It was my father’s name. And his father’s name. And his father’s father’s name and–”

“You know that’s not what I mean.” Your scolding is softened by the smile pulling at the corner of your mouth. Acacius keeps looking at you, smirking like he finds the whole thing amusing. “The Atlas Lion. A moniker as frightful as that, it must have an origin.”

He chuckles that deep, rumbling laugh of his. “Wondered when you’d finally ask.”

His tone is light, still smirking, but you see through the cracks of the facade. See the hesitation in the lowering of his eyes to the floor, see the slight furrow in his brow that only appears when he’s worried he’s upset you. He’s nervous—it’s so obvious and so dearly human that it aches. It looks absolutely wrong on the face of a man known throughout the Empire for his larger-than-life confidence.

You watch him warily, unsure what to do, what to say beyond his name. “Acacius.”

Your husband faces the scrolls again, and for a moment you’re afraid the fragile moment’s broken, but then he tells you the story behind his name. ‘Story’ is too soft a word though. Stories are for parties and entertainment, full of humor and unfolding drama and moral lessons. Acacius doesn’t tell you a story. No, he tells you his truth.

Acacius doesn’t mince words, describing the hellish months of military training in grueling detail. He tells you, in an almost detached manner, how he’d been a different man back then. Scrawnier, unused to bloodshed, restless, but above all else, near feral with the need to prove his own worth.

“It was General Meridius’ idea for soldiers to train as bestiarii.” There’s something about the way he says the name—full of respect. Admiration for a superior. But you think you detect a note of something else laced within the syllables too. Something almost…sad sounding. Grieving, perhaps. It’s gone in the next breath. “Face to face with wild beasts, you either become an expert with your weapon fast or you die an unglorified death in the arena.”

For all the nights you’ve traced meaningless patterns along the large scars gouged into Acacius’ shoulders, you didn’t ask about them. Assumed they were the result of a too-close enemy with a too-sharp weapon. A blade or spear, something man-made. Never occurred to you to think of fangs and claws as weapons too.

Blinking sharply, you sit up straighter, stuttering, “W-wait, are you…is that where…” There’s a swarm of questions buzzing in your head, stinging the back of your throat when you try to voice them. Finally, you manage to choke out, “So, that’s how you got your name? You actually fought lions?”

Acacius finally turns around at that, only to surprise you by shaking his head. “I did fight lions—and bears, boars, even a pair of hyenas once. But that’s not why they call me the Atlas Lion.”

He trails off, tension in the wrinkled lines of his expression your hands itch to smoothen out. You hesitate to rise from your seat, unable to tell if drawing closer would lighten your husband’s mood or worsen it. Moments like this–where he’s loosened the reins of his tightly controlled emotions, offering a glimpse of an ordinary, flesh and blood mortal man who’s been chewed up and spit out a dozen times over– are few and far between. Delicate like fine glass, requiring just the right handling.

“To prove I was ready for the army, I had to pass a test,” he explains. “I fought everything that attacked me. I stopped thinking, stopped feeling. Nothing mattered except the next stab of my gladius. And when they started throwing men into the arena, I didn’t even notice.” Acacius exhales a ragged breath. “I stopped seeing people as people.”

“What do you mean?” you ask, voice barely above a murmur.

There’s another pause, time seeming to slow down, seconds stretching lazily like a plump housecat, and then Acacius crosses the distance, close enough your knees graze each other, head tilted back to peer up at him. He says nothing, even as his thumb brushes over your chapped lips.

“Acacius.” Your body trembles, edges of your vision starting to blur. You lean into his touch. The center of your universe.

“I mean,” Acacius says, eyes on your mouth. Your lips part unthinkingly, letting his thumb slip inside, pressing lightly against your bottom teeth. “We’re all just animals, my leaena. Red tongues and hands.”

The air is cool this time of night, seems to press against your skin like a damp washcloth. Cleansing you from the inside out with each deep inhale.

Acacius stands in the courtyard, bronze skin painted in streaks of moonbeams and starlight, hair tousled by fitful hands. His absence from bed had stirred you awake, and a part of you wonders if these midnight musings are a regular occurrence you’ve only just now become aware of. Not all dreams are sweet after all, especially for soldiers.

“A nightmare?” you ask, a hushed inquiry disrupting the still of night.

“A memory,” is all he offers.

“Oh.”

He hasn’t looked at you yet, brown eyes boring holes into the distant moon. Maybe you should return to bed, give him space and privacy to sort himself out. But your bare feet stick to the floor and you can’t pull your eyes away. Noting the rhythmic clenching and unclenching of his hands, the rising and falling of his chest with each breath.

You try to ignore the disappointment gnawing at your heart, hurt that Acacius won’t share his internal burden with you, even in the cover of darkness where it’s just you and him.

He’s revealed the truth of his name with you. Encouraged you to lick and bite and mark every inch of his flesh as your own. But tonight he’s put up a wall you can’t climb over.

Maybe that’s why you stay. You’re a glutton for punishment.

Somewhere else in the city, a dog begins to bark. It’s a harsh sound, all teeth, defending its territory from a threat, and you flinch despite the distance. Unsurprisingly, Acacius doesn’t so much as even twitch.

What is surprising though, is that he chooses then to finally speak.

“There are victories yet still to come,” he mutters, a tremor to his voice you’ve never heard before, like he’s standing on unsteady ground. And there’s this look in his eyes that unsettles you, haunted by something only he can see. “That’s what they always say.”

They?

Stepping closer, you gently bump your hand against his. A knot unravels in your chest when he blinks back to himself, pinky hooking onto yours. A tether securing him home with you.

“Who says that?”

“The Emperors.”

You don’t know what to say to that. Don’t know what words will build his wall higher or what ones will knock it down–if that’s even possible.

“What are they like?” Your mouth makes the choice for you. “Geta and Caracalla?”

You’ve never been to Rome, never seen the ruling brothers in person. All you really know about them are the stories and rumors from the mouths of travelers gossiping in the marketplace. Sometimes nice things are said, sometimes…not so nice things.

“They’re…” Dark brows draw together, mouth pulling downward in a frown. Acacius finally looks at you, the brown of his eyes lost in the dark, but not the sharp glint of fear. Tumultuous and excruciating, you feel it cut deep. “They’re fire and water. Two opposing forces unfit to inhabit the same space. It’s only a matter of time before one prevails over the other.”

You swallow, nervousness swelling in the pit of your stomach at the flat, doomed sound of certainty he speaks with. “And then what happens?”

“The Empire will either burn or drown."

“And us?” you ask tentatively. “What will happen to us?”

Acacius doesn’t have an answer.

A Roman naval ship is spotted just as dawn breaks, drawing a sizable crowd by the time it docks in the harbor. There’s a sense of wrongness associated with the lack of an official fleet, and that unsettling feeling is multiplied tenfold when it’s announced there are numerous injured soldiers aboard.

Acacius attends to them, ensuring each gets medical attention while also gathering information from the head officer in charge. You stand at the back of the crowd, heart in your throat, seeing but not truly processing. Blood, so much red. Expressions of young men scrunched in pain. The grim, motionless bodies of those who didn’t last the final hours of the journey.

“Steel yourself.” A feminine voice warns, and you turn with a blink of surprise upon seeing the high priestess at your side, unused to encountering her outside her temple walls. The sea breeze ruffles the red and white ribbons in her braided hair as she holds your gaze, calm in an almost preternatural way compared to the surrounding commotion. “You are a general’s wife. To express your fear in public is to express doubt of the Empire’s dominance and your husband’s own prowess.”

Her words sink like a stone in your stomach. “I’ll be better,” you promise, the acidic taste of shame burning the back of your throat.

“Stronger,” she corrects, fierce blue eyes rivaling an ocean storm. “You must be stronger than your greatest fear.”

You can only nod, imagining one of the corpses wearing your husband’s face.

{With every inch of territory the Empire gains, its list of bitter enemies grows exponentially longer. Not every threat rising up in defiance stems from foreign soil though, Acacius was forced to learn that the hard way. He’s seen the effects Rome’s constant warfare and rotting politics have had on its subjects, witnessed people turn against their masters’ hands like rabid dogs hell-bent on stripping flesh from bone.

Rebels are dealt with just like rabid dogs, too. Caught and decapitated in a public spectacle. Crimson rivulets flow from their remains, discoloring the city’s streets reminiscent of a spilled wine stain, seeping into the very foundation itself.

Then come the speeches in the comitium from Cosa’s magistrates. Addressing the huddled masses with sickly sweet, empty promises of better times to come. Lying through their teeth, scared the next outburst of internal strife will end with their own severed heads tossed into the sea.

Acacius’ attendance is mandatory, yet he only pretends to listen while standing on the stone steps behind the speakers. His wife’s shoulder presses against his, their hands firmly locked together, unbothered by the harsh ridges of his battle-hardened palm grazing against her smooth skin. A simple comfort he’d long believed himself unworthy of ever indulging in.

“It tears you up inside, doesn’t it?” His wife’s voice is just a faint murmur, so quiet there isn’t a chance anyone else hears her, but the knowing note in it has his chest tightening with a stiff exhale. “Like a thorn in your soul. Even from Rome, Geta and Caracalla control your tongue.”

“There is a time for a general to speak his mind and there is a time for him to keep his head,” he reminds her frankly, careful to maintain his facade of blank detachment. “It’d do you good to remember your place.”

Her sharp inhale is torturous to his ears. She reacts to his blunt discipline like a physical blow, shoulders sagging, lips pressed together in a thin line, practically rolling over and exposing her vulnerable underbelly. Acacius hates that look. Hates even more he’s the cause of it. He thinks impaling himself with his own blade would hurt less.

Nudging her shoulder drags her gaze reluctantly back to him. And this is not the appropriate setting for levity, Acacius should bite back the smile curling at the corners of his mouth—but for his wife, his divine leaena, he’s a sinner on his knees desperate to be in the warmth of her good graces again. “You are fond of this general’s face, yes?”

It’s not the offering this goddess deserves, but it’s enough to begin mending what he’d torn, soothing the worst of the sting. She smiles, an amused, uneven little twist of her mouth she once confessed being insecure about before he kissed away all worries from her mind. There’s something undeniably perfect about it, like the first rays of sunlight after a bleak winter.

“Of course I am. But…” She bites her lip, caught on something. He squeezes her hand, and it seems to be the needed boost to force the words out from the cage in her throat. “Even the Atlas Lion must want to roar sometimes.”

Acacius should be annoyed with her ability to read him–it’s a weakness, and any weakness in his personal experience is a promise of death’s swift arrival. It isn’t safe, for either of them. But she’s done the unthinkable, worming her way into his ugly, greedy heart, treating it like something tender, something lovable. And it was too damn easy how quickly she filled up every vacant space in his head. From the moment she lifted her veil he’s been enraptured by her essence. Starving for every scrap of attention she’s willing to give. His wife has become a critical piece of his life, as vitally essential as the breath in his lungs and the sword hanging at his hip.

It’s dangerous, what she’s done to him.

But it’s far, far more dangerous, what he’d do for her.

Her eyes widen with surprise when he leans in, pressing a lingering kiss to her forehead, but he feels the way she relaxes against him with easy acceptance. Believing she’s safe with him, ignorant of the threats closing in on all sides. Every day drawing nearer and nearer still.

That will have to change, he swears to himself. Her survival depends upon it.

“Yes,” he says at last, and it’s the most honest he’s been with himself in years. “Sometimes he does.”}

Acacius places one hand on your shoulder, the other settles on your hip. There is nothing delicate about his touch, no hesitation about maneuvering your body into a proper defensive stance. Feet shoulder-width apart, knees bent, pugio held in a strong grasp.

“Lower your arm, always aim the blade at your opponent,” Acacius instructs, slipping into his alternate persona as a leader on the battlefield like a second skin, his critical eyes zeroing in on all the mistakes that will get you killed in a moment of danger. “When you hold that dagger, you must hold it with the intent to spill blood, my leaena. Words alone aren’t enough to protect you.”

You swallow, fingers flexing around the hilt. It’s a daunting experience, learning to sever someone’s life thread from an expert on the subject. You’re grateful for the privacy of your domus’ courtyard, concealing your clumsy movements from outsiders who’d undoubtedly laugh at each ungraceful slash and lunge. You resemble a fool, sweaty and fledgling, undeserving of your husband’s calling. The only women you’d seen fight with weapons were gladiatrices at festivals, an exotic and unusual form of entertainment which never failed to attract large crowds. Your mother claimed they brought shame upon womankind, yet when Acacius had asked you to learn, you’d accepted without delay.

She’d disown you immediately if she could see you now. The thought has your stomach churning, a sour taste on the back of your tongue.

“We’re wasting time,” you say, voice hoarse. “I’ll never be strong enough to pose a threat to anyone.”

Acacius clicks his tongue at you. “Never say never, my leaena. You’ll tempt the Fates.”

The courtyard is quiet besides your breathing, and the streets beyond the domus’ walls are empty this time of day. You’re keenly aware of Acacius’ nearness, the slight frown pulling at his lips, like he’s trying to understand your thoughts, and you want to fight him. Howl and claw and lash out like the beast he seeks to bring to light from your depths. But there is nothing there.

“I’m not like you. I can’t be.” His head tilts, still uncomprehending. You gesture at him with your empty hand, the rippling muscles straining the fabric of his sleeveless tunic. “The Atlas Lion. Devourer of the Emperors’ enemies. Ferocity unmatched amongst Rome’s army of warriors.” You then gesture at yourself, forcing the ugly words past your teeth if only so he’ll give up this futile endeavor. “I’m just me.”

The air shifts between you and him, a thick, cloying tension weighing heavily upon your shoulders. It’s only the knowledge that there’s nowhere in all of Cosa you could hide from your husband that keeps you anchored in place even as your heartbeat gallops away. Acacius’ brown eyes darken, thunder clouds blocking out the sun.

And then his callused hands are on your face, palms rough along the underside of your jaw, fingers pressing into the skin, squeezing. Claiming. An inescapable hold.

“Do not,” he starts, voice low and gravelly, a snarling darkness you’ve never heard before and never want to again, “ever speak so poorly of yourself again. How can you think of yourself as anything less than magnificent? How can you not know of the power you wield over me? You’ve made me live again. My heart, long cold and numbed by the trials of war, beats again only for you. There is nothing more valuable to me than your wellbeing–not wealth nor fame, nothing. Is it clear to you yet? You have tamed the Atlas Lion body and soul. This general heeds your every call.”

You shudder, dazed and captivated by his close proximity, his devotion. Intoxicated, that’s what you feel. So caught up in a fog of mindless pleasure you fail to notice him guiding your hand up, up, up until the pugio’s blade is put to his throat.

“All that I am is yours,” Acacius says, hushed now, a secret between lovers. The dagger pierces skin, a thin trickle of blood oozing. You flinch, eyes widening, but his hold remains firm. “Which makes you the most dangerous creature of all. And for that reason, my leaena, you will and you must learn to fight.”

He shoves you backwards a step. It’s not his full strength, more surprising than hurtful, but something inside you uncoils, teeth gnashing. A feeling sparks in your bloodstream, erupting into a wildfire at the look of pride in Acacius’ eye when you reflexively point your pugio at his heart.

You swipe at him, again and again, driven by this new source of power. And through it all he holds your gaze, the brown of his eyes as sharp as the blade in your hand. Neither one says I love you, I’d take a bite out of the world for you but neither one needs to.

Actions have always been louder than words.

“Do you ever think about what’s out there?” you ask one night in bed together. Acacius reclines against the headboard, staring at you through half-lidded eyes as you drag your fingertips over his bare, scarred skin in meaningless patterns.

Would anyone believe this man was the Atlas Lion? A wild, virulent beast compliant and disarmed beneath the gentle stroke of your touch?

No. You think not.

“Out where?”

You bite the inside of your cheek, thumb catching on a particularly rough patch of damaged skin left of his hip bone. Every battle he fought, every combatant he faced—Mars laid fresh claims to his body with each fresh cicatrix.

Claims you challenge the only way you know how. Scrapes of your nails breaking skin and tender presses of your mouth licking up the crimson pearls of blood.

“Beyond the Empire’s borders. Somewhere without war.”

Acacius’ brow creases, gaze alert now, looking at you as if you’ve spoken a different language. “Without war…” he repeats slowly. “My leaena, there is no place such as that. Discordia’s reach is far, farther than the Emperors could ever conquer in their combined lifetimes, stirring up strife deep in the hearts of even the mildest of men, and it will always find an outlet one way or another.”

“Oh.” You clear your throat. It’s not the response you had hoped for, but it’s the one you should have expected. Acacius isn’t the type of man to indulge in far-fetched fantasies of softer living. Can’t be, not with all the horrors he’s witnessed and played a part in crafting.

“But,” Acacius pauses, and his hand covers yours. Not holding or moving it, just staying there. Feeling. “If somewhere without war did exist…” he smiles, a soft and little thing reserved just for these quiet moments. “I’d do whatever it took to get us there.”

The wool for your new palla has been carded and spun into yarn. It stretches and winds around the teeth of your wooden loom, weighed down by terracotta scales.

You’re alone in the domus. Acacius had been summoned by the magistrates for an urgent meeting, and you try not to let fear interfere with your work, an aggressive wasp buzzing at the back of your mind. Your touch remains light when pulling at uneven sections, its intended shape coming together bit by bit. The whooshing of a racing heartbeat echoes in your ears.

So long as there is land outside the Empire’s borders, the Emperors will expect Acacius to conquer it in their names. His time in Cosa is trapped in an hourglass, never quite knowing when the last grain of sand will slip away, summoned back to the front lines for another campaign. Another brush with death. Another chapter added to his legacy.

You feel the sand’s effects sometimes, a sinking sensation threatening to drag you down when you walk with him through the market. Coarse and gritty, scratching your skin as you fall asleep in his arms. Piling so high it chokes you, the cursed inevitability of it all.

Another loop of wool around teeth. Tension taut and held firm. The muscles of your arms burn with effort, left foot tingling uncomfortably from sitting too long with little movement. Cosa’s awake and thriving in the warm weather, echoes of voices drifting in with the breeze, but you’ve never felt more alone. A feeling you dread becoming intimately familiar with sooner or later.

Later, you pray selfishly, desperately, achingly to the Fates. Make it later.

So long as Acacius breathes he will always walk two paths—the path of a general and the path of a husband. And it’s a priority of yours–a requirement as his wife–to find a way to be okay when those paths split and you’re truly left all alone. You must then nurture the tiniest flame of hope one step, one trial, one lonely night at a time. Burning fiercely until every last shadow of doubt is purged from your mind, and the only thing that remains is the steadfast belief he’ll return to your side.

Then you must prepare yourself to do it all over again and again and again…too incapable of challenging the Emperors’ insatiable greed, too mortal to stop the sands of time.

You roll your shoulders once finished, scrutinizing the piece for errors. Later you’ll detach the palla from the loom to cut and tie off the loose end-threads of dangling wool, and later still you’ll take it to the fuller to be washed then to the dyer to be colored. You wonder if Acacius will like the shade of golden yellow you have in mind. If he’ll even be in Cosa to see the finished product or a thousand miles away in the heat of battle. A tremor racks your spine at the thought.

But then the front door opens with a quiet groan, and the cheerfully hummed notes of Acacius’ favorite song float through the house. You smile, heartbeat settling into its natural rhythm with the knowledge he’s here with you. The war has not stolen him away just yet.

“Come, my leaena,” he calls out, and you can hear the grin in his voice without having to see it. “It’s a beautiful day. Should we spend it by the coast?”

There’s an urge to close your eyes, to sink into this moment for all its worth, but sand is rising around your ankles. A reminder of all temporary things.

Your legs can’t move fast enough, drawn to your husband’s side.

Just a little bit longer. Another hour, another day.

You reach for Acacius’ hand, tangling them together, pulling him closer. Always closer.

Another call of my name.

“Let’s not waste a single second.”

#betty recs #acacius fanfic rec #acacius x reader #acacius x f!reader #acacius x you #acacius x ofc

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theetherealbloom · 6 months ago

Text

You Got Me So In Love, I've Never Been This Possessive

Summary: While on a scenic boat trip along the coasts of Malta, you bask in the crystal-clear waters, and laughter with Pedro’s cast and crew. Despite his injured arm keeping him on the boat, Pedro can’t keep his eyes off you.

Pairing: Pedro Pascal x F!Reader

Warnings: Established Relationship, TOOTH-ROTTING FLUFF, Slight Nudity, Slight Angst, Swearing, Anxiety, Cheesy Dialogue, Romance, Kissing, Real People Fiction, Cameras, Swimming, Bikini, Flirting, Teasing, Cast, Pedro Fell Down The Stairs, ER visit, Hurt-To-Comfort, Mild Spice, Banter, Idk Spanish so the terms might be wrong but I'm trying my best

Word Count: 5K

A/N: GOOD MORNING CHICKENS!!! Y’know how I said there would be a part two? Yup. Also, I know no one asked, but back in High School, I fell down the stairs… A LOT. Like every year for six years. No major bones were broken, only a sprained ankle every time I fell down the stairs, so in a way I guess I was lucky. PSA to always hold the hand railing, and like Pedro said, it can happen to anyone!

Side note: I’m dyslexic and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are always appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!

Song: Te Quiero by KISS OF LIFE

← Previous Chapter | Main Masterlist |

PASCAL RESIDENCE, CHILE — AFTERNOON

The sun bathed the Pascal family home in a golden glow, the air filled with the scent of freshly baked empanadas and the gentle hum of conversation. You were seated on the patio, your legs tucked under you, watching as Pedro animatedly retold a story from his teenage years. His siblings—Javiera, Lux, and Nicolás—listened with rapt attention, their laughter bubbling over when Pedro’s dad chimed in with his version of events, insisting Pedro had exaggerated again.

“Exaggerated?” Pedro placed a hand on his chest, feigning offense. “I would never! Everything I say is 100% true and scientifically proven.”

“Scientifically proven to be full of nonsense,” Nicolás teased, earning a round of laughter.

You couldn’t help but grin, soaking in the easy camaraderie of the family. Pedro’s hand found yours under the table, his fingers lacing with yours in a way that felt like second nature. He glanced at you, his dark eyes soft with a love so deep it made your chest tighten.

“Tell them,” Pedro said, turning to you with an exaggeratedly serious expression. “Tell them I’m not lying.”

You bit back a laugh, tilting your head in mock consideration. “Well… the story did sound a bit too good to be true.”

“Et tu, mi amor?” he groaned, but the corners of his mouth quirked up in a smile.

Javiera, ever the ringleader, stood and declared, “Enough storytelling! Let’s put her to the test. If she’s going to be part of this family, she needs to learn brisca.”

Pedro leaned in closer, his breath warm against your ear. “Fair warning: They’ll gang up on you.”

“Good thing I’ve got you on my side,” you murmured, a soft blush rising to your cheeks.

“I’ll always be on your side,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your temple that sent a shiver down your spine.

A FEW HOURS LATER…

The sun had dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the yard. Pedro had wandered inside to grab more drinks for everyone while you stayed on the patio with Lux, discussing her latest project.

The sound of a crash shattered the peaceful air. You froze, the glass in Lux’s hand slipping and shattering on the ground.

“Pedro!” you gasped, bolting toward the house.

Inside, you found him crumpled at the base of the stairs, his face pale and contorted in pain. Nicolás was already at his side, his hands hovering uncertainly as if afraid to make things worse.

“Call an ambulance!” you shouted, your voice shaking as you knelt beside Pedro.

He looked up at you, his breaths shallow and uneven. “I’m okay, I’m okay,” he said through gritted teeth, but his wince betrayed him.

“You’re not okay,” you said, your hands trembling as you gently brushed the hair from his forehead. “What happened?”

“I missed the last step,” he muttered, trying to manage a weak smile. “Guess I’m not as graceful as I thought.”

“Pedro, this isn’t funny,” you whispered, tears pricking your eyes.

Javiera appeared with the phone pressed to her ear, speaking rapidly to the emergency dispatcher. Lux crouched beside you, her face pale as she reached for Pedro’s uninjured hand.

“Help’s on the way,” Javiera assured you, her voice steady despite the panic in her eyes.

Minutes felt like hours as you waited for the ambulance. You kept your focus on Pedro, your hand gripping his tightly. “Just breathe, okay? I’m right here. You’re going to be fine.”

THE ER — EVENING

The antiseptic smell of the hospital hit you as you paced the waiting room, your heart pounding in your chest. Pedro had been whisked away for X-rays, and you felt helpless, the absence of his hand in yours leaving you cold.

When the doctor finally emerged, you rushed to meet him, Javiera and Nicolás close behind.

“Mr. Pascal has a broken arm,” the doctor explained. “It’s a clean break, but he’ll need surgery to set the bone properly. We’re scheduling it for late January.”

Relief and worry collided in your chest. “Can I see him?” you asked, your voice small.

The doctor nodded, and you followed the nurse to Pedro’s room. He was sitting up in bed, his arm in a temporary sling, his face pale but his smile still intact.

“Hey, troublemaker,” he said, his voice softer than usual.

You crossed the room in a few quick steps, perching on the edge of his bed. “Don’t you ever scare me like that again,” you said, your voice breaking as tears spilled over.

Pedro reached for your hand with his good arm, his thumb brushing soothing circles over your knuckles. “I’m sorry, mi amor,” he murmured, his eyes glistening.

You leaned forward, pressing your forehead to his. “I thought… I thought something worse happened. I couldn’t breathe until I saw you.”

“I’m here,” he whispered, his voice steady despite the pain. “And I’ll be fine. Especially with you by my side.”

You kissed him gently, pouring every ounce of love and relief into the touch. As his lips moved against yours, you felt the fear begin to fade, replaced by the overwhelming gratitude that he was still here with you.

“I’ll take care of you,” you promised, pulling back just enough to look into his eyes. “Whatever you need, I’m here.”

Pedro smiled, his gaze tender. “I don’t deserve you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” you said, brushing a tear from your cheek. “You deserve the world.”

And in that moment, surrounded by beeping monitors and the sterile walls of the hospital, it felt like nothing else mattered but the two of you.

FORT RICASOLI, MALTA — DAY

The sun was high over Fort Ricasoli, the Mediterranean breeze carrying a salty tang as waves crashed against the nearby shore. The reconstructed Roman Colosseum loomed grandly in the fort, its grandeur a perfect backdrop for the epic Gladiator II production. You stepped out of the transport van, sunglasses shielding your eyes from the bright Maltese sun, a bag slung over your shoulder filled with Pedro’s essentials—medication, snacks, and a cold water bottle you knew he’d try to avoid drinking unless reminded.

As you walked toward the set, Pedro spotted you first, his face lighting up in a way that made your heart ache with affection. He was seated in the shade near the makeup tent, his left arm encased in a royal blue cast that made him look both ridiculous and endearing.

“Hi,” you called, setting your bag down beside him. “I’m here to be your nurse.”

Pedro’s grin widened, his dark eyes softening. “You’re more than my nurse. You’re my lifesaver. And I love you so much.”

You rolled your eyes playfully, leaning down to press a quick kiss to his forehead. “How’s the arm?”

“It’s humiliating,” he muttered, holding up the cast as if it were a mark of disgrace. “Everyone keeps staring at it. Or laughing. Or both.”

“There’s nothing humiliating about needing help once in a while, my love,” you said gently, brushing a curl from his forehead. “Besides, it’s a great conversation starter.”

“Oh, yeah. Real smooth. ‘Hi, I’m Pedro Pascal, and I fell down a flight of stairs like a medieval jester.’”

You smothered a laugh just as Joseph Quinn sauntered by, pausing dramatically to give Pedro an exaggerated salute. “How’s the mighty warrior today? Still battling gravity, I see.”

“Go away,” Pedro groaned, waving his good arm dismissively.

“You’re a walking PSA now,” Fred Hechinger added as he passed. “Don’t text and walk down stairs, kids!”

Denzel Washington approached next, shaking his head with mock solemnity. “And here I thought I was the one who’d pull a stunt like that.”

“Traitors,” Pedro muttered, pulling you closer as if you could shield him from the teasing.

Coco, his ever-sassy hair stylist, smirked as she fixed his curls. “Just make sure she doesn’t trip over your ego next.”

“Coco!” Pedro whined, but his cheeks flushed, his pout making him look boyish and undeniably adorable.

Ridley Scott ambled over, his tone a mix of concern and exasperation. “Take it easy, Pedro. You’re not 25 anymore.”

“Gee, thanks, Ridley,” Pedro huffed, pulling you against him as if seeking comfort.

The day pressed on, the heat making Pedro’s clinginess somehow both unbearable and heart-meltingly sweet. Despite the steady teasing from the cast and crew, he stuck close to you like a second shadow whenever he wasn’t on set, his blue cast drawing as much attention as his ever-present pout.

During a break, he tugged at your hand, a soft whine slipping from his lips. “Go with me?”

You glanced up from the book you were pretending to read. “Go where?”

“Craft services,” he said, gesturing toward the shaded area where snacks and cold drinks awaited. “I’m starving, and I need moral support.”

“You literally just had a protein bar,” you teased, but stood anyway, slipping your hand into his.

“As long as you hold my hand,” you added with a smirk, letting him lead the way.

His good hand entwined with yours, his thumb brushing lazy circles over your skin as you walked. “You know I’m not letting go, right?”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

Reaching the craft services tent, Pedro made a beeline for the iced lemonade, his cast making the process comically awkward. You reached over to help him hold the cup steady as he poured, ignoring the amused glances from the crew around you.

“I got it,” he insisted, though his pouty tone betrayed his frustration.

“Sure you do, Mr. Dexterity,” you teased. “Here, let me.”

As you steadied the cup, Paul Mescal appeared beside you, a mischievous grin plastered across his face. “What’s it like being Pedro’s personal assistant and cuddle therapist?”

Pedro narrowed his eyes, his body shifting slightly as if to shield you from Paul’s teasing. “She’s an angel,” he declared, his tone defensive. “Unlike all of you degenerates.”

Paul laughed, grabbing a handful of chips. “Touché.”

Connie Nielsen joined the growing group, her warm smile softening the teasing atmosphere. “An angel with the patience of a saint,” she agreed. “He’s lucky to have you.”

You squeezed Pedro’s hand, glancing up at him with a playful glint in your eye. “Oh, I know.”

Pedro leaned down, his voice low and sweet in your ear. “Remind me to buy you something shiny and expensive later.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” you whispered back, brushing a kiss to his cheek just as Coco walked by, her ever-present smirk firmly in place.

“Are we making out by the lemonade now?” she quipped, adjusting Pedro’s wig as she passed. “Just don’t knock over the drink dispenser, Casanova.”

Pedro groaned, but you could see the corner of his mouth twitching, betraying his amusement.

When Pedro was shooting, you stayed nearby, perched under an umbrella with a bottle of water and a timer set for his next dose of medication. He’d been restless all morning, constantly checking in between takes to make sure you were still there.

The moment the director called cut, Pedro scanned the area until his eyes landed on you. A small smile tugged at his lips as he made a beeline toward you, his costume slightly dusty from the action sequence.

“Hydrate,” you ordered the moment he reached you, holding out the water bottle.

He wrinkled his nose but took it, his good hand struggling to unscrew the cap. You wordlessly reached over to help, earning a sheepish look from him.

“You know,” he said after a long sip, “you’re bossier than Ridley.”

“You love it,” you countered, wiping the sweat from his brow with a small towel you’d tucked into your bag.

Pedro’s lips curved into a soft smile, his gaze lingering on you. “I do,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “A little too much.”

Your heart squeezed at the tenderness in his tone, and you reached up to brush a stray curl from his forehead. “Good. Now go back to work. Ridley’s glaring at us.”

He glanced over his shoulder, spotting the director gesturing for him to return. “Fine,” he grumbled, but not before pressing a quick kiss to your forehead.

As he walked back toward the set, Ridley shook his head, a faint smile on his face. “That woman of yours has you wrapped around her little finger.”

Pedro shrugged, a smirk playing on his lips. “Don’t I know it.”

THE XARA PALACE RELAIS & CHÂTEAUX, MALTA — EVENING

The day had taken its toll on both of you, but by the time you returned to the cozy luxury of the hotel suite, Pedro’s exhaustion only seemed to amplify his need for affection. As soon as the door clicked shut behind you, he flopped dramatically onto the small couch, casting a forlorn look your way.

“Come here,” he said, his good arm extended toward you like a lifeline.

You chuckled, slipping off your sandals. “I thought you were tired.”

“I am,” he replied, his lips twitching into a pout. “But I’ll sleep better if you’re right here.”

Shaking your head fondly, you joined him on the couch, only to be pulled down against his side the moment you were close enough.

“It’s too hot for this,” you teased, trying—and failing—to push against his firm hold.

“Don’t care,” Pedro murmured, nuzzling into the curve of your neck as if you were the only source of comfort in the world. “You make everything better.”

You sighed softly, your resolve melting as your fingers found their way into his curls. They were still slightly damp from his post-shoot shower, and you gently combed through them, marveling at how they always seemed to spring back into place.

“I think that’s the heatstroke talking,” you quipped, though your voice was warm with affection.

“No,” he said, his voice muffled against your skin. “That’s the love of my life talking.”

Your hand stilled for a moment, the weight of his words settling over you like a gentle wave. You pulled back slightly to look at him, but Pedro didn’t let you get far. His warm brown eyes met yours, brimming with sincerity that made your breath catch.

“You’re insufferable,” you said, though the tremor in your voice betrayed how deeply his words had affected you.

“And you’re perfect,” he countered, his tone so soft and certain it made your heart ache in the best way.

Your cheeks warmed, and you leaned down to press a tender kiss to his temple. “You’re lucky I love you,” you whispered, your lips brushing against his skin.

Pedro grinned, his good arm tightening around you as he pulled you even closer. “I’m the luckiest man alive.”

For a while, the two of you sat in a comfortable silence, the soft hum of the air conditioning blending with the distant sounds of the Maltese evening outside. Pedro’s breathing began to slow, his head resting heavily against your shoulder as he drifted off. His cast was awkwardly propped up on his chest, and you carefully adjusted a pillow beneath it, not wanting him to wake up sore.

As you gazed down at him, his face relaxed and peaceful in sleep, your heart swelled with a familiar ache—one born of overwhelming love. He might’ve been clingy and dramatic, prone to complaints about his cast and the heat, but he was also tender and selfless, with a way of making you feel like the most cherished person in the world.

You traced the curve of his jaw with the tips of your fingers, marveling at how even in his sleep, his hold on you never loosened. He was steady and constant in a way that made you feel safe, loved, and utterly at home.

He might’ve fallen down the stairs, but it felt like you were the one falling—deeper in love with him every single day.

Later that night, as the two of you lay tangled together in the king-sized bed, Pedro stirred, his voice groggy but laced with warmth.

“Are you still awake?”

“Barely,” you murmured, your head resting against his uninjured shoulder. “Why?”

He shifted slightly, his fingers grazing over your arm in lazy circles. “Just wanted to say… thank you.”

“For what?”

“For taking care of me. For putting up with me being clingy. For loving me even when I’m ridiculous,” he said, his voice soft but earnest.

You smiled in the darkness, pressing a kiss to his chest. “It’s not putting up with you, Pedro. It’s just loving you. And it’s the easiest thing I’ve ever done.”

His breath hitched, and he leaned down to press a lingering kiss to your forehead. “I don’t deserve you,” he whispered, his words carrying the weight of unspoken emotion.

“You deserve everything,” you replied, your voice firm despite the tears prickling at your eyes.

Pedro’s arms tightened around you, and in that moment, the world outside the four walls of your suite seemed to fade away. There was only the two of you, tangled together in love and gratitude, the promise of another day together stretching out before you like a gift.

And as you drifted off to sleep, cradled in his embrace, you couldn’t imagine a place you’d rather be.

COASTS OF MALTA — MORNING

The morning sun bathed the harbor in a soft, golden glow as you and Pedro stepped onto the pristine deck of the yacht, greeted by the lively chatter of his castmates and the crew. The day promised adventure—an exploration of Malta’s dazzling coastlines, including the famed Blue Lagoon, Crystal Lagoon, and the secretive caves on Comino. The air smelled of salt and freedom, and the water, impossibly blue and inviting, stretched out like a gem-laden carpet before you.

Pedro lingered close to you, his blue cast slung in a casual sling, though it didn’t stop him from giving your hand a light squeeze. He leaned down, his voice low and teasing.

"Don’t get too excited," he murmured with a grin, his dark eyes gleaming. "You’ll make me look bad."

You bumped your shoulder into his, rolling your eyes. "I can’t help it if I’m more fun than you."

"More fun? Or more distracting?" His gaze flicked briefly to the bikini peeking out from your cover-up, his expression bordering on predatory before he quickly masked it with a playful smirk.

“Behave, Pascal,” you teased, your cheeks warming under his intense stare.

As the boat cruised toward its first stop, the Blue Lagoon, the mood was light and cheerful. Connie and Fred lounged near the bow, animatedly swapping stories with the crew, their laughter carrying over the soft sound of the waves. Coco flitted around like a hummingbird with her camera, capturing candid shots of the lively group. Near the railing, Paul was attempting to teach Denzel a ridiculous dance move, the two of them tripping over their own feet and causing more chaos than rhythm.

You stood near Pedro, feeling the sun’s warmth on your skin, the gentle breeze teasing at your cover-up. A playful grin spread across your face as you untied the knot at your waist, sliding the fabric off and tossing it onto a nearby lounge chair. The vibrant bikini beneath was perfectly chosen—bright and bold against your skin, hugging your curves in a way that made you feel confident and beautiful.

Pedro, seated comfortably in the shade with his injured arm resting on a cushion, froze mid-sip of his drink. His gaze locked onto you, his eyes darkening as they traced every inch of your form. Appreciation was clear in his expression, but it was the simmering heat in his stare that sent a thrill down your spine.

You stretched your arms over your head, feigning oblivion to his attention as you joined Coco and Paul in their antics. The movement made your waist curve just enough to draw a quiet groan from Pedro’s lips, which didn’t go unnoticed by Coco. She smirked, leaning down to whisper as she passed him.

“Subtle,” she teased, her voice dripping with amusement.

Pedro didn’t even attempt to hide his grin. His eyes stayed glued to you as he shrugged, unapologetic. “Can you blame me?”

Coco snorted. “Not one bit. But maybe cool it unless you want everyone else to notice how thirsty you are.”

“Let them,” Pedro muttered, mostly to himself. His tongue darted out to wet his lips as he watched you laugh with Paul, the way your body moved under the bright sun making it nearly impossible for him to look away.

When you caught his eye and shot him a playful wink, his good hand flexed against the armrest of his chair, the urge to pull you back to him almost too strong to resist.

Later, as you leaned over the edge of the boat, peering down at the water with Paul pointing out fish, Pedro’s voice rumbled low behind you.

“You’re enjoying yourself, aren’t you?”

You turned to find him standing close, his cast resting awkwardly at his side. “I am. The water’s beautiful,” you said with a smile, but his eyes weren’t on the water.

“They’re not the only thing,” he murmured, his gaze dropping to the curve of your hips, the dip of your waist.

Heat bloomed on your cheeks, but you couldn’t help the grin that tugged at your lips. “Pedro Pascal,” you teased, stepping closer. “Are you flirting with me on a boat in front of all your castmates?”

“Flirting?” He scoffed, his voice rich with amusement. “I’m just admiring. Can’t a man admire his girlfriend?”

“Girlfriend?” you repeated, arching a brow.

He smirked, leaning in just enough for his breath to ghost over your skin. “The girlfriend,” he corrected, his voice dropping into a tone that sent a shiver racing through you despite the heat.

You bit your lip, glancing around at the others, who were too distracted to notice the charged moment. “Behave yourself,” you whispered, though your heart raced at the way his good hand brushed lightly against your hip.

He grinned, leaning back with an exaggerated sigh. “I’m trying, but you’re not making it easy, sweetheart.”

The way he said it, rough and low, had your stomach doing flips. The teasing sparkle in his eyes told you he knew exactly the effect he was having on you—and he wasn’t the least bit sorry about it.

When the boat anchored near the Blue Lagoon, you practically bounced with excitement. “I’m going in!”

Pedro chuckled as you grabbed your snorkeling gear, pausing to give him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Try not to miss me too much,” you teased before hopping off the boat with an elegant dive.

“Not possible,” he called after you, his voice tinged with laughter.

The water was cool and crystal clear, every ripple catching the sunlight like scattered diamonds. You swam alongside Coco and Paul, laughing as he tried to outswim everyone only to splash clumsily when Coco teased him about his lack of grace. Schools of fish darted around you, their silvery bodies glimmering in the lagoon’s shallows, and the thrill of the moment made you forget the world beyond the sparkling blue waters.

Pedro watched from the deck, his good hand cradling a drink as his cast rested on his lap. He smiled softly, his heart swelling at the sight of you. You were so effortlessly kind, so radiant, laughing and splashing with his friends as if you’d known them your whole life.

“She’s really something,” Ridley remarked as he joined Pedro at the shaded table.

“Don’t I know it,” Pedro replied, his voice warm with pride.

“She’s good for you,” Ridley said simply, his tone laced with a rare softness.

Pedro glanced at the director, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah. She’s my soulmate.”

Later, you clambered back onto the boat, droplets of water clinging to your skin, sparkling in the sunlight as they traced lazy paths down your arms and legs. Your grin was infectious, the kind of radiant joy that could light up an entire room—or, in this case, the deck of the boat. Pedro’s eyes were glued to you, as though the rest of the world had faded into the background.

“Having fun?” he asked, his voice tinged with amusement but warm with affection.

“The best,” you replied breathlessly, grabbing a towel and wringing out your hair. “You should’ve come in with us. The water is incredible.”

He raised his cast dramatically, pulling a mock grimace. “In case you forgot, I’m a bit handicapped here.”

“Oh, poor baby,” you teased, crouching beside him. You leaned in to press a playful kiss to his cheek, your lips lingering just long enough to make him sigh. “Next time, I’ll stay on the boat with you. We can sulk together.”

Pedro’s good hand slid to your waist, pulling you closer before you could stand. “Don’t you dare,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble in your ear. “Watching you have fun out there is the next best thing to being in the water myself.”

You arched a brow, motioning to your bikini with a teasing grin. “You mean you like the view.”

Pedro’s lips curved into a slow, devilish smirk. His mouth brushed your ear as he whispered, “I love the view.”

The heat of his words sent a shiver down your spine, making your cheeks flush. You swatted at his chest playfully before standing and tossing the towel over your shoulder. “Careful, Pascal. You’re not supposed to overheat with that cast on.”

The boat anchored near the caves on Comino, the turquoise water shimmering like liquid glass. Pedro waved you off with a mock sternness, insisting you go explore while he stayed behind.

“I’ll hold down the fort,” he said, settling back into his chair with a small smirk. “Don’t get lost in there.”

You rolled your eyes, blowing him a kiss before diving into the water with Paul and Fred. The group swam toward the darkened entrance of the caves, their laughter echoing off the limestone walls. Inside, the sunlight filtered through cracks, casting dancing patterns on the rocky surfaces.

Pedro, stuck on the boat, didn’t seem to mind in the slightest. His gaze followed you like a shadow, lingering on the curve of your body as you moved effortlessly through the water. Every so often, you glanced back at the boat, catching him watching you. He didn’t even pretend to look away, his expression soft, adoring, and entirely unguarded.

When you returned, dripping wet and exhilarated, you plopped down beside him with a dramatic sigh, leaning your head against his shoulder.

“You’ve been staring at me all day,” you teased, your tone light but your heart pounding at the intensity of his attention.

Pedro turned his head slightly, brushing his lips against your temple. “Can you blame me?” he murmured. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

The sincerity in his voice made your chest tighten. You tilted your head to meet his gaze, your hand finding his on the armrest. “You’re laying it on thick today,” you joked, though your voice wavered just slightly.

“It’s the truth,” he countered simply, his thumb brushing across your knuckles.

Your moment was interrupted by Paul’s exaggerated wolf whistle from across the deck. “Get a room, you two!”

Fred chimed in with a loud groan. “Some of us are single and fragile!”

You laughed, your head falling back briefly before you turned to Pedro, lowering your voice so only he could hear. “They’re just jealous.”

“Damn right, they are,” Pedro said, leaning in close. “You’re all mine.”

The possessiveness in his tone was playful but sent your pulse racing nonetheless.

Later, as the boat rocked gently in the open waters, you sat on Pedro’s lap, his good arm wrapped securely around your waist. The sun had begun its descent, painting the sky in hues of pink and gold.

“Pedro,” you said softly, your fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns on his thigh. “Can we stay like this forever?”

His eyes softened as he looked down at you, his smile tender. “I’d stay here with you forever if I could,” he replied, his voice filled with quiet certainty.

The weight of his words settled over you, grounding you in the moment. You bit your lip, leaning in closer until your noses brushed. “Please just kiss me already.”

Pedro didn’t need to be asked twice. His lips captured yours in a kiss that was slow and deliberate, full of unspoken promises and a depth of feeling that took your breath away. His hand splayed across your back, pulling you impossibly closer as the world around you seemed to disappear.

When you finally pulled apart, his forehead rested against yours, and he let out a soft laugh. “I think you might be my soulmate,” he said, his voice a mixture of awe and certainty.

Your eyes searched his, and for a moment, the noise of the others and the gentle lapping of the waves faded entirely. “I think you might be mine too,” you whispered, sealing the moment with another kiss.

Laughter and chatter echoed around you, the boat a hub of joy and togetherness, but for you and Pedro, time seemed to stand still. In his arms, surrounded by the beauty of Malta and the warmth of his love, you knew you were exactly where you were meant to be.

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missadangel · 1 month ago

Text

⊱ AMOR MEUS AETERNUS ⊰

(Marcus Acacius x Ofc)

I. Sol Invictus

next chapter series masterlist

Chapter Summary: You are an assistant to a costume designer on a busy movie set, where the pressure is high and the work is exhausting. One difficult evening during a lunar eclipse, you suddenly spot a man in a Roman military outfit materializing out of nowhere. Chapter Word Count: 14k (sorry but I had to introduce characters properly :)) authors note: It's a bit of a romantic-comedy-drama stuff because Marcus doesn't know that he traveled to 2025, LMAO poor baby (and you know I'm a hopeless romantic). I'll explain in more detail in chapters why he ended up here and what led him to meet the reader, but I'm avoiding spoilers. And the reader will help him get back to his time but accidentally travel to ancient Rome because of something; i can't talk more, lol. Wait for the episodes, please thank youuuu. if you wanna be tagged lemme know! Pairing: Marcus Acacius x Ofc!Reader (Her name is Rose, and her hair is dyed) Rating: Explicit, 18+ MDNI, Smut Warnings: Harsh, cold, grumpy Marcus, and the reader is NOT innocent a little bitchy, Lucilla is mean, Lucius is a jerk(but falls in love with reader), its Septimius Severus' era but Geta and Caracalla are the prince of Rome, time travel, modern-ancient era travels, falling in love, slow burn, rough sex, smut, sex, oral sex (both f&m receiving), all sex, dirty talk, gladiators, battle, war, violence, blood, ancient time language, fluffy, injury, forced marriage, arranged marriage, sexism, haters to lovers, first love, angst, vestal virgins, vestal priestesses, age gap; reader is 25 Marcus is 42, reincarnation my masterlist

....Chapter Theme.....

**Rome, 205 AD***

"Acacius! Acacius! Acacius!"

"Saviour of Rome!"

"Hail to the new general of Rome!"

"Hail Acacius!"

The streets of Rome reverberated with fervent cheers, a tidal wave of voices rising in tribute to a singular figure: Marcus Justus Acacius.

At forty years of age, Acacius had recently ascended to the prestigious title of general, his fame forged in the fires of battle and cemented by the decree of Emperor Severus. A man of unwavering loyalty and formidable skill, he had never tasted defeat, a fact that resonated deeply with the hearts of the Roman people.

As he emerged from the shadows of the grandiose triumphal arch, bedecked in gleaming white armor that caught the sun in a dazzling display, the crowd surged forward, intoxicated by their adoration. The very air around him crackled with electricity, a palpable sense of reverence enveloping the scene.

For the citizens, he stood as a titan, almost a god among men—a triumphant commander, a stalwart soldier, an indomitable leader whose very presence instilled terror in the hearts of enemies. Joy radiated from the crowd, their faces alive with hope and gratitude, caught in the spell of the day's celebration.

High atop the temple of Jupiter, Emperor Severus basked in the same jubilant spirit, joined by the Roman princes, Geta and Caracalla, his twin sons, all eagerly awaiting Acacius's arrival. Laughter and cheer rang out like festive bells, painting a tableau of optimism for the future.

Yet amidst the fervor and celebration, one heart was not aligned with the jubilant chorus.

Marcus Justus Acacius wrestled with a storm of unsettling emotions. While the victory was undeniably sweet for Rome, a bitter taste lingered on his tongue.

Inside, he simmered with frustration and discontent. Shadows clouded his thoughts; the thrill of his triumph felt hollow. He couldn’t escape the dark fantasy that had taken root in his heart—a yearning for death, an echo of despair that whispered sweetly of peace.

He envisioned his lifeless body passing beneath the triumphal arch, believing it might convey a deeper significance than his living presence ever could.

But that notion, in this moment, felt like a cruel mirage in an unforgiving desert. What was left for him now but emptiness, a void peering back at the mask he wore for the thrumming, joyous masses?

The sword’s brutal strikes, the faint scratches from arrows, the battle scars etched upon his skin—each bruise and cut, still glistening with crimson remnants, tells a tale of relentless struggle. These visible wounds bear testament to his long, agonizing wait and evoke the depth of his longing for eternal rest.

Yet, fate has thwarted him once more.

He found himself back in this city, a paradox of breathtaking beauty that thrived, yet concealed a well of sorrow beneath its surface. He had returned as a harbinger of victory, bringing new territories and a flicker of hope, but for himself, there was only void. He was a soldier, defined purely by duty, reduced to the relentless cycle of war and struggle.

Tomorrow would bring the same grind, as it always did. Day after day, he would rise to the call of arms, trapped in this existence until his weary soul finally departed from its mortal shell. Until that fateful moment, he walked as a living ghost, haunted and hollow.

The pain of loss had transformed him, for it had been this way since the day he lost the one he loved most dearly, and perhaps it would always remain so. Deep down, he might have yearned for oblivion more than his fiercest enemies ever could. Yet, the fires of his fighting spirit, relentless and unyielding, refused to dim.

It felt as though he was cursed, damned, ensnared by divine forces that reveled in his struggle — a pawn in a game that pit him against his own fate. Mars, the god of war, must have wielded his destiny with cruel hands, stripping away his heart and filling the gaping void left in its place with a relentless tide of pain, turmoil, and unquenchable rage.

The following day, as the resonant echoes of the Colosseum games, held in his honor, continued to reverberate through the streets, Marcus found himself immersed in the elegant atmosphere of the evening banquet. The air was thick with the intoxicating aroma of spiced wine and savory roasts, yet he felt like an outsider, trapped in a performance he neither wanted nor understood. Banquets and grand gatherings had never been his domain; he was an island amidst a sea of laughter and merriment.

His social connections were tenuous at best—a woman who was his father's second wife and his half-brother shared their deceased father's vast villa. He remained a mere shadow in their presence, offering nothing of himself except the occasional nod. Only his brother, Julius, his father's son from a second marriage, was a solitary beacon of understanding in Marcus's otherwise lonely existence.

Rumors clung to him like ivy on crumbling stone, painting him as a frigid, soulless warrior. The tale of his coldness often traced back to the haunting loss of his mother in childhood, yet the truth lay deeper, buried beneath layers of unspoken grief.

"General Acacius," a voice rang out, cutting through the revelry. Severus approached him, the gleeful cheers of the crowd fading into the background as he placed a hand on Marcus's shoulder.

“Emperor Severus," Marcus replied, straightening to salute, the laurel crown still uncomfortably perched upon his brow—an ornament he detested.

"I hear the medicus has been tending to your wounds. You owe it to yourself to find rest now; no new wars loom on the horizon. Our foes cower in fear before the prowess of our expansive territories, all thanks to you, my glorious commander,” Severus proclaimed, his expectant smile radiating insincerity.

Marcus remained a stone wall, responding only with a slight nod. Nearby, the young princes Geta and Caracalla watched him, their expressions a blend of awe and envy, their ambivalence swirling around him like shadows.

“While you recover, I need you to contemplate another matter,” Severus continued, his tone shifting with purpose, eyes flicking toward the animated guests. “You’ve earned the title of general, and it is imperative that you embody that honor. I envision a worthy marriage for you—one that reflects your esteemed status.”

The tension in Marcus’s features tightened, his gaze unwaveringly fixed on the emperor. “I intend to arrange a union for you with a woman deserving of a general’s stature. I have my sights set on Lady Octavia, the eldest daughter of Consul Sextus. Her family traces an illustrious lineage among the Roman patricians, steeped in history and prestige. And I daresay they boast a legacy known for producing fruitful descendants,” he added with a hint of jest.

Marcus’s eyes, cold and unyielding, settled upon the beautiful, charming woman beside the senator, her allure seemingly reduced to mere decoration.

He felt nothing.

The wine glass nestled in his hand suddenly felt far more inviting than any prospect of romance. "What say you?” Severus pressed, confidence bleeding through his words.

“I am honored, Your Highness,” Marcus responded, his voice steady yet underscored with reluctance.

“Should I take that as a yes?”

“With all my heart, no.”

Severus’s brow furrowed, caught in a limbo between amusement and frustration. “You’ve reached this age without a wife. If not now, when? Or is your heart entangled elsewhere?”

Marcus shook his head, the familiarity of this conversation wrapping around him like a well-worn cloak. There was comfort in the predictability. “I am a soldier, eager for the next battle. I would never want to make Senator Sextus’s beloved daughter a widow. Lady Octavia deserves a far richer union than I could offer.”

Severus exhaled slowly, the weight of the moment pressing heavily upon them. “Or are the rumors true? Is your heart still bound by grief?”

Then he saw a flicker in Marcus's eyes, a brief spark of something unnameable, before the mask fell back into place. “What can I say? People will always talk. As I said, I have no such intentions, nor will I. My duty lies with serving Rome, you, and your sons. That is my happiness.”

Severus drew a troubled breath, disappointment washing over his features. “I hadn’t expected such a sharp rebuttal. You remain a steadfast soldier; that much is clear.” He leaned in closer and lowered his voice. “What about Lucilla? I thought there was some chemistry brewing between you two. Although she is no longer young enough for childbearing, that’s why I didn’t suggest her. Would you hesitate to marry her simply because she was the lover of your former commander? Surely, she would choose you as her protector; after all, she shows weakness for soldiers, I presume.”

“I would never allow such thoughts to bloom regarding Lady Lucilla, nor would I presume,” Marcus’s tone cut through the air, sharper than the gladius resting at his side.

Severus, sensing the unyielding edge in Marcus's voice, took a measured sip of his wine, the edges of his mouth curling into a sardonic smile. “Very well, so be it. As my glorious and modest general wishes, I shall not press you further on the matter.”

Marcus dipped his head in gratitude, a flicker of relief breaking through his hardened demeanor. “I appreciate your understanding, Your Highness.”

One night, Acacius, the new general of Rome, sat alone in his barracks headquarters, trying to decide whom to choose as his second in command. His restless mind, always in motion, could not bear the silence that surrounded him. It was almost unheard of for a war-weary general to return to the barracks so soon after a battle to devote himself to the drudgery of duty. In fact, it was rare, perhaps unprecedented. It was astonishing that he would limit himself to mundane duties when he could have had anything he wanted. He could have spent the evening with any number of women from the pleasure houses, or ordered his men to bring them to him, but he didn't, didn't even think about it. This bizarre behaviour led to gossip among the soldiers in the barracks, many of whom could not believe it. After all, what man, especially an unmarried, handsome general, would do such a thing? It might have sparked rumours that he preferred men to women, were it not for an earlier event that had already dispelled such notions.

Suddenly, a voice shattered the stillness outside, echoing through the dimly lit barracks. At this late hour, only a handful of soldiers remained, their slumber deep and untroubled. When Acacius noticed the lack of sentinels, an uneasy instinct stirred within him, compelling him to grasp the hilt of his sword. His instincts, finely tuned by years of combat, alerted him to danger just as a dark figure leaped from the rooftop, descending like a shadow. In a swift motion, he overpowered the masked attacker, enveloped in a black robe that concealed their identity. But Acacius was not alone in facing danger; from the depths of the night, more cloaked figures emerged, their intentions as sinister as the darkness that surrounded them, all eager to bring the general down.

It was a very despicable attack, there were about six of them and they chose the darkest hour of the night. A group obviously with military training who had come specifically to kill him. He wouldn't have had a hard time fighting against them if he hadn't been so tired. But he still managed to overpower four of them with skill and agility, with accurate sharp blows and lethal cuts.

After a long resistance his strength began to fail and he received a cut on his shoulder and one of them managed to knock him down. But even on the ground he cut another one. Then the last one, in a split-second after his attack, aimed for Marcus' chest and stabbed him with the knife he drew with his other hand. Marcus was fast, he grabbed his hand first with one hand but the knife was going deeper, piercing his armor and then the skin and strong pectoral muscle just below it.

He gasped, moaned, groaned with sharp pain, with rage.

With the instinct of survival he grabbed the attackers knife, this time with both hands, but in that moment he understood.

When the sharp metal pierced his ribs and reached his heart, when he felt the wave of blood rushing to his throat.

Even in that state he killed his attacker with a short knife, which he found by groping on the ground with his other hand.

But it was too late.

He coughed, followed by a bloody eruption from his mouth. The blood from the cut on his chest didn't stop, it was like a river.

But it was a relief, like a steady release, a fleeting moment of freedom—almost. The very moment he had long anticipated had finally arrived.

So this is what death feels like, he pondered, gazing up at the half-blackened moon suspended in the inky dark sky. The pain had been unbearable; it clawed at his insides with merciless intensity. Yet, in a strange twist of fate, he felt nothing as his body surrendered to its finality. His ears fell silent, and a profound numbness enveloped him. The pain had vanished.

A blink of an eye.

Darkness.

Another blink.

And suddenly, he felt again.

How could this happen? What did it mean?

Then he saw it—the familiar visage of someone he hadn’t encountered in ages.

Maximus.

A serene smile graced his lips, reminiscent of days long past.

“True. Elysium. I must have ascended there,” he thought.

Maximus shook his head, as if he had heard the silent longing behind his words.

“Not yet, brother,” he whispered, his voice gentle yet firm. “Your time has not yet come.”

Marcus frowned, confusion etching lines across his brow. “But why?”

Maximus’s expression shifted, dimming like a candle flickering in the wind. “Or have you forgotten your prayer, your supplication?”

The depths of confusion deepened within Marcus. “My prayer…” he murmured, trying to grasp the fading memory.

“Your prayer was answered, child.”

That voice—it was unlike anything he had encountered.

It wasn't Maximus, he was now gone at his sight.

The sound that transcended humanity; it could not be earthborn or mortal. It was an ethereal quality, a melodic and divine sound that ignited every nerve in his body, powerful enough to raise goosebumps and destructive enough to permeate every cell of his being. The tone held both confusion and promise, intertwining hope and fear.

Suddenly, light began to pour forth around him, casting everything in a radiant glow, while a gentle wind kissed his face.

Another blink of an eye.

His body felt as though it were being drawn forward, tethered to the swift pull of an invisible chariot.

But instead of pain, there was only the caressing touch of the wind.

Then another blink.

He found himself still lying on the ground, and once again, he raised his gaze to the moon, a celestial sentinel in the dark sky. This time, it was shrouded in total darkness, its edges enveloped in a halo of brilliant white light. As though awakening from a deep slumber, his senses returned in a rush; first, he felt his heart start beating once more, as if claws that had pierced him were now pulled away. Then the warm breeze danced over his skin, breathing life back into him. Control of his body surged back.

With disbelief coursing through him, he turned his head. What he saw was astonishing. Light flooded the landscape, blinding in its intensity—so much that the stars themselves seemed to vanish against its brilliance. He was taken aback when he stood up and touched his own body. His armor had tears where cuts had been, yet there was no blood—no trace of his former suffering. He could breathe easily, and a newfound strength surged through him, more potent than he’d ever known.

He was miraculously, completely healed.

It felt like…

Rebirth.

It should have been a miracle, a divine blessing. Yet he wrestled with surprise and disbelief, knowing he had seldom uttered even a single prayer in his life. Anger boiled within him for the gods; why should they reward him after all?

Was this reprieve the reason he couldn't set foot in Elysium?

How had his prayer been answered then?

It was all so strange. The Pantheon loomed nearby; some of the structures were familiar while others stood oddly illuminated, foreign and surreal.

Perhaps this was a realm of torment.

Just then, something occurred that cemented his apprehension.

He heard footsteps—soft yet deliberate—approaching from behind, followed by a feminine voice that sliced through the air with unexpected sharpness.

When he turned, disappointment washed over him like a cold wave.

This was not what he had envisioned. This was not his prayer.

Surely, this must be a punishment.

Before him stood a woman dressed in garments unlike anything he had seen before. Anger flared within him again as he noted the disdainful grimace on the woman's face; she hissed a phrase that was foreign to his ears.

“What the fuck?” the woman exclaimed, her tone dripping with contempt.

Yes, he was undeniably trapped in a place of torment, and he realized with growing dread that his suffering was only just beginning.

***Italy, Rome, 2025***

Earlier that day.

“Shit! Shit! Shit!” The words tumbled from your lips as panic washed over you, eyes zeroing in on the cruelly bright numbers glowing on the clock: 7:45. You sprang out of bed like a rocket, hastily shedding your pajamas and tossing them behind you, landing who-knows-where in the fray of your cluttered room. Clothes lay in chaotic heaps, sketches of costumes scattered like fallen leaves, remnants of your frenzied creative process. You had been drowning in work on the movie set, and though you promised yourself time and again to clean up, that day didn't afford you a moment to spare. With a hasty comb through your tousled hair, you bolted for the door.

But just as you reached the door, you realized you had forgotten your bag. You backtracked, grabbed it, and hurried out again. In your rush, you slammed your sister's door twice to wake her. “Lizzie! Hurry up, or you’ll be late for school!”

The sound of a scientific discussion filled the air, coming from either the TV or her laptop: "Time is characterized as a motion; however, it is fundamentally impossible to traverse backward. Moreover, to progress forward necessitates the existence of a specific negative mathematical function. Nevertheless, from a mathematical standpoint, there is no inherent rationale preventing such movement. This phenomenon illustrates the complexities associated with the concept of time as described in Einstein’s theory…"

“Ugh, not this again,” you muttered under your breath. Your sister was a total science fiction junkie and often had those brainy shows on first thing in the morning.

“Hey, nerd! Turn that off and get to breakfast, now!” you called out.

Moments later, she emerged, phone in hand, video chatting with a friend. “Yeah, it’s been a crazy day,” she yawned, plopping down at the table. You rolled your eyes at her. Worst of all was having both a science geek sister and a best friend who was just as obsessed.

“Every damn morning...” you grumbled while munching on your toast.

She eyed the nearly burnt toast you’d made and poked it with her finger. “I’d better eat at school,” she remarked.

You had to agree; you never quite mastered the art of cooking. The more skilled you became at drawing and sewing, the worse you were in the kitchen. It was almost tragic that you couldn't even toast a simple piece of bread.

“Sorry, I was in a rush, honey,” you replied apologetically.

“You can’t give a proper toast, even when you’re not in a rush,” she replied with a smirk. “The real issue is that you just can’t let things go.”

“Hey, how about being a little nicer to your sister?” you said, trying to defend yourself.

“But you’ve been seriously cruel to this poor bread!” she teased, pretending to listen to it. “What’s that?” she joked, acting like she was having a conversation with the toast. “It says it’s going to sue you!”

You narrowed your eyes and grabbed the tongs, playfully pointing them at her. “If you want to avoid the same burnt fate, you should run to school now!”

She held his hands up in mock surrender. “I’m teleporting!” she declared, leaping to her feet, snatching her bag, and sprinting out the door, making you giggle as you followed her.

You took another tentative bite of the almost burned toast and scrunched your face, nudging it away. “Oh man, the next time I walk into the kitchen, it’ll just be to tackle the dishes,” you joked, embracing your cooking woes with a laugh.

As you drove with a mouthful of croissant, you tuned into the radio, soon catching the latest world news.

“On this sunny spring day in Rome, the city is buzzing with life once again, full of energy and charm. This magnificent, romantic city never truly sleeps and is always teeming with tourists.”

You flipped to another channel.

“Tonight, around 1 AM, there’s an exciting celestial event on the horizon. Known scientifically as the ‘Total Lunar Eclipse’ and popularly nicknamed the ‘Blood Moon,’ this event will be visible from Italy and other parts of Europe. Unfortunately, folks in North and South America and Eastern Europe won’t get a glimpse.”

“Just what we need—more tourists,” you muttered under your breath.

Historic sites were already packed to the brim, a reality you faced almost daily. While most filming typically took place away from the city, a brief scene was scheduled to be shot near the Pantheon, drawing you back for three consecutive days. Permission to film at this busy location had only been granted by the Ministry of Culture after 6 PM, adding a layer of tension to the crew’s dynamic. Everyone was eager to wrap up filming quickly over those three days, leaving you with some errands to tackle before heading back in the evening.

Your first stop? The hospital.

Yes, the hospital. Your father had been in a coma for ten years following an accident—the same tragic event that had taken your mother. You visited him every day. Your family had moved from the States to Italy when you were just five, and while you adapted to the language and culture fairly quickly, the accident forced you into a dual role, needing to be both a mother and father to your younger sister.

As you pulled up to the hospital, you checked your watch—only thirty minutes left until you had to head to the set. You placed the fresh flowers you had picked up from the florist into a vase in your father’s room and began your usual update about your day. Although talking to someone who couldn’t hear you felt a bit silly, it brought you comfort. When Givorni, a member of the hospital board who knew your father, stepped into the room, he brought unsettling news.

“Look, honey, I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but it’s been over ten years now. The head doctor mentioned that the chances of him waking up are getting slimmer, and soon, you may have to make a tough decision.”

How could you let him go, your father? You stuck to your resolve, as you had every time the doctors suggested there was no hope. You wouldn’t pull the plug on him. Maybe one day he would wake up—you held onto that hope. But, of course, these decisions came at a price; paying for his hospitalization meant you had to work more than one job.

You threw yourself into work, juggling multiple jobs to keep afloat. The design gigs you found online were mostly project-based—some involved theater costumes, others were special designs for wealthy families, and a few focused on accessory design. Yet, nothing compared to working on a film set. Despite the exhaustion, the pay was decent, and you gained invaluable lessons under the head designer, essential for your career advancement. You knew that hard work was necessary to eventually rise to the role of head designer or costume supervisor.

On set, you forged strong connections with others, often reuniting for films or documentaries with similar themes. Another perk of being on set was the chance to mingle with famous actors and actresses. They weren’t always what they seemed; some were charming in front of the camera but difficult behind the scenes, while others proved surprisingly kind. However, some would overstep and forget your role as a costume designer.

You still recall that time when an actress had you rush out in the rain to grab her some coffee, only to scold you because it had gotten cold by the time you brought it to her.

Cruel bitch.

Despite being part of the cast, you chose not to watch the film afterward out of sheer annoyance.

During a break before the night scene, the other girls on set invited you to lunch. Although the food provided on set was good, space was tight, and meals were only served at 6 PM before filming resumed. So, you were relieved when they suggested stepping outside for some junk food. As you exited the trailer, you found yourself surrounded by tourists, eagerly snapping photos with their phones, hoping to catch a glimpse of their favorite stars. The security team was struggling to manage the crowd, a daunting challenge that would only ramp up over the next three days—all for a mere ten minutes of footage.

“Girls, check that out!” One of them pointed to a shop on the way back from lunch, its neon sign flashing: palm reading, tarot reading - book your session today.

Love, Destiny, Fate.

“What do you think? Should we try a tarot reading?” she asked, her tone pleading.

You rolled your eyes. “Come on, guys, these things are a joke; they don’t really do anything.”

To your annoyance, they insisted.

“Let’s just do it for fun, please!”

“Yeah, come on! Just this once!”

You had always been a skeptic about such superstitions, especially after the tragic loss of your parents and your sister's autism diagnosis following that incident. You had more than enough reasons to doubt fate, luck, or even love.

As the girls eagerly paid for their tarot readings—a decision you thought was a complete waste of money—you decided to just watch. But eventually, their relentless begging wore you down, and you agreed to join them so they wouldn’t be disappointed.

When it was your turn, the fortune teller—a woman dressed in an eclectic manner—shuffled the cards and asked you to draw a few. As she laid them out in a specific spread, her expression changed immediately. “Oh dear, you’ve been feeling quite overwhelmed and drained,” she began. She turned over another card. “You may come off as a tough nut, but deep down, you really want to help others.” Then she revealed a third card. “Hmm, it seems like success is on the horizon. You’re working hard, and soon you’ll start to see the fruits of your labor.”

“I hope so,” you muttered.

When she flipped the next card, her eyes sparkled. “Ah, there’s a man here. He’ll enter your life in a way that he’ll soon become your whole world.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “Oh, yeah, right,” you scoffed.

“Seriously, trust me,” she insisted.

“That sounds nice,” one of the girls said eagerly.

“What’s he like?” another chimed in, excitement in her voice.

“Come on, girls,” you sighed in exasperation.

The fortune teller frowned. “Love is in the cards, okay? Let’s just enjoy this.”

Rolling your eyes again, you tried to keep your cool as frustration bubbled inside you.

She continued, flipping over another card. “Look here! Again, it’s all about this guy! Trust me, he’ll settle right in the center of your heart!”

"Woooo!"

“Oh, how lucky you are!” the girls exclaimed.

As your irritation peaked, you struggled to maintain your composure.

The woman pressed on, “This man is...,” she hesitated, as if struggling with a foreign language. “from...,” she raised an eyebrow, “the past.”

“From the what, past?” you asked, intrigued despite yourself.

“Oh, it must be your ex or something,” one of the girls guessed.

"I sure hope not," you grunted.

“Maybe, but it’s a new kind of love,” the fortune teller hesitated, seeming surprised by something.

“What nonsense is this?” you pouted, pursing your lips.

Seemingly annoyed, she replied, “My insights are always spot on, sweetheart.”

Despite your skepticism, you waited as she looked at the last card. “Ah, you’ll have to make a choice,” she said, her tone suddenly serious. “You can either stay with him, or you won’t.”

Okay, that was enough.

“Again with the love nonsense? Don’t you see anything about my career?” you scoffed.

“I’m just interpreting the cards you drew, dear,” she said defensively.

You sighed and stood up. “I don’t need love. I don’t need a man; I need money.”

As the shoot finally wrapped up, it was time to tidy up for the crew, and you found yourself chatting with the girls about tarot readings while you worked. They kept inquiring about your past relationships, but you had none to share. Aside from a brief fling in high school, you hadn't been in a serious relationship. You didn’t want to bring up that one encounter, which had ended in frustration. The guy who left you at the altar would occasionally show up at your door drunk, and you’d promptly kick him out. End of story.

A man from your past, but a new love?

What the hell?

That seemed as impossible as the sun rising in the west.

Once all your tasks were complete, exhaustion hit you, and heading home felt like an uphill battle. You made your way through security to your buddy Leo. “Evening went off without a hitch, huh?” you asked.

“Yeah, just had to deal with a few overzealous fans tonight, but now that our big star's gone, they won’t be coming back,” he replied, propping his feet up on the opposite chair while sipping his beer. “Want some?”

“No, thanks. No moonlight tonight?” you quizzed.

“Didn't you hear there’s an eclipse?”

“Eclipse?”

“Yep, if you look carefully, you can see it. Guess you’ve been too busy to catch the news.”

Rolling your eyes, you replied, “Story of my life.” Then you remembered that morning when you first heard about it on the radio.

You walked a bit further outside, fiddling with your phone's camera settings to capture a glimpse of the eclipse. As you focused on the moon being gradually engulfed by the Earth’s shadow, you heard murmurs behind you. Turning toward the bushes, you spotted three girls. “What’s going on? Who are you?” you asked.

They jumped to their feet, looking nervous and frightened.

“Ah, I see, you’re fans too, huh? You must’ve snuck in; good job, Leo,” you muttered. “Alright, girls, time to head out. Our big star has left. You really think he’s just hanging around in a trailer or something? He’s off at a hotel.”

Disappointed, they exchanged glances.

“Which hotel is he at?” one of them asked, grinning.

You sighed and grabbed her arm. “Move! Get out of here, fast!”

After escorting the girls to Leo and the security team, you made your way back to the trailer, where a nightmare awaited you. It was an absolute mess—fabrics and materials were strewn everywhere, and scattered papers littered the floor. Who had created this chaos?

When you asked one of your colleagues, he told you it was the props manager and his team who had left the mess behind. They must have mistaken the design trailer for another. Some papers looked ancient, clearly part of a realistic set design, with a few appearing to be genuine antiques. Recognizing they would be used as props, you took them over to the other trailer. Just as you were about to leave, a sudden gust of wind blew one of the papers from your hands, and as you bent to retrieve it, a strange sensation washed over you.

“Whoa.”

What was that odd feeling?

You carefully picked up the scrolls and placed them into the box, something caught your eye. Drawn to the writing, you felt an inexplicable familiarity, as though you had encountered it before. A wave of emotion washed over you, and your eyes began to well up. But why were you feeling this way?

The script was in Latin—an old form, likely dating back to ancient Roman times. Curiosity sparked within you. What could it possibly say? With no one around, you reasoned that there was no harm in taking a closer look.

You fished your phone out of your pocket and opened the language translation app you had downloaded earlier, eager to decipher the text. Aiming the camera at the writing, you waited patiently. After a few moments, the app began to translate, though the phrases came through fragmented.

“Please... accept my sacrifice... I offer you..." It was all pieces meant nothing but then you realized that sentence: "If that person is engulfed in distress or peril, grant him the chance to rise to another life, another time…"

Another what? Life? Time?

“What on earth is this?” you muttered to yourself, realizing that the translation seemed nonsensical. “Stupid app.”

Suddenly, hearing footsteps approach, you panicked and accidentally tore the edge of the paper.

“No, no, no, no, no!”

Frantically, you tucked it into the back pocket of your shorts. Better to hide it than risk being caught holding it.

“What are you doing here?” the props manager snapped, glaring at you. His expression shifted to shock when he noticed the decor papers you had just brought in. “Hey, you didn’t mess with these, did you? Some are authentic; we barely got permission from the collectors' family, and they need to be delivered the day after tomorrow.”

“Are they real ones?” you asked, pretending to be innocent.

“Yes! Please don’t tell anyone—the director must have lost his mind. He asked me to use the authentic ones as props. We had no time to find replicas. You didn’t touch them, did you?”

You nodded. “No, of course not,” you lied. You had no idea why you’d even done that. “But shouldn’t these be in a museum or something?”

“No, they’re antiques, imported specially from a private collection.”

And now you’d ripped one of them.

You were really in hot water. Exiting the trailer, you returned to yours. When you pulled out the antique—likely priceless—that you had stuffed in your pocket, you felt a wave of dread.

It was crumpled and had a torn edge, but fortunately, the writing remained intact, albeit looking a mess.

But it wasn’t entirely your fault.

Why had they sent the wrong trailer?

Oh right. Wrong trailer.

Couldn’t the crew member who dropped it off have mixed it up somewhere?

Yeah, that was a reasonable thought.

At least they could believe that—until you fixed it.

You really should have contacted your friend Katie, the antiquities expert at the General Directorate of Museums, right away.

It was just Latin script on the paper with bullshit, but that didn’t change the fact that it was an invaluable artifact.

You were so fucked.

The rest of the night unfortunately took a turn for the worse after that call came in. The antique paper you had accidentally torn was missing, and everyone was turning the place upside down looking for it. But how could you admit that? Confessing it could get you fired, and it didn’t really matter that it was someone else's family heirloom. After all, it wasn't your fault. It was all the mistake of whoever had brought it to the trailer in the first place.

You tried to reassure yourself as you pretended to help with the search. While you were busy suppressing your guilt, you suddenly heard a sound. But there was no one in sight—was it one of those girls again?

“Oh, I’m really tired. Whoever you are, just show yourself now,” you called out as you walked forward. The eclipse had hidden the moonlight, plunging everything into darkness. The only illumination came from the distant lights of some buildings ahead, but it was still shadowy where you stood. As you approached to the sound, you caught sight of a shadowy figure with back turned, draped in a long black cloth.

A strange feeling washed over you. You crept closer, and the odd sensation intensified.

It was a man—yes, definitely a man—well-built, in a black robe, holding… a sword?

Your eyes widened in shock.

“What the fuck?"

He turned to face you, and the first thing you felt was a perplexing déjà vu, as if you knew him but couldn’t place him. His intense gaze and striking features seemed familiar, yet you couldn’t put your finger on it. And those clothes…

"Who the fuck are you?”

Wait a minute.

This wasn’t your first encounter with someone like him. He had to be one of those extras—probably overworked and known for causing trouble on set. He must not have bothered to change out of his costume and was relishing this unexpected role.

“Look, man, I don’t want any trouble, but I really need you to take off that costume. I’m responsible for the outfits, and if anything happens to it, my paycheck will take a hit, okay? Didn’t anyone give you a heads-up?” You stepped closer, but he just stood there, staring at you like a statue.

Taking a closer look, you noticed the armor beneath his robe was unlike anything you’d ever seen on set. Had they started filming something new without you? That couldn’t be right—or worse, what if he had stolen it? Wonderful. You reached out to inspect it further, but in an instant, he grabbed your wrist, spun you around, and shoved you away like you were nothing.

“Aaaah!” You winced, clutching your sore wrist and glaring at him in frustration. “Are you out of your mind? Get that costume off now! Can’t you hear me? Are you deaf or something?”

He sighed, casually wiping his sword with the hem of his robe and sheathing it as if he did it every day. He performed the action with such style that even a seasoned actor might be impressed.

“I see you’re really into character. Nice job!” you said with a hint of sarcasm. “But as I said, I need you to take it off. Now.”

“What kind of shameless woman are you to demand that I undress?”

What the hell was that? His accent, thick and unfamiliar, rolled off his tongue in a way you had never encountered. It was as if a whisper from another age echoed through each word he spoke.

“Undressing? Oh God, what kind of maniac are you?” You sighed. “This is your last warning; I’ll call security.”

He frowned, as if hearing the term for the first time. “Security…” he muttered to himself, clearly annoyed.

Just then, you heard someone call your name. Turning around, you spotted Leo and hurried over to him, grabbing his arm. “Leo, that guy seems either like a maniac or he’s drunk. I think he might be an extra, but he could also be an intruder.”

Leo looked just as taken aback as you were. “I’ve never seen him before. Is that a sword?”

“It’s probably fake,” you muttered.

The man glared, brandishing his sword as he pointed at you. "You two, tell me where I am."

“Yeah, he’s definitely drunk,” you whispered to Leo.

Leo played it cool. “Listen, man, I need you to come with me right now. I need to figure out why you broke into the film set.”

“The film… set...” he repeated to himself in confusion.

“Why is he acting like he’s never heard of it?” Leo asked you, both of you now staring at him nervously.

“I told you he’s crazy or maybe psycho. Do you think he could have escaped from a mental hospital or something?”

“Let’s hope not. But what would he be doing here? If I could get the cuffs on him without freaking him out, we could call the police.”

“Great plan, go for it,” you urged, giving him a gentle nudge to encourage action.

As Leo pulled the handcuffs from his waistband, the strange man eyed him suspiciously, as if he posed a threat. “I’m going to put these on you now, alright?”

The man's face remained expressionless, cold yet menacing. “And what if I refuse?”

You gulped. “What are you doing, mister? He’s the security guard—don’t make this any harder.”

“You asked for this,” Leo said angrily, pulling out his baton.

You were taken aback when the man tightened his grip on his sword in response as Leo stepped closer.

“Listen, we all know that sword’s fake—”

Out of nowhere, he sliced through Leo’s baton with a swift, precise motion.

You froze for a moment, unable to process what had just happened.

Leo turned on his heels and bolted. “Police! I’ll call the police!”

“Where do you think you’re going? Wait for me!” you shouted in panic but a hand suddenly grabbed your arm. The man’s sword was still clutched in his grip, and you couldn’t help but notice the red stains on it. Could it be b-blood, real blood? Fear began to creep in, and you started to tremble.

“Look, please don’t hurt me! I’m really sorry for calling you crazy, a psycho, and a maniac. I shouldn’t have said that. I’m begging you, forgive me!” you said, almost sobbing.

"I assure you that I have no intention of causing any harm. I need to uncover the truth of my surroundings. Please, help me understand where I am, what is this place?"

What the hell? It was like he’d lost his memory or something or his mind.

“What do you mean?” you asked, trying to come up with a way to wriggle free.

"I find myself in a familiar location; however, the surrounding environment appears to have undergone significant changes."

You leaned closer to him. “Are you sure you’re not just drunk?”

You swallowed hard as he shot you an angry glance.

“There he is!”

“Let her go now!”

Leo and the others had arrived, guns aimed and ready.

“I suggest you surrender, sir. Just do as they say, and they’ll help you. If you really can't remember where you came from, they can sort it out,” you urged him, hoping to de-escalate the situation.

“Put down your sword now,” Leo commanded.

“They'll help me, you say?” the man muttered, his gaze fixed on them.

This might be your best chance to get him to back down. “Yes, definitely. The police will help you,” you replied, offering him a reassuring smile.

“Police,” he repeated, a flicker of confusion crossing his face.

He was behaving like a little kid, learning new words by repeating them.

“I will release this woman,” he stated, finally sheathing his sword. Everyone took a deep breath.

“He'll surrender,” you relayed to your friends, then turned back to the man. “But I need to take your sword back to where you got it.”

“The gladius is mine.” His tone was resolute, as if the sword had belonged to him for years.

However, if he had stolen it from the prop crew, you could land yourself in a heap of trouble, far worse than the mess you’d made with the paper.

“But it poses a danger to them. If they can’t trust you, they can’t help you. So, please hand me the sword,” you insisted.

He paused, contemplating your words, then took the sword scabbard from his waist and looked at you sternly before handing it to you. “Promise me you’ll protect this with your life.”

You rolled your eyes, exasperated. “What is this? Are we filming a movie or something?”

He grabbed your arm and shook you. “Promise me.”

As soon as you picked it up, you staggered under its weight. It was a real sword indeed. With a sigh, you relented. “Okay, okay, I promise.”

As he relinquished the sword as if it were the most precious thing to him, Leo and the others looked on, intrigued, surprised.

He must’ve truly lost his mind or something. Watching him leave with the security guards, you couldn’t shake a sense of curiosity about what he’d been through. After they were gone, people who had heard the commotion on the film set gathered around you. This was far more interesting than searching the area for antique parchment, and they listened in fascination as you recounted the bizarre encounter.

As the security guards urged Marcus to speak, his gaze was fixed on the screens in the security room. He was mesmerized by the footage playing out before him. What he saw astonished him—moving images flickering in small boxes, an experience he had never imagined and could never have anticipated.

“Hey, look up here!” Leo snapped his fingers, trying to regain Marcus's attention. “What kind of freak are you? Don’t you have any ID or something on you?”

Marcus didn’t even seem to register the question; he was too transfixed on the screens. Leo took a deep breath, his anxiety bubbling over. “Listen, mate, for us to help you, you need to spill the beans. What were you doing on set? How did you manage to sneak in? And where did you get those clothes and that sword? You know it’s illegal to carry a real sword in this country, right?”

Just then, he spotted you on one of the monitors. The footage showed you walking out the outer door, leaving the premises.

“That woman,” Marcus murmured, “that woman said you would help me, and I gave her my sword in return.” 'She promised," he thought.

“Alright, we’re trying to help you, but you have to answer my questions,” Leo insisted.

“Tell me how to reach there,” Marcus urged, pointing at the screen. “Is that another life? I need to go there.”

Leo and the other guards exchanged glances, bewildered. “What did you just say? Another life? Come on, what kind of joke is this? ‘There’ is right outside, you fool!”

Suddenly, Marcus sprang to his feet, and Leo stepped in front of him, blocking his path. “Hey, you’re not going anywhere until the police get here!”

With a roll of his eyes, Marcus swiftly grabbed Leo and shoved him aside, causing the guards to stumble into one another in the chaos.

“Hey! Stop!” they shouted after him as he dashed away.

You were examining the sword in your hand as you stepped off the set and into the parking lot toward your car. It was undeniably real, yet it looked so pristine. Perhaps the scabbard had been restored; its craftsmanship clearly reflected a lot of effort. You had seen replicas before, but this one was strikingly accurate, almost like a genuine ancient artifact.

However, according to the set crew, the sword wasn’t part of the props. You were supposed to take it to the museum tomorrow—maybe they would decide what to do with it. You opened the car door, placed your bag and the sword in the back seat, and shut the door. But just then, you noticed him—the crazy man. He was sprinting toward you.

That lunatic.

You quickly flung open the driver’s door, jumped into the seat, and turned the key in the ignition. As the engine roared to life, Marcus approached, bewildered; he had never encountered a car door before. Taking advantage of his astonishment, you drove onto the bustling street, and to your surprise, he dashed after you, but soon he captivated by the scene.

Standing there, mesmerized, he absorbed the chaotic sight of the vehicles surrounding him—their strange forms, the symphony of sounds, and the dazzling lights. In that moment of realization, he understood: in this extraordinary place, horses were no longer needed for riding. These remarkable machines forged their own path, free from the constraints of the past time, his time.

A taxi pulled up, and the driver, who must have seen way too many movies, rolled down his window and leaned out. “Hey! Do you want to catch her?”

Marcus was taken aback but nodded eagerly.

“Jump in then, man!” The cabbie said, chuckling at Marcus's surprised expression as he opened the back door for him. He thought this strange carriage didn’t need a horse, but seeing how you had gotten in earlier made it a bit easier for him. He climbed in and followed the cabbie’s instructions, pulling the door shut behind him. He was astonished when the cabbie hit the gas and effortlessly steered the vehicle. Looking out the window, he couldn’t help but marvel at the unfamiliar street, the other cars—everything felt so foreign and unusual.

“Don’t worry, mate, we’ll catch your girlfriend!” the cabbie reassured him.

“Girl...friend…” Marcus mumbled under his breath, another strange word to add to his growing list.

“Awkward outfit choice, buddy. No wonder she ran away,” the cabbie laughed. “Did you try to surprise her like this? Maybe next time, try a Batman outfit—it worked with my girl.”

Another odd phrase and a joke that flew right over Marcus’s head.

After a short drive, the cabbie brought the car to a halt, noticing that your taxi had stopped as well. “There’s your girl!” he announced.

Turning his head, Marcus spotted you getting out of the other taxi and heading toward an apartment building. He tried to recall how the taxi driver had opened the door for him earlier. The cabbie noticed his bewilderment and smirked. “Seriously? You can’t open the door? You must be pretty drunk,” he teased. “Come on, mate, you’re gonna wanna dash now.”

“I owe you one, coachman,” Marcus said, grateful.

The cabbie laughed hard. “You owe me 26 euros, that’s right.”

Once again, Marcus encountered another strange term, but he didn’t have time to dwell on it. The moment the cabbie shouted at him, “Hey, you haven’t paid!” Marcus felt the pressure to hurry. He pressed the door shut, but the cabbie opened his window, yelling, “You didn’t pay!”

The honking alarms from the cars behind startled Marcus, but he stayed focused. “You didn’t pay!” the cabbie shouted again.

You turned around at the ruckus, nearly fainting when you spotted him.

“No way!” you exclaimed, worried.

As you hurried toward the apartment block, Marcus pulled out a denarius from a pouch on his belt and tossed it to the taxi driver. The cabbie caught it, turning it over in his hand, recognizing the face of Emperor Severus, which he swore he had seen in a museum. “What the hell is this? A prank? Where's the damn camera?” he muttered.

How could he still be chasing you? You reached into your bag for your keys. It was late, and the streets were nearly empty, but he appeared resolute in following you.

“Stop!” you called, holding your hand up.

You pulled your phone from your pocket. “Stop, or I’ll call the police!”

For your words to be taken as a threat, Marcus had to understand their meaning, and he didn’t, he had no idea. “Give me back my sword,” he demanded.

“Okay,” you replied, opening the car door and grabbing his sword. “Just take it and leave me alone.”

He reached for his sword, examining it, while you quickly grabbed your bag. Your hand searched for the pepper spray you kept for emergencies.

While you were rummaging, Marcus noticed a parchment in your bag.

“Okay, now can you go?” you said, turning to leave. “Good night.”

“Wait.”

“What now? I gave you your sword. Please, just leave me alone,” you whined.

“That parchment—let me see it.”

He noticed it?

“Why?” you asked, wary.

“I may have seen that before,” he murmured.

You were exhausted and just wanted this absurd night to end. Reluctantly, you handed it to him. As he read, his eyes widened in surprise.

“This...” He looked up at you in awe. “Did you read or spelled any of this, by any chance?”

“Yeah, so what?” you replied defensively.

“You’re the one who called me.”

You raised your eyebrows, baffled. “What did you just say? Why would I call you? I don’t even know you!”

He took a step toward you. “Those words—this is what brought me here, I’m certain.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” you shot back, taking a step back yourself. “Look, I’m done with your nonsense, okay? Just leave me alone!”

"I need to return. Whether I traveled here or was brought here, I certainly need to head back to… my own time."

You erupted in laughter.

Did he really just say that? Maybe you were stuck in some ridiculous dream. “Seriously? That’s the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard. Tonight has been full of absurdities. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m heading home to rest, and I warn you—stay away from me.”

Just then, you heard your sister call out from the window.

“Get inside now!” you shouted at her. Fumbling with your keys, you opened the apartment door and stepped inside. The man remained outside, but you ignored him, shutting the door firmly behind you and starting up the stairs. As you climbed, he repeatedly scanned the words written on the paper, hoping to find a way back to his own time.

But nothing happened.

Why had this girl—you—read it and made him arrive here? What was the secret to unlocking the path back?

For the first time in ages, you woke up not to the blaring sound of an alarm, but to the ping of your mobile phone. It was someone from the set, and they sounded quite anxious about the events from the night before. They informed you that a strange man had taken you hostage and assumed you must be feeling pretty shaken. As a result, you were given the day off. You felt a wave of relief; in fact, you were eager to see Katie and sort out the whole parchment mess, so this felt like a great opportunity.

After hanging up, you snuggled back under the blankets, but a sudden thought nagged at you—what if that man was still out there? He was a maniac, after all.

But could he be crazy enough to have spent the entire night on the street?

Reluctantly, you peeled yourself out of bed and peeked out the window. To your relief, there was no one in sight. However, you soon noticed a commotion below. People on the sidewalk were stopping, giggling, and snapping pictures of something. Straining to see from your high vantage point, you could only make out the awning of the pizza shop below.

“Could that lunatic be down there?” you wondered aloud.

His outfit undeniably could capture people's attention and spark their curiosity.

A voice inside you insisted, “Forget about it. You don't know him. It doesn't matter what he does.”

But your conscience nagged at you—maybe he was a mentally unwell person who truly needed help. Perhaps his family was searching for him. “Fuck it,” you muttered, sliding out of bed and throwing on your dressing gown as you made your way downstairs.

Stepping out into the street left you in shock. There he was, just as you remembered.

It wasn’t a dream or a nightmare.

He was sitting on the ground, still dressed in that strange outfit from yesterday—his Roman soldier costume. Passersby, especially tourists, were snapping pictures. He didn’t react at all; his head hung low, probably accustomed to the attention after sitting there since morning. A pang of guilt hit you, seeing him like that. You inched closer. He caught sight of your feet first, then looked up at your face, and immediately stood up, turning his head away for some reason.

“Do you really have nowhere to go?” you asked. He shook his head. People were still stopping to take photos, but you warned them off and pulled at the man's arm. “Come with me, you pain in the neck.”

Just then, you heard a familiar voice call out—Enzo, the owner of the pizza place below your apartment. “Do you know this guy? He’s the reason I’ve got so many customers today,” he said with a grin.

You glanced inside the bustling restaurant. It was packed. You smiled at Enzo and explained that he was a friend and kept tugging the psycho along.

“Where are we going?” he asked, clearly confused.

“To my apartment. Would you rather just sit on the street?”

His expression hinted that he would rather not engage. You walked in silence, hoping that Mrs. Costa, your landlady and the owner of the flat, wouldn’t spot you as you passed her door. Every glance at the peculiar man trailing behind you revealed an expression of wonder, as if he were seeing an apartment building for the very first time. When you reached your apartment, you unlocked the door and said, “Come in.”

He peeked inside, his eyes darting around. “Is this... where you live?”

“Yeah, technically.”

He seemed to avoid looking directly at you, which felt strange. What wasn’t strange about him was the real question.

“It’s not safe for a woman to let a stranger into her home,” he remarked.

You raised your eyebrows playfully. “Seriously? Wasn’t it you who followed me here?”

“It wasn’t my intention,” he replied.

“What do you mean by intentions? I'm trying to help you!”

Suddenly, you heard a door open downstairs, and instinctively, you shoved him inside. “Get in quickly, or go back to the street. I really don’t care!” you snapped.

He complied, and just as you were about to close the door, you heard your landlady's voice call up to you.

“Sweetie, is there a problem? I thought I heard a man's voice.”

“Good morning, Mrs. Costa! Everything's fine, don’t worry.”

“My ears must be deceiving me. Good morning, dear. I thought it was that man again.”

That man being your ex-fiancé, whom you'd kicked to the curb just last week.

“No, he didn’t come. He can’t come back.”

“Okay, cara mia, see you later.”

“See you.”

You closed the door and let out a deep sigh. As you turned around, you nearly collided with the psycho who had followed you right behind. You stumbled, almost losing your balance, but he acted quickly, wrapping his arms around your waist. Both of you were taken aback by the sudden closeness.

“Who the hell is this guy?” your sister Lizzie asked, staring wide-eyed at the two of you.

He quickly pulled his hands back, and you stepped away.

“Wait a minute, isn’t that the guy from last night?” she questioned.

“Don’t you have to get ready for school?” you responded, glancing at her.

“Don’t you have to get to work too?”

“Nope, I’m off today.”

“Oh, really?” She examined the man, they exchanged confused looks.

“This is my sister Lizzie, and this is... um... what’s your name again psycho?” you stammered.

He didn’t answer, keeping his gaze averted. Lizzie looked between you both, clearly intrigued by what was unfolding.

“Do women in your world always walk around with their legs uncovered?” he whispered, leaning in close to your ear.

Ah, so that’s what the sidelong glances were all about. You glanced down at your short shorts. “Do you have to get weirder every second?” you snapped through clenched teeth.

“Or is he just a friend from the film set or something?” Lizzie chimed in as she returned with her bag.

“What makes you think that?”

“It’s the outfit he’s wearing. That looks like a Roman soldier’s garb, probably a general’s,” she observed.

“Your sister is quite clever,” he said with a smile.

Your jaw dropped the first time you saw him smile.

And it was also when you realized he was rather handsome.

What on earth?

Was it really time to think that?

“Anyway, I’m late for school. Bye.”

“Bye, sweetie.” You shut the door and turned to him. “Are you seriously just going to stand there? Come inside.”

Suddenly, he grabbed his arm. “Could you hand me a piece of cloth?”

“What did you say? For what?”

He removed his black robe, and your eyes widened at the sight of blood running down his arm. “What happened to your arm?”

“A pugio grazed it.”

“A what?” you exclaimed.

“In a fight. Not here. Back in my time,” he explained.

“Here we go again,” you muttered as you headed to your room for the first aid kit. When you returned, he was in the living room, observing everything with his usual expression as if seeing it all for the first time.

You studied him before entering—his armor fit him as if he wore it daily, and he moved and spoke with a familiarity that was unsettling.

Could he truly be from another time?

Did time travel actually exist?

If so, why had you never encountered it before?

And why was it happening to you?

Shaking your head, you tried to dismiss the ridiculous thought.

Come to your senses girl.

You steered your thoughts back to logic. He was strange, or maybe just nuts; there had to be a rational explanation for this, had to be.

“Why don’t you sit down? Let me take a look at your arm.”

“What’s this?”

“First aid kit. It’s the first time you’ve seen one, isn’t it? This is tincture of iodine. We need to apply it to the wound to prevent infection. I’ll bandage it too,” you said as if explaining to a child. You reached for the supplies and began cleaning the wound. It was deep, but he didn’t flinch as you treated it. Instead, he focused intently on your face, avoiding looking down at his injury.

“Acacius...” he murmured.

“Excuse me?”

“My name is Marcus Justus Acacius, commander of the Roman Legions, having recently been entrusted with the esteemed position of General of Rome."

Your jaw dropped.

He said it in such a way that it was difficult not to believe him.

How could he pull that off?

You bit your lip, stifling a laugh. “Of course you are, and I’m Queen Elizabeth, by the way. Nice to meet you, Mr. General.” As you extended your hand, it was clear he was unsure of what to do next with the handshake. With a sigh, you stood up after wrapping up his arm.

“In this place, do you people really think everything is a joke?”

“Look, I don’t know what your problem is, but if you decide to go to the police, you must tell them everything. They’re the only ones who can truly help y—”

Suddenly, he seized your wrist. His rudeness was starting to grate on your nerves. “Read the parchment again. I need to get back to my own time; I’ve already lost too much of it here.”

“You can’t be serious.”

"I find myself in a precarious situation. Upon my initial arrival in this place, I believed I had entered a state of bliss akin to Elysium. However, I have come to realize that this environment is far worse than one might imagine. The Rome I once knew has vanished entirely; I am uncertain of how much time has elapsed, but it is clear that I cannot remain here. So please, read this.”

“Why not read it yourself?”

He released your arm. “I tried; it did not… work.”

“Maybe it’s because it doesn’t do shit and there's no such thing as time travel at all.”

“Listen, at this point, woman, I don’t care if you believe me or not. Read this at once. Someone betrayed me, and my brother might be in danger too. I need to return and find out. So spell it.”

“You must have a fascinating life. Fine, Mr. General. As you wish.”

You took the paper from him and reread the lines you had seen earlier.

"If that person is engulfed in distress or peril, grant him the chance to rise to another life, another time…"

Marcus glanced around, a look of disappointment spreading across his face. “I’m still here.”

“Yes, you’re still here. I told you. Maybe you’ve got brain damage or something, and lost your memory or mind. There’s got to be a logical explanation though. Just come with me to the police station; the cops will help you.”

“What does ‘cops’ mean?”

You rolled your eyes. “You’ll see when you get there. Trust me, okay?”

He nodded. “You trusted me enough to let me into your house. I guess you’re the only one I can trust here.”

How could you have imagined things would become even more complicated once you stepped into the police station?

“No ID, no passport, no fingerprints, no phone records in your name… no family, no home, and no birth record… nothing.” As the officer spoke, you found yourself wondering just how much more surprising this situation could get.

“I was born in the year when Consul Postumius Albinus and Atilius Serranus were in power in the Senate.”

Everyone stared at Marcus in shock—officers paused their work, and even the criminals in the holding cell burst out laughing. The officer shook his head in disbelief as others struggled to control their laughter. You buried your face in your palms, mortified. The officer, clearly racked up, signaled to the other officers to seize Marcus by the arm. Then turned to you.

"Is he a refugee? Did he enter the country illegally? And let's not overlook the clothes he's wearing, which seem to match his strange way of speaking."

“Illegally? No,” You glared at the officer as they shoved Marcus into the holding cell. “Look, officer, I think this guy might be—” You gestured around your head, making a circular motion. “Have you checked the mental hospital records?”

“I told you, ma'am, there’s no record under the name he provided. I’d be surprised if there were any.”

“Are you really planning to keep him locked up?”

“He assaulted a security guard and vandalized a film set. He’s scheduled for court.”

“What if they drop the charges?”

“Then he’ll be released soon, but not without providing us with some form of ID.”

“Okay, thanks.”

He looked so out of place in the cell, standing apart from the other criminals who were looking at him like he was from another planet. You felt a pang of guilt for bringing him there.

“You said they’d help me, but now they’ve locked me up. Are they going to execute me?”

“What? No, of course not! Look, I thought they’d be able to find your family with your name, but I was mistaken. Are you sure you have your name right?”

He shot you an incredulous look. “Why would I lie about my name?”

"Well, it sounds ancient and a bit strange. Just like you," you muttered.

“It’s complicated. You don’t have any ID or passport. I do have a plan to help you get out of here, but you might need to spend the night.”

He gripped the iron bars, thinking. “I can wait one night.”

“If you have amnesia or something, you need to shake it off and remember your family. Otherwise, you’ll end up a refugee, and I could find myself in here with you for trying to help.”

He frowned. “I don’t have any of those things.”

You exhaled a troubled sigh. Had he really lost his mind? Based on his appearance, he seemed to have Italian roots. His accent was odd but articulate; he couldn’t possibly be a refugee.

“My bulla—why did they take it?”

"Bulla?"

He pointed to his neck. "The thing I was wearing."

“Ah, your medallion? Unfortunately, you can’t have accessories while in custody. It's good we left the sword at home, like I suggested,” you whispered, ensuring no one could overhear.

“That item is very important to me. I want you to take care of it, just like my sword, or maybe even more.”

“Look at you giving orders. I’m starting to think you really are a commander,” you joked.

But he stood there, still and serious. “It’s General,” he corrected you.

“Right, Mr. General,” you replied with a smirk, but he frowned. “Fine, I’ll take your precious medallion and head home. Tomorrow, I’ll chat with Leo, the security guard, and have them drop the charges against you. Who knows, maybe someone from your family will show up by then.”

“Will you return tomorrow?”

“Yes, don’t worry.”

He nodded. "I trust you."

You felt goosebumps ripple down your spine at that deep tone. How could he express such conviction? He truly was an extraordinary character.

When you stepped into Katie's spacious office, filled with antiques, in the General Directorate of Cultural Heritage Protection and Museums, you still couldn’t shake the feeling that yesterday had been a dream. It was all too surreal. You shook your head as you glanced down at the medallion in your hand, a tangible sign of that extraordinary day with the mysterious man named Marcus.

It was hard to believe that everything actually happened. You hadn’t come here for him, but rather to discuss the parchment you had accidentally damaged. Katie, an expert in antiquities and assistant manager, was someone you trusted implicitly. She had known your parents well and had been incredibly supportive, particularly when she took your sister Lizzie under her wing every summer. Lizzie had been diagnosed with mild autism, but her intelligence shone brightly, and you were thankful to Katie for giving her a supportive environment.

After a brief catch-up about your father's health, you finally pulled the crumpled parchment from your bag. “Please tell me you can fix this.”

Katie examined the paper closely, putting on her glasses. “Wow, this is the real deal. The keeper must have taken great care of it, despite its age.”

“Yeah, until I got my hands on it,” you mumbled, feeling sheepish.

“Well, we’re lucky it didn’t tear all the way through the writing. But you really need to be more careful; this is a rare artifact.”

“I truly didn’t mean to,” you admitted, your embarrassment evident.

“It might take a couple of weeks,” she replied gently.

“What? I need it sooner! It's only torn a little; can't you just glue it?”

She shot you a look. “This isn’t like sewing a costume, you know. First, I need to analyze the type of material. To repair tears in parchment, I’ll need to use gelatin or other animal-based products, and I have to determine the right one. As for smoothing out the wrinkles, the entire document might need to be placed in a humidity chamber.”

You stared at her, wide-eyed. “Seriously? I had no idea restoring paper was that complicated.”

She chuckled. “Parchment isn’t like your everyday paper. It’s made from animal skins, and you should be grateful it’s not papyrus, which is made from plants. Parchment has some serious advantages, like being more durable in humid conditions and allowing writing on both sides. But if you need this so bad, I can whip up a replica for you; it might just fool the decor crew.”

“Oh, that would be amazing,” you replied, relieved.

She smiled and headed to a large cupboard brimming with various papers and parchments. “Here,” she said, returning with a similar piece of parchment. “This one looks a bit like yours.”

“Katie, thank you so much,” you said sincerely.

“Anytime.”

“You can read what’s written on it, right?” you asked, curiosity piqued. “I looked it up on my phone, but you know, the scriptwriter is really after authenticity.”

“Of course,” she said, glancing at the paper. “It’s a prayer.”

“A prayer?” you echoed.

“Yep, according to this, it’s addressed to Janus, the god of beginnings and endings, who’s second only to Jupiter,” she explained, pulling out a book titled *Ancient Roman Mythology and All the Gods*.

“But Janus has two faces,” you remarked, examining the page in the book.

“Exactly—the past and the future,” she replied, shaking her head. “The prayer mention like 'another time' and 'another life', which possibly could be hinting at escape or a peaceful death. The meaning of many artifacts like this often remains a mystery, even to historians and archaeologists.”

You paused, suddenly uneasy. Could it be true what happened with Marcus?

No, that seemed impossible.

But what if it was?

“Can I ask you one more thing? I was talking to the scriptwriter earlier, and I think he could really use your help with something he’s stuck on,” you said, pulling the medallion out of your bag. “He’s trying to figure out how someone wearing this medallion could travel through time. Is that even possible, or does it sound kind of ridiculous? Does that make sense?”

Katie furrowed her brow, scrutinizing the medallion with her magnifying glass before holding it under ultraviolet light. She looked at you, astonished. “This is incredibly rare. Your scriptwriter must really be into these. But the engravings aren’t connected to time. Did he notice the sun-like symbol?” It was prominently displayed at the center of the medallion, next to the inscriptions. “That’s Sol Invictus—the official sun god of the Roman Empire and protector of soldiers.”

A wave of realization washed over you. “Did you say soldier?” your voice quivered.

“Yes, it’s an amulet or talisman designed to offer protection to the wearer against all evils. The inscriptions indicate this. It’s beautifully preserved. Most in the museum are worn down, but this one looks almost brand new,” she remarked, her admiration evident.

Yet, as you absorbed her words, a tightness gripped your chest. Part of you wished she had dismissed the medallion as a fake. Why did it have to be real?

“But I’m not quite sure how the prayer on the paper connects to time or anything like that. It seems we’ll have to do quite a bit of digging to unravel that mystery,” she added with a grin.

“Maybe it has something to do with the symbols,” you suggested, noticing the same sun sign on the necklace, which was also etched small in the corner of the paper.

“No, I don’t think that’s it. There’s no symbol on the paper—just the inscription. The purpose of the parchment serves a different role, but—”

“There it is,” you interrupted, gently pointing to the symbol with your fingertip. Katie looked at you, puzzled.

“Honey, there’s no symbol there—just some wear and tear.”

How could she not see the symbol you noticed? You glanced again to double-check; it was definitely there, but she remained firm in her denial. Or could it be that she simply couldn’t see it, while you could?

What on earth was happening?

Maybe you were truly starting to freak out. As you got ready to leave Katie’s room, a question bubbled up inside you. If, by some impossible chance, that man had traveled forward in time to your era, how would he ever make it back to his own? “Katie, let’s say—it’s unlikely, of course—but how could this time traveler, from the film, have arrived? And how would he return? Do you have any logical ideas?”

“This might sound a bit far-fetched, but if it were possible, I’d suggest a portal would have to open, and it would need to reopen in the same spot for the person to get back,” she explained.

“In the same spot,” you echoed quietly.

“Exactly. The audience would be blown away, right?” she replied. “Oh, absolutely,” you chuckled, a bit nervously.

“Just one more thing, Rose,” she said before you left the room. “It sounds silly to mention this without thorough research, but it’s quite possible that the individual who wrote that parchment and the one who inscribed the medallion could be the same person.”

You nodded slowly, “Yeah, I see what you mean. Thanks.”

You sat in the car for hours before finally starting the engine, resting your head on the steering wheel as you drifted into thought.

How was this even possible?

This man was from another time, an era long gone.

But how?

How did you end up in this bizarre situation when nobody makes films or TV series about this kind of thing anymore?

Was Marcus correct?

Did reading that parchment somehow summon him or cause him to travel in your time?

Suddenly, a wave of sympathy washed over you. It must be incredibly hard for him. Then you recalled the harsh words you’d thrown at him: “freak,” “maniac,” “psycho.”

With a deep sigh, you turned the key in the ignition. You should have freed him from the police station sooner.

When you arrived, it was a challenge to convince the officer. Fortunately, after you called Leo for assistance, the crew from the set decided to drop their complaint since no damage had been done. You signed a form acknowledging that you were responsible for knowing this stranger and agreed to return his lost ID soon. Before long, a policeman escorted him inside.

You swallowed hard as your eyes met his, still struggling to wrap your mind around the fact that he was a soldier from ancient Rome.

“You came as you promised,” he said as the car rolled away.

He still didn’t seem accustomed to the ride, curiously fidgeting with everything around him.

“Yeah, I had to—considering your obsession with promises,” you managed to murmur, your voice shaky.

“Or do you believe me now?” he asked, hopeful.

“I’m still unsure and in shock, to be honest. But I think I’ve figured out how to get you back to your time.”

“Is that right?”

“I’ll read the parchment again, in the same place,” you explained, the plan crystallizing in your mind. He nodded slowly, contemplation etched on his face. "That is a logical conclusion."

“By the way, I’m Rose,” you said quietly.

He turned to you, intrigued.

“Rose,” he repeated, your name lingering in the air. “Rosa,” he repeated again, trying to pronounce it in his own way.

“In Latin, yes,” you confirmed, your smile widening as his expression softened. “It’s a beautiful name,” he remarked, the tenderness in his voice stirring something deep within you.

“Thanks, yours is nice too, I suppose,” you replied shyly as you pulled into the parking spot.

“Here?”

It was dark now, and fortunately, Marcus had led you to a secluded spot where the set wasn’t too crowded. He mentioned that this was where he first opened his eyes.

“Forgive me for not providing you with clean clothes,” you said, noticing he had been wearing the same outfit for days.

“That’s alright. There were times when I didn’t take off my armor for twenty days,” he replied confidently.

You grimaced. “Ew. Didn’t people around you douse you with water? You must smell terrible,” you joked, laughing.

You couldn’t help but notice the flicker of a smile across his face—was he smiling?

How could he be that handsome?

“Let’s get on with this; I need to head back,” he said, fastening his medallion around his neck again. “A present from someone important?” you mocked.

He brushed off the question, his expression shifting to one of seriousness. “Spell the words,” he instructed, his tone commanding.

Where had the smiling guy gone? Regardless, he was about to leave, slipping back into whatever life he had come from, and soon he would be entirely out of your world. Why did it matter to you?

You pulled out the parchment from your bag and draped it over your shoulder before glancing down to read. “I guess this is goodbye, Mr. General.”

He shook his head. “It is.”

You extended your hand. “It was nice to meet you after all; I hope everything goes well for you.”

He looked at your hand, seemingly unsure of how to shake. You grabbed his hand with both of yours and smiled. “That’s how you do it,” you said, initiating a proper handshake. He nodded but quickly pulled his hand back, clearly eager to return. You looked back at the parchment, and shock gripped you as you witnessed the letters begin to shift.

Yes, they shifted. They fucking moved!

"This is just some magical shit," you barely muttered.

Whether they danced before your eyes, or you were losing your grip on sanity, you couldn't quite tell.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, noticing your sudden change in demeanor.

“Nothing, it’s just…” How could you articulate the absurdity of it all?

You fumbled through your thoughts without reading the text, aware that the words had morphed, and your grasp of Latin was sufficient to recognize the difference.

"If that person is engulfed in distress or peril, grant him the chance to rise to another life, another time…"

In that instance, a blinding flash erupted behind Marcus, framed between the ancient stone pillars of the temple. Oh, fantastic. Everything behind the brilliance blurred, and a peculiar wind started to stir, filling the air with an unsettling energy.

“It worked,” Marcus declared, excitement radiating from him. He boldly approached the radiant light, but oddly, it didn’t seem to pull him in. He furrowed his brow and glanced in your direction. “Something’s not right.”

“Tell me about it,” you retorted, your mind buzzing like a beehive with confusion. This was all too overwhelming.

He stepped closer and snatched the parchment from your grasp. “What’s written here has changed. What kind of lesson is this, gods?” he bellowed, frustration edging his voice.

“Hey, I’ve done my best. I’m done, okay? Just go back to your own time!”

“It doesn't say ‘that person’ here; not anymore at least. It says ‘those... two," he murmured, suddenly contemplative.

“So?” you asked, regretting it immediately. You didn’t like the look on his face.

He moved toward you. "You called me, and I believe you should come with me."

You backed away. “What? Are you out of your mind? I didn’t call you! Stay away from me!” you wailed.

But he kept advancing, and just as you were about to turn to escape, he grabbed your wrist.

“Let go!”

"I assure you that I will bring you back. I must return now, for this may be my only chance."

“Let go of me! No, you can’t! Please.” But your struggles were futile, like fighting against stone. Why couldn’t anyone on set hear you, for heaven’s sake?

With a fierce determination, he pulled you toward the blinding anomaly, despite your protests. The last thing you remembered was the wash of light enveloping you.

And then, in the blink of an eye—

A strange wind giving you goosebumps.

Another blink. Marcus stood before you, a triumphant smile on his face. The bastard was elated.

But why?

You quickly grasped the reason as your eyes scanned the surroundings, the realization hitting you like a painful shock. “This is impossible,” you gasped, disbelief washing over your features. There were no skyscrapers, no trailers, no street lights—only temples, countless temples, all illuminated by the flickering light of torches lining the streets. “No, no, no, this can’t be happening,” you exclaimed, frantically searching for the rift or portal.

Where had it gone?

Marcus watched your frantic search, his brow furrowed.

“We have returned to my time.”

Was he smiling???

That was the last straw. You glared at him, anger boiling inside. “We? We have returned? Are you fucking kidding me? You dragged me in here! Why did you do it? How could you?” With all your might, you punched him repeatedly in the chest.

"Stop it. I gave you my word that I would help you return in your own time. You can trust me on that."

“How? How do you plan to do that? Do you think this portal or rift or whatever it’s called just pops up everywhere, asking, ‘Hey there! Anyone want to time travel?’ I can’t believe you. After everything I’ve done to help you, you’re just a jerk, ungrateful bastard! I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!” You kept punching him on the shoulders and chest, but he didn't even feel hurt; he only sighed deeply.

Suddenly, he covered your mouth with his palm. “Call me whatever you wish, but I swear I’ll keep that promise, on my life. Now, please, keep your voice down. The guards are patrolling nearby, they might hear us.”

You didn’t care; tears streamed down your cheeks as your mind struggled to comprehend this unreal situation. How? Why? The questions spiraled endlessly.

In the distance, the Colosseum came into view. It was undamaged, intact, perfectly circular. This bizarre reality only deepened your confusion, and you could take it no longer. You crumpled to the ground, unable to stand.

hope you enjoyed the chapter babies, thanks for reading ❤️

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lokischocolatefountain · 11 months ago

Text

home in three days, do not wash

Fandom: Gladiator II Pairing: Marcus Acacius x Wife!Reader Rating: 18+ Warnings: age gap, mild choking, mentions of child death, hurt comfort, breeding kink, lactation, reader has children, taboo for the time oral sex, talk of war. Word count: 3.6k words Summary: Your General returns home ravenous for you and you cannot decline him, even if any exposure of his act would bring him great shame. A/N: Thanks to @saradika-graphics for the awesome graphics. Napoleon said 'be home in three days, do not wash' and what was I supposed to do? Not use it for our big thicc roman general returning home from war to fuck us? I did research and shit and came to know that eating pussy was a big no no back in the day. dj Khaled would love to be an ancient roman ig. also learned that rich ladies didn't breastfeed and used a wet nurse but they knew that breastfeeding could help and some women did it. Outside all that research, it's just depravity, baby. Anyway, validate my depravity with some comments pls.

Laughter echoed through the hallways of your palatial home and you stood at a balcony with the best view from atop the hill. The campaign that had taken your husband away had finally come to an end with victory for Rome. Far from the hustle and bustle of the city, you were always one of the last people to receive the latest news of importance. This time was an exception to the rule.

Home in three days. Do not wash.

All you wanted when you received the message was to run in the direction of the roads that would bring your beloved home. Three days were too long. You wanted to curtail the long wait, run to him so you would be in one another’s arms in a day and a half.

But you chose the more realistic path and prepared the home for his arrival. The servants polished every surface, your handmaiden ensured you had all your most preferred clothing— that which he loved to see on your body. The kitchen was busy preparing every meal that the master loved. Your two older children with your general busied themselves recollecting everything they learned from their private tutor to impress their father.

Your youngest, your first son, was still so young he had never met his father. He was the child your dearest had longed to have for so long. For all the luck the gods had given him in the battlefield, they had given very little in the way of children to carry his legacy. In his heart, he was father to seven daughters and six sons. The gods had only allowed four daughters to live. Two of his sons passed in infancy, one passed in birth, taking his mother with him. One other was taken by disease and another killed in battle.

He now had only one son and he hadn’t yet the joy of holding him in his arms. Everyday that Marcus was in the battlefield was torture. Babe on your breast and fear in your heart over whether his father would live to see him. Fear sometimes subsided for anger to have its way. That very anger remained in your chest, prepared to unleash on him the moment he stepped into the home.

When the sun dimmed, night crept in and so did Marcus. You refused to greet him at the door. A warm welcome was reserved for men who told their wives where they were going before they left. You had half a mind to ask for a bath to be prepared. To wash yourself with milk and fragrant oils in front of him so he could see your defiance in action.

But you remained in the balcony, eyes set on the moon who served as your companion when he left you. For all the fury you had for him, there was also an ache of sympathy. You wouldn’t sour his mood the moment he entered. He must see his son first. Then you would see to that he groveled at your feet for his cruelty.

Just as you thought, you had a long time to relax on the settee. He always went to his children first. Be it after months away on the battlefield or a mere day in the city. You asked for your son’s crib to be moved to your daughters’ room so he would be able to see them all at once, saving him the battle of choosing between his great loves. You’d sent word to him on the battlefield after you gave birth, sent him the name of his son so he would know to include him in his prayers.

You heard whispers of his voice conversing with a servant. Your heart quickened its pace, each thud against your ribs matching the thuds of his feet against the floor. Oh how you wanted to turn around. It had been so long since your eyes were blessed with him. His towering height, broad frame, the pink of his lips and the curls you so loved to comb through with your fingers. You trembled, the cold breeze reminding you how devoid you’d been of his warmth. Yet you were resolved to not give yourself up to him so soon. You stayed in place and closed your eyes.

He stopped behind you and your name spilled from his lips like honey. It had been so long since anyone spoke your name so… The servants called you mistress and your children called you mother. Your birth family only wrote your name in their many letters. He was the only one who spoke your name, leaving you without hearing your own name since his departure. But you stayed, did not turn, did not open your eyes. He spoke it again, his voice gentle but louder as he stopped at your side.

“Open your eyes, dearest.”

“Where have you come, General?” You asked, your voice cold enough to be the envy of the winter breeze.

“General?” He asked, a hint of amusement playing at his lips.

“Are you not a General?” You taunted, finally opening your eyes. He looked weary from battle and travel. You longed to take him to your chambers and strip him of his armor to count his wounds, kiss each one be it new or old. His hair was grayer than when he left, his skin duller, but his eyes were still the soft brown that gave you peace when you first saw him as his young bride.

“Your General,” he said with a small smile as though his words were supposed to make you forgive him at once and shower him with kisses. It only strengthened your resolve. If he wouldn’t treat you as a wife, you wouldn’t give him the respect of a husband.

“You have a son,” you said, stretching your legs out in the settee just as he made to take his seat there. His hand wrapped around your ankle and you kicked it off, daring him to make another attempt at moving your legs so he could sit. He smiled softly, conceding as he moved to stand by your head.

“He is beautiful, mellilla,” he said, caressing your cheek. You slapped his hand away. All of Rome may fall at his feet and welcome him back with praises of his victory. He was deserving of course, not only for his achievements but for his undying loyalty to Rome. If Rome were a woman, she would be his principal wife and you— you would only be a tavern whore he fucked and left in the dead of night.

“You block the moonlight, General Acacius.”

“Marcus,” he said, moving to allow you sight of the moon once again. He sat in the little remaining space on the settee and looked down at you. Despite the toll war had taken on him, he was incredibly handsome. Bold nose, pink lips and graying curls that only made him look ever so slightly more distinguished. He bent down and pressed a kiss to your lips. You did not return the kiss, but you did not push him away. There was an limit even to your anger. You placed a hand on his shoulder, the act of denying yourself the joy of your lover weighing heavy in your heart.

“I’m afraid I haven’t such an honor.” You bit down on your lip, annoyed at yourself for the trembling of your voice as you spoke. Your anger for him had a foundation of pain after all.

His face fell and he sighed. He looked down at his lap and you hoped it was from shame.

“If you have nothing to say, you may leave. If you need it, you may summon the servants for your meal. But I am sure the emperor did not send his best general hungering for food or cunt,” you spat, rising to sit up on the settee. Hand as strong as iron wrapped around your wrist, coupling with his strong torso that trapped you in place to keep you from getting up. You squirmed in his grasp, but he did not budge.

“Listen to me.”

“Is that an order?”

He wrapped an arm around you and held your cheek in his hand. You looked up at him, giving him biting fury to his firm yet gentle gaze. “If it is the only way I will have your obedience, then yes. It is an order.”

“You may speak, but you cannot make me listen and you most certainly cannot make me respond.”

“I am your husband.”

“A husband doesn’t leave for a year long war at the dead of night with no explanation to the woman swelling with his child,” you screamed, fist slamming against his chest. It didn’t affect Marcus. Nothing affected the great General Acacius, you thought with derision. You hit him in the chest again, tears brimming in your eyes and clouding your vision.

“Forgive me,” he said, pressing a kiss to your forehead. You ceased your attacks as his apology coupled with the pain in his eyes reduced you to tears. You’d kept everything in for so long, put on a brave face for your daughters and hid your heart in your letter to your father. It was only with Marcus that you didn’t need to hide. He always tore your fears down and pulled you into the safety of his arms.

“I wouldn’t have been able to leave had I said goodbye.”

“I was so afraid,” you confessed, leaning into his chest. Every pretense of strength and composure left your body as you let him hold you to his chest. The gold earrings you wore to please his eyes pressed cold against your skin under his hand. He moved next to your hair and then you neck, the hand that held swords and spilled blood only to return home to love you.

“Carissima…You were all I could think of after I left. Forgive me,” he begged, taking your hand in his and pressing a kiss to each finger.

“Later. I have missed you. Marcus,” you whispered, craning your neck to kiss him. He returned your kiss in an instant, arms cradling you as you devoured each other. He smelled of war— blood, soil, sweat, and leather. It was far more pleasing to your senses than any fragrant oils and flowers. Your Marcus and his distinctly masculine scent was above all but the fragrance of your newborn.

You whined as he retreated. He laughed and returned to scatter kisses along your jawline like Rome scattered rose petals along the steps of the Colosseum for his feet. He reached under your layers of silk and linen, making you tremble and press yourself closer to his chest.

“So soft…”

“I need you, please.” It was all he needed to hear before he walked up to the doors of the balcony and slammed them shut. What he did with you, for you, wasn’t for anyone else’s eyes but your own.

He unlatched the gold clips that held your palla to your shoulders and set them aside. Your stola and tunic followed, piling up on the marble floor. Cold air caressed your bare breasts, bigger and fuller now as you nursed your son yourself. You traced your hand up his arm, feeling his vambrace before finding his muscular arms. You whimpered from just how big he was in your hands. You squeezed, feeling the hard muscle and rough skin.

Your General knelt before you and you sat up straight, confused by his action. He couldn’t be… You sought his apologies and regret, but by no means would you ask him to humiliate himself for you. Such a man, superior to you in every way.

“Dominus!” You shrieked, reminding him who he was even when he came home.

“Shh…”

“Are you going to—?”

“Lick you cunt? Yes. Sit back, now,” he said as he guided you to lean back on the settee. You shook your head from side to side, appalled by the circumstances and confused as to how you were supposed to stop him. He spread your legs wide, planting your feet upon the seat. He licked his plush lips and looked up at you, his eyes those of a ravenous beast.

“You cannot. I only want you to understand the torture you put me through, not debase yourself in front of me. It’s not right.”

A corner of his lips curled up slightly. He spat on his hand and rubbed it into your cunt. You arched into his palm, your cunt chasing any contact you could have with your beloved. “Tell me, who do you belong to?”

“You.”

“Speak fully and speak my name.”

“I belong to you, Marcus.”

“Correct. Why do you think then, that you can tell me what I can and cannot do with you?”

He parted your cunt lips and slid a finger inside you. “You belong to me. All of you. This cunt belongs to me. Does it not?” You nodded as he pumped his thick finger in and out of you. It had been so long since you’d been touched that even his finger felt a little much for you to take. You shuddered as you thought of his cock, promising the virility that came with such a size.

“Speak,” he commanded, every bit the fearsome General who led men into battle. When even warriors couldn’t defy him, how could you?

“It belongs to you, Marcus.”

“Mmm,” he rumbled, curling his finger inside you, making you whimper. “If I want to lick this cunt then, do you have any right to stop me?”

“N-no,” you cried, grabbing his wrist and imploring him to slow down for you couldn’t take such intoxicating pleasure. “If peo— Marcus! If someone knew—”

Then he dove into your core and licked the nub above your cunt, eliciting a squeal from you. He looked up at you from between your legs, tongue still licking you as he smirked. It was sinful, the sight and the act of a man serving a woman. You shook your head, your senses already addled from being so close to him after a long year. It was wrong. Wrong. But oh gods, he made all the wrongs feel right and who were you to deny him?

Tears rolled down your cheeks, no longer from the agony of separation from your dearest but from the building pressure in your core.

“Marcus…” you said, unable to say anything else. You reached your hand towards him, needing to be anchored to the Earth as he flew you to the heavens. He enveloped your hand in his and gave a small squeeze. His other hand and his lips were unrelenting, giving him new ways to torment you.

How did anyone deem it submissive for a man to kneel and lick cunt? Your Marcus still looked as majestic as ever. The picture of victory that Rome worshiped. The Marcus Acacius who slew and killed was home and ruthless in his conquest of you. Even as he licked your core, he was the one with all the power in hand. This was but a new way for him to take you.

You gasped inaudibly as he inserted another finger in your cunt, stretching you in preparation for his cock. You felt your unraveling come closer. He pulled you deeper into whatever spell he had you under whenever he touched your cunt. You squeezed his hand tighter, saying everything your lips couldn’t. Hold me, keep me safe, never let me go.

The waves crashed against the rocks on the shores of the beach as you came crashing down from the heavens. Marcus kept his wordless promise. You tightened your legs around his head yet he held you in place and kept you safe.

When you came to, you found your fingers tangled in between his dark curls. You loosened your grip on him but did not let go, needing to feel him even if it was just his hair.

“I should not have liked that.”

He laughed and gave your cunt another lick, smirking as he watched you shudder.

“But you did,” he said, getting up at last. “I knew you tasted divine, but having you directly from your cunt is something else, melilla.”

“I have not washed in days because of you. I am sure I taste horrendous.”

“Good girl, following orders well. But you are wrong. You taste and smell like a woman. Not a perfumed woman. This,” he said in a low voice as the tip of his nose traced up your neck. He inhaled your scent and moaned. “This is nothing you can find in a vial. This is your true scent,” he said, stopping at your ear and placing a kiss.

“I would recognize it anywhere.” He reached under his pteruges and toga and retrieved his cock. Your cunt clenched at the mere sight of him.

He was far too covered. As much as you loved to see your General in his armor, you loved more to see him bare. You needed to run your fingers over his bare chest and dig your fingernails into his shoulders as he wrung his pleasure out of you. You found the ties that held his armor in place and began to undo them.

“Impatient girl,” he chided as he aligned himself with your cunt.

“Help me out then,” you snapped back as you struggled with the knots. He ignored your request and continued on his path of destroying you, plunging his length inside you much too quickly. You cried from the pain and pleasure of being stretched out by him once again.

“Marcus!”

He bent forward and whispered your name against your lips before claiming them. You moaned into the kiss as you rubbed yourself against him for friction. You were loath to pull away from his cock even the slightest as you ached for him too much to part from him. You wrapped your legs around him and pressed your heels down on his back, pulling him deeper inside you.

He wrapped a hand around your throat, tightening and loosening every now and then. “Day and night, I longed for you,” he whispered, his breath mixing with yours. “Dreamt of the day I would be inside you again.”

You echoed the sentiment, but he quickly silenced you with a hard thrust that you felt in the deepest part of your core. He wasn’t the gentle Marcus who treated you like you did your fine silks but the General who conquered every land he set foot on. He rammed in and out of you, reclaiming you as his. Your cunt opened up to take its master, molded itself around him like it did each time since your wedding night. He had taken you, his young bride, and shown you a world only he could. He’d taken and taken, made you a woman by showing you what your body could do for you.

He licked up your neck, growling like he was tasting the finest delicacies from the emperors’ table after being starved for months. “You smell sweet, Carisimma.”

“You lived in tents with men for a year. I’m sure a pig would smell sweet to you now,” you said, making him laugh even as he wrecked you. He reached down to your breasts and grabbed one in his hand. He pinched your nipple between his fingers and tugged, making you cry out in pain.

“Marcus!” Drops of milk trickled from your breasts and he swiped it with him thumb before licking it.

“I only regret that I could not see you grow bigger with my seed.”

“You ha- you have seen it before.”

“Yet I am not satisfied. I need more, I need to fill you up with my seed, keep you full with my children in perpetuity.”

“Marcus! Please…”

“What do you beg for, girl?”

“Give me sons, Marcus. Let me give you heirs,” you cried, overcome by the need to become his in that primal way. It was more than just your duty as his wife. It was an innate desire. As frightening as pregnancy was, you wanted it again and again at the hands of your husband. To give him sons carry his name and daughters who would control the great General with their laughter.

“Give me sons,” he repeated, the hand around your neck squeezing tight. This time, he did not relax, holding your air hostage as he used your cunt for his carnal desires. You gasped for breath. Your cunt squeezed around him, keeping him in so he would give you his seed and refusing to let go even for a moment.

Every thrust after sent delicious ripples of pain. You knew that you would wake the next morning unable to walk as usual. You would hear your servant girls giggle when they thought you couldn’t hear. He would wreck you day and night, make you scream for all the house to hear. He would take you to high places in the city, an arrogant smile on his lips as he showed you off, rounded again with his child.

As though he could read your thoughts, he spilled inside you with a cry of your name. You held him close, afraid he would part from your body and rob you of his warmth.

He showered you with kisses, beginning as a downpour and ending with a drizzle. You melted into his arms, the tension in your muscles leaving now that you had your Marcus home. You were no longer alone, he was here and he would take care of everything.

“Am I forgiven now?”

You smiled, burrowing into his chest as draped your discarded silk over you and picked you up in his arms. “I will consider it if you make sure I don’t bleed this cycle.”

You felt his chest rumble as he laughed. A kiss on the top of your head.

“As you say, melilla.”

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andy-15-07 · 3 months ago

Note

It's SNL night tonight!! How 'bout reader sitting in the audience with his family supporting Pedro on SNL

His Biggest Fan

PAIRING:Pedro Pascal x reader

WORD COUNT: 628 | requests are open (send requests, I will gladly answer them all)

Pedro Pascal Masterlist

The energy in the SNL studio was electric, the kind of buzz that only came with a live show night. Y/N sat in the audience, surrounded by Pedro’s family, his sister and cousins chatting animatedly while they waited for the show to begin. The excitement was palpable, and Y/N couldn’t help but grin as she took it all in. Pedro had been nervous all week, rehearsing skits and perfecting his monologue, but she knew he would be incredible.

His sister nudged her playfully. "You ready to see your man kill it tonight?"

Y/N laughed, feeling warmth spread through her chest. "Absolutely. He’s been practicing his lines in the mirror like a lunatic. I caught him doing different voices at breakfast."

They all chuckled, knowing exactly how seriously Pedro took his work. The lights dimmed slightly, signaling the show was about to start, and the iconic opening music filled the studio. The crowd erupted in cheers as the announcer boomed, "Live from New York, it’s Saturday Night!"

When Pedro finally walked onto the stage for his monologue, looking effortlessly charming in a perfectly tailored suit, Y/N felt a swell of pride. He smiled at the audience, a mixture of excitement and nerves in his eyes.

"Wow," he started, looking around the studio. "This is insane. I can’t believe I’m here… hosting SNL!"

The audience roared with applause, and Pedro chuckled, running a hand through his hair. Y/N could tell he was settling into his rhythm. He glanced toward where they were seated, his eyes locking with hers for the briefest moment, a small, almost imperceptible wink sent in her direction.

His monologue was a perfect mix of humor and sincerity, poking fun at himself, his roles, and even his newfound internet heartthrob status. The crowd ate it up, laughing and cheering at every punchline. Y/N found herself laughing the loudest, feeling a surge of affection for him.

As the show progressed, Pedro nailed every skit, seamlessly blending into the absurd world of SNL. Whether he was playing a medieval warrior in an over-the-top soap opera parody or an exhausted dad in a grocery store meltdown skit, his comedic timing was flawless. Between takes, Y/N would glance at his family, all of them beaming with pride.

During a quick break, Pedro’s sister leaned in. "He’s having the time of his life. You can see it."

Y/N nodded, watching him from afar as he laughed with the cast members, the stress of the week melting away. "He really is."

The highlight of the night came during the last skit—a surprise cameo that had the audience screaming. As the final applause rang through the studio, Pedro bowed dramatically, his wide smile visible even from where Y/N sat.

When the show wrapped, the cast and crew took their bows, and Pedro made his way over to them, still buzzing with adrenaline.

"You were amazing!" Y/N said as she wrapped her arms around him, feeling his chest rise and fall with exhilaration.

Pedro squeezed her tightly. "Did you see me almost break in that last skit? I swear, I was seconds away from losing it."

His sister laughed. "We saw, and we loved it. You killed it tonight."

Pedro let out a breath of relief, his smile softening as he looked at Y/N. "You think so?"

She cupped his face gently. "I know so."

He leaned in, pressing a quick, grateful kiss to her lips before pulling back with a grin. "Alright, let’s go celebrate. I need food, drinks, and at least five hours of sleep."

As they left the studio together, Y/N tucked herself under his arm, the warmth of the night’s success surrounding them. There was no better feeling than seeing someone she loved shine, and tonight, Pedro had done just that.

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orcasoul · 5 months ago

Text

The Lesser of Two Evils

Chapter Summery: In the face of desperation, you make a life changing decision, which will benefit both yourself and Marcus.

Chapter Warnings: Swearing, threats of rape, sexual harassment, violence, detailed injuries, angst, enemies(ish) to lovers, slow burn.

Word Count: 5,622

Chapter 2 Desperate Times

The evening stretched on and you made every effort to remain as invisible as possible. While Adhelm and his sons convened with the council and discussed the next plan of attack you busied yourself with preparing food for them, making sure to keep your eyes on your hands as you served them. But you didn't have to look up to know a pair of eyes were watching your every move. Predatory eyes, just waiting, biding their time. You could feel the hate closing around you, oppressive and suffocating. After serving everyone in attendance, Adhelm dismissed you and you couldn't have been more relieved.

You breathed the chilly night air in deeply through your nose as you stepped outside and released a sigh of relief. All you want now, is to get home, lock yourself away and try to ignore the sense of foreboding prickling under your skin. You hurry along the shadowed path, passing other homes filled with the voices of families, laughter and music. Often you would stop and remember what it felt like to have a family, to have a home filled with love and not just some weathered shack filled with silence and lonliness. But this is not the time for yearning. You need to get home, now.

The hair on your arms suddenly raise and it's nothing to do with the cold. Your heart begins to pound rapidly as the disquiet you'd felt earlier now shifts into an almost paralyzing fear. You are not alone! The sound of footsteps confirms your suspicions. You turn around quickly but the blanket of darkness hides whomever is following you. Your heart is now in your throat! Panic propels you to pick up the pace as you swiftly turn on your heel. As you round the corner of a storage building, relief sweeps over you but only for a moment before two strong arms engulf you; one around your midsection, squeezing your arms to your sides, and the other across your chest, hand pressing firmly over your mouth.

You try to scream, to free your arms but the grip is unforgiving. In your feeble attempt to resist all you can do is emit a muffled scream and kick out. The next thing you feel is the intense, sharp jolt, shooting from the back of your head. Glinting specs dance in your vision, almost resembling a vibrant night sky in the dark. A hand wraps around your throat and another finds your mouth once more. You blink harshly to clear your vision, the face coming into view being the one you loath the most. Fucking Bardulf! The arsehole flashes you a toothy grin, obviously pleased by your frightened response. He leans in closer to your face, snarling. "You really thought you could get away with that display back there?" Without a second thought you bit down on his hand.

Bardulf instantly recoils but before you can cry out he backhands you, knocking you to the ground. "Bitch!" he fumed as he pulled your head back by your hair. Your eyes widen in terror when you feel a sharp cold point pressing lightly at your throat. "Scream and I'll cut your fucking tongue out and ram it down your throat, understand?!" "Y... yes," you stutter, legs feeling like they might give way any second. Bardulf removes the knife and drags you to your feet, roughly slamming you against the side of the hut. "My father has been lenient with you for far too long. But that is about to come to an end," Bardulf smirked, your gut twisting up in response.

"Please, just let-" you whimper but he cuts you off, "Shut up! Kuno has no use for you so I convinced him to give you to me when he becomes chief. Told him I'd... "look after you". You want to stay strong. You want to mask the dread you feel right now, but your face betrays you, much to the delight of your assailant. "Things are going to change around here very soon. You will learn your place. I won't just beat it into you..." he slithers a hand down your torso, gripping your waist. Your stomach threatens to expell it's contents as his filthy paws continue to grope you. "I'll fuck it into you!"

Your heart plummets. For a moment you are speechless. He can't be serious! Why does he hate you so much? What have you ever done to him to deserve this campaign of hate he has waged against you for so long? "You c... can't! Your fathers' rule-" "Will die with him. When you are mine I shall do with you as I please. Your body will be my body," he says as he smoothes a rough finger over your cheek. Just the feel of his skin against your makes you wish you could shed your own and grow a new, untainted one.

"Why?" You begin to cry -more from frustration than fear now - despite your best efforts not to. "Why do you despise me? Why do you constantly torment me!" "Because I can," Bardulf gripped your chin, forcing your eyes up to his. "You will show me the respect I deserve. I'm going to break you, slowly. Oh, it'll be such fun," he snickered, almost maniacally, the shadows of the surrounding buildings making him appear more menacing than ever before. He continued, "I'm going to break you..." his lip curled in a cruel grin. "And once I've had my fun, I will enjoy watching you die as I squeeze the life from you."

Tightness grips your chest as his words chill you to the bone. Rage has now taken root, strangling the fear from you. "Fuck you, you loathsome piece of shit!" you lashed out, finding it within you to push him away. A repulsive smile stretched across his face. "I'll let that one slide this time, Alia. Savour it, while it lasts." Bardulf releases his hold on you and walks away, laughing to himself. You sprint home as fast as you can, locking your door before falling onto your bed and sobbing uncontrollably.

"It'll be okay. We'll be okay!" your mother stressed while holding you tightly in her arms, but the tremble of her body betrayed her words of reassurance. Outside your house, angry voices are rising in pitch, demanding that your mother show herself. In amongst the commotion your fathers' voice rang out, loud and determined, warning the gathered mob to go home. "Stay here," your mother whispered and began to rise from the corner you were both huddled in. You grip her arm, desperation in your eyes and voice. "Don't go mama, please!" "I'm just going to the window." She cupped your cheek, the warmth of her flesh soothing your nerves. If only you'd known that would be the last time you'd feel her gentle touch.

The storm of anger outside seemed to escalate with every passing minute, more and more voices joining the already volatile crowd. "You're all a bunch of gullible fools!" your father exploded. "She has nothing to do with the failed crops. You're just looking for something or someone to blame and I won't allow you to blame her!" "Bring her out, bring her out, bring her out!" the horde kept chanting. You cover your ears and close your eyes, desperate to drown out the noise, heart thumping so wildly, you fear it may burst through your chest. Your whole body jumps when your mother lets out an anguished scream and bolts for the door.

Scrambling to your feet, you run outside after her but stop dead in your tracks, muscles frozen, shock and disbelief anchoring you to the spot as you witness your fathers' blood soaked body fall to the ground. "Papa!" you whimper, all the air now having left your lungs as if you'd been punched in the stomach. You gasp for air, tears burning your eyes. Your mothers' piercing cries shake you from your stupor. "No! Mama!" you scream as she gets dragged off of your fathers' lifeless body. You only manage to run a few steps towards her before you feel multiple hands gripping your arms, fingers digging into your flesh as you fight against their hold.

"Please, please don't hurt her!" you beg the frenzied crowd but it falls on deaf ears. Your mother screams your name as she is beaten and kicked mercilessly. Accusations are spat at her along with the words "Witch" and "kill her". The whole time you struggle, frantically, to free yourself, screaming and pleading until your throat is raw. She is then pulled to her feet and dragged back to your house. You pull against the men restraining you so forcefully it feels like your shoulders might dislocate. Her once beautiful face, now black and blue and dripping with blood seeks your own before she is thrown through the door.

A man carrying a lit torch approaches your house and your eyes widen in horror, the world slowing down for you as you watch him throw the torch onto the thatched roof. In a matter of seconds your home is a blazing inferno, your innocent mothers' screams joining the crackle of the flames. You have no voice. Your strength abandons you, falling to your knees, mouth open to scream but nothing can escape the crushing sorrow and anger constricting your lungs. You clutch your hands to your chest, tears streaming down your cheeks while your life as you knew it literally goes up in flames before your very eyes.

Your body shoots upright, chest heaving as your wide eyes dart around the dark room. It's silent, oppressively so, the cold, empty darkness being the only witness to your grief. It's been a long time since you'd dreamed of that day, of your parents' death, but Bardulf's threat had festered in your mind as you drifted off into an uneasy sleep. Using your sleeve, you wipe your tears away and sit up in bed. Your body longs for comfort, for a time when the embrace of your parents felt like an impenetrable shield. Nothing could hurt you back then. With a heavy heart, you wrap your fleece blanket around your body and bring your knees to your chest, hugging and resting your chin on them. Only you can comfort yourself now and it has to be enough.

These people - who were supposed to be your people - have taken everything from you; your family, your freedom, your dignity - even your only friend. fresh tears form at your lashes at the thought of Faro. You'll always carry the weight of his death with you. But also a silent rage at Bardulf; the bastard even grinned at you as he slit his throat! For the past fifteen years the community has shunned you, the chief and his family had enslaved and alienated you and the kids you had grown up with made your existence hell with their relentless bullying.

And for what? All because some fear mongering arseholes had convinced the village that your mother was a Seer (witch) and was responsible for a bad harvest. The familiar sting of anger wells up again, replacing the hopelessness you'd awoken to only minutes ago. Fuck these people! The only reason you were spared that night was because you were only a child at the time, and the only reason no one had dared to take your virtue is because Adhelm feared your "Seers' blood" and threatened death upon anyone who touched you. But very soon, even that one last thing that was just yours will be taken from you.

Your belly twists in discomfort knowing that Bardulf will take what he wants from you and when he tires of you, he will kill you like a worthless animal. Unless... you get the hell out of here. The option to flee had always been there - and Faro often spoke of starting again somewhere new - but you knew you both never would have survived on your own; two children out there alone... It just wasn't possible. Your father had taught you how to hunt small animals and how to fish, but if the elements didn't get you, the bears and wolves would eventually. Fleeing was a death sentence for so long, but now...? Maybe salvation is possible. Salvation in the form of an injured and angry Roman General sitting in a cage not too far from your hut.

Marcus shivers as a cold breeze licks at his bare arms. In quiet contemplation he sits against the bars watching the moon spill it's silvery luminescence in a halo around itself, his mind transported to simpler times; times when he observed the moon from his balcony back home, when the mere sight of it would offer peace and stillness to the emotional scars of years of battles and slayings. But tonight he feels no such piece. He has accepted the fact that he will die soon, already having beseeched Mars to lend his unwavering strength to his men, his brothers, and not allow his public execution to quell their resolve and weaken their moral.

Rome will be victorious, no matter what these heathen beasts do. Rome is the light and darkness cannot dwell where - "General..." Marcus startles from his pensive state at the unexpected whisper in the dark. Posture rigid, he scans the immediate area but the darkness is almost impenetrable. "General!" the voice whispers again, with more urgency this time. "Who's there?" Marcus demanded. "Shhh... someone will hear us." Marcus lowers his voice. "I said who's there? Show yourself." "I can't. It's Alia. You must be still or you'll draw attention." "What do you want?" Marcus asks in a hushed tone, turning his head a fraction over his shoulder in the direction of your voice.

"I need to ask you something," you begin, your voice cautious. "Is it possible for an... outsider to become a Roman citizen?" Marcus remained silent for a moment, unsure if he'd heard you correctly. Surely you couldn't be planning on abandoning your people. "Why would you-" "I haven't the time to explain. Please just tell me if it's possible for someone like me to begin anew as a subject of Rome!" The urgency in your voice leads Marcus to wonder what could have happened for you to seek out refuge from your enemy. It must be pretty bad for you to take such a drastic action. "Yes, as long as you have committed no crime nor treason against Rome, anyone can be granted citizenship."

In the still of the night Marcus hears you release a sigh of... relief? "In that case, I have a proposition for you," you venture carefully. "Speak..." Marcus encourages you. "I will help you escape and get you back to your army if you promise that you'll take me to Rome with you and make me a Roman citizen." Marcus' immediate reaction is disgust at your disloyalty to your people, but he bit back his scorn; after all, you just might be his only hope. "I will-" he began but you cut him off. "Swear to me!" you demanded. "On my honour, I will take you to Rome, and I will personally and publicly grant you citizenship an all the rights and protection that entails."

You take a deep breath, then exhale, "Okay... In three days there will be a ceremony and celebration in honour of our youngest warriors' coming of age. Almost everyone will attend except for a few watchmen. When the time is right, I will create a distraction and then I'll come for you. This will be our only opportunity. If we fail, we are dead. Do you understand?" "I understand. I will be ready," Marcus assured. "In the meantime you must eat and build up your strength. Until then, General." Marcus listened to the sound of you shuffling away through the trees. He leans his head back against the bars, a glimmer of hope sparking within. Maybe the gods aren't done with me yet.

The next two days pass agonisingly slowly. You tend to your duties while keeping your head down, trying your best to remain inconspicuous to everyone, especially Bardulf, but every now and then you catch his sickening leer boring into you, giving you a look as if to say "It's only a matter of time." If your escape plan fails, it's all over for you. You won't wait for Bardulf to enforce his inhuman punishment on you. You'll escape or die trying. Either way he won't get what he wants and the fact that you'll be the one to ensure that, brings a quiet satisfaction to your anxious mind.

While tending to Marcus' leg you'd also snuck in some extra food to help build his strength during those days, silently mouthing "soon" to him. The night before your escape, your whole body is thrumming with uneasy apprehension. You're not sleeping tonight. You mentally rehash the escape plan over and over, praying you've left nothing to chance. Your bag is packed - and hidden away - with everything you'll need for the journey; water, ointments and balms, bandages and a small stash of fruit and dried meat that you were able to sneak from the mead hall. It's not much but it will have to do.

Dawn breaks while you continue to pace around in your hut, willing your jittery nerves to abate. It's imperative that you maintain a cool facade today. A few moments of deep, slow breathing helps to alleviate the storm brewing in your stomach. You can do this. The whole village is abuzz today, with the excitement of tonight's ceremony. While preparations are under way, you are escorted once again to Marcus' cage, food, water and fresh bandages in tow. The guard is never too far away so you keep your voice as low as you can. "Today's the day," you whisper while dressing Marcus' leg, still to intimidated by him to look him in the eye.

It's not lost on you just how thick and muscular his thigh is; a sobering reminder that this man is dangerous and could easily overpower you once you are both alone and kill you with ease. But at this point you have nothing left to lose. "After the ceremony the celebrations will begin. Once the wine is upon them, I will start a fire..." you glance around quickly, ensuring no one is within earshot. "While they are distracted I will come for you. Be ready." "I will... thank you, Alia." Marcus' unexpected gratitude and soft tone caused you to forget yourself momentarily, your eyes flicking up to be met with a softness you hadn't imagined possible from someone like him.

Instead of the cold, sharp glare he'd granted you at your initial meeting, he now regards you with gratitude and... something you can't really discern. The intensity of the moment makes you heart leap in your chest and you can no longer comfortably hold his gaze, so you lower your eyes. "Don't thank me yet, General," you shook your head. "Marcus," he replies swiftly. "Marcus," you repeat awkwardly after a moment, glancing at his face then away just as quickly. "Make sure to eat." You gesture to the bowl you had set down beside him. "You're going to need your strength." And with that you bag up your supplies and stand by the gate, calling to be let out.

As Marcus watched you walk away he's suddenly overwhwelmed by a whirlwind of conflicting emotions; hope - however small - that he'll live to see his home again, uncertainty that this risky plan of yours will actually work and a gnawing consternation at having to place his fate in the hands of, not just a stranger, but an enemy. As much as he would like to trust you, he knows the only reason you want to help him him is to help yourself. He can't help but wonder, again, what could have happened for theses Gutones to treat one of their own so abhorrently, which also leads him to wonder if you're more dangerous than you seem. He'll have to keep a close eye on you.

It's clear there's a lot going on that he's not aware of... but if it brings him his freedom and a second chance to live, he'll accept your help as desperate times call for desperate measures and even enemies can benefit from aiding one another sometimes, but he'll never be foolish enough to fully trust you. Now all he has to do is wait for the moment to arrive and in the meantime he will pray to Mercury to guide his and your steps and lead you both to the sanctuary of the Castrum (army encampment).

The ceremony went without a hitch - or at least you assume so, as you were never included in social events, unless it was to serve, and that's what you are doing now; serving the increasingly drunk and rowdy young warriors and their families. The evening stretches into night and finally, the time has come. It's now or never. While most of the women and children have returned to their homes and settled in for the night, the men continue their frivolities becoming more and more inebriated. Using the situation to your advantage, you slip away from the mead hall unnoticed, keeping to the shadows as you hurry to your hut to retrieve your bag.

Your heart is thumping in your ears, hands shaking as you exit your hut for the last time. But before you execute the next step of your plan, you have one more stop to make. Adhelms home is thankfully abandoned for the time being, he and his sons still eating and drinking their fill in the mead hall, unaware of your intrusion. On the back wall of his home is a large rack, full of weapons he'd acquired from defeated foes. The smug bastard seemed to pride himself on his "spoils of war" as he'd called them. Among the display was your fathers Seax (dagger) still in it's sheath, taken the night your parents were murdered.

With a pounding heart, you take the Seax from the rack, your fingertips trailing over the intricately carved zig zags running down both sides of the mahogany hilt. Tears build behind your eyes as just the mere touch of this knife brought forth a connection, a closeness with your father that you'd never expected to feel again. You carefully tuck it into the belt around your tunic and with a new determination, leave the chiefs home, grabbing a lit torch from a sconce on the way out.

Marcus waits anxiously for what fells like an eternity, in a constant state of hypervigilance, expecting you to show up at any moment. Every sound in the dark catching his ear sends his adrenaline spiking, but every time it's a false alarm. Frustration and doubt begin to creep in the longer he waits. She's not coming! Had you lost the nerve or been caught? Damn it! You were his only way out. He was a fool to put his faith in you. Marcus growls quietly to himself, careful not to draw he attention of the guard close by. Just when he'd thought all was lost an orange glow lighting up the darkness at the other end of the village caught his eye.

Panicked voices arose through the village as the orange light grew brighter and and the crackle of flames filed the air. The guard keeping watch lingered for a few moments, seemingly unsure of whether or not he should abandon his post, but as the chaos intensified he hurried off, disappearing around the side of a building. Marcus pulled himself to his feet lumberingly, limping to the other side of the cage, eager to see what was happening. His brow scrunched in confusion when thud followed by a pained groan rang out close by. A moment later, you emerged from where the guard had disappeared, keys clinking as you rushed to the cage door. "We have to go now, before he wakes!" you cried as you clumsily fumbled with the keys, trying each one out until the lock finally clicked.

Throwing the cage door open you hurried inside, forgetting all about the initial fear you'd felt in this Romans' presence. The only thing that matters now is escaping. Slinging one of Marcus' arms over your shoulder, you brace yourself to support his weight and the two of you make haste, away from the village and into the surrounding woodland. Scrambling through the inky black forrest with loose rocks and branches and twigs from broken trees and low bushes would be an arduous endeavour at the best of times, but trying to keep your footing whist helping to drag this mountain of a man with you is proving increasingly difficult.

It's obvious by Marcus' grunting and heavy breaths that he's mustering all the strength he has to keep pushing forward. "It's... not far... now. Urrgh... we're... nearly there," your voice shakes under the sheer exertion, your arms and legs burning with every step. "Where are we... going?" Marcus panted, twisting his head in every direction, keeping a ear out for the sound of anyone following. "There's a small... clearing... up ahead. I've got a... horse waiting... for us there." Sweat is trickling down your back now, your lungs aching with every drag of air you take in but you find the will to keep going. Nothing will stop you now... you hope.

A few minutes later you both arrive at the clearing. The full moon is bathing the open area in a soft milky gleam, the limited light enough to guide your way. It's as though the god Mani himself has taken issue with your predicament and had decided to lend you his favour. The horse you had managed to sneak out of the village in the early hours of this morning stands calmly next to the tree you'd tethered her to. A quick glance at your surroundings shows no sign of immediate danger, so you swiftly make your way over to the horse, only slowing down as you draw closer. You're greeted with an agitated whinny as the horse shuffles nervously.

You carefully pull yourself from under Marcus' arm and hold your palm out for the horse to sniff. "Shhh easy, Inga," you sooth while digging an apple from your bag. "Easy, girl. Sorry I left you here for so long." You rub down the center of her face, all the way to her velvety muzzle as she happily munches on the peace offering you'd given her. Once Inga had been placated you turn back to Marcus. "Quick!" you gesture to the horse and crouch down, interlacing you fingers to serve as a sort of step to help him mount. "I can manage," Marcus insisted, knowing you'll never be able to lift him.

Gripping onto the pommel of the crude looking saddle, Marcus took a deep breath, mentally and physically preparing himself for the coming agony of swinging his injured leg over the horses' wide body. With a surge of reserved energy and determination, he lifts his leg, throwing his entire weight along with it, swallowing the painful howl trying to claw it's way up his throat. Unfortunately in his weakened state, Marcus wasn't able to gather the needed momentum and bagan to fall backwards. Before he could fall off the horse completely, you appeared behind him, pushing him up and helping to steady him as he settled on Inga.

You flicked your wrist. "Move back." Marcus raised a questioning eyebrow at your order, remaining where he sat. "I know the direction to my Castrum." "In the dark?" you ask sceptically, surprising yourself with the hint of challenge in your voice. "How do you know the way?" he asked, as if he were afraid you'd get lost. "I overhear everything in Adhelms home," is all you offer. "Very well," Marcus conceded and slid back to sit behind the saddle. He offered his hand to pull you up. You reach out, fingers barely brushing his when all of a sudden a sharp yank of your hair sends a shockwave of pin pricks rippling across your scalp.

Your hands automatically fly up to where the pain radiates. Next thing you know, you are spun around, face to face with an enraged Adhelm. "Treacherous bitch!" he snarled in your face, fury twisting his weathered features into a grotesque appearance. "After everything I've done for you, this is how you repay my kindness, by betraying your people, your home!" "Let me go!" you shrieked, trying to free yourself from Adhelms iron grip. Through the sound of your pulse rushing in your ears you hear Marcus' threatening voice, demanding your release, followed by a distressed groan and thud on the ground.

As you writhe and fight to keep your hair this time, Adhelm continued, "I should have killed you alongside your parents. I knew you couldn't be trusted. It's in your blood, you evil, degenerate cunt! You'll pay dearly for this betrayal!" The air is forced from your lungs as your body is slammed against a nearby tree, the shock of the impact manifesting in sparks of white before your eyes. You only manage a couple of breaths before Adhelms hands crush your throat, cutting of your air intake completely. You scratch, desperately at his rough hands, throat burning and eyes watering; the pressure building behind them leaves you afraid they will burst from their sockets any moment.

A haze begins to settle over your mind, making it difficult to focus on anything around you. The panicked whinny of Inga and the deep growl of Marcus' voice sound muffled and far away. Everything seems to be slipping away, like a feather, floating into the distance on a calm wind. "You have always been more trouble than you're worth," Adhelm continued to rant, the hatred in his voice bringing your focus back to the present. In a final attempt of self preservation, your hand went to your belt, as if it remembered what your terrified brain couldn't; father's knife! What happened next was mostly a blur. Warmth pooled over your hand and Adhelms words were replaced with a gasp and a wide eyed look of disbelief and anger.

His hands slid from your throat and you coughed violently as much needed oxygen rushed into your lungs. When his body hit the ground your eyes travelled to the knife lodged in his chest. Blood continued to pour as his chest stilled and the life in his eyes dimmed until they just became empty, glazed over orbs fixed on the sky. You're frozen! Light headed and you're certain you will throw up any second. Your chest is clamping down on itself, making it near impossible to breathe. You'd just killed a man! Yes, he was cruel and dangerous, but he'd died by your hand. A hand that had never exacted violence against anyone before.

Reality itself seems to have distorted; maybe it's all just a bad dream? You cannot tear your eyes away from the corpse at your feet and at the same time you can't bare to look. You think you hear your name being called over and over, but it's irrelevant. Tears spring to your eyes and begin to roll down your cheeks. At first you barely register the weighted feeling on your shoulders as you are turned around to a demanding and authoritative voice. "Hey, look at me, look at me! You did what you had to do. It's okay," Marcus tried to sound reassuring, but in the moonlight he could see you weren't actually there, a blank teary stare is his only response.

"Get on the horse before someone else comes!" You stagger forward as he pulls you with him and it's then it really hits you. You yank your wrist from his hand and clutch your stomach as a wave of sobs wash over you. "I k-killed him! What have I done?! Oh Gods!" Marcus turns back to face you, gripping both of your upper arms now. "You defended yourself," he asserted forcefully. "There's no wrong or shame in that, you hear me?" But you don't hear him. All you can hear are the echoes of Adhelms laboured gasps just moments ago. You're certain the wretched sounds will haunt you forever.

Marcus can see that his words will not help you right now and precious time is wasting away. Any minute you could be discovered. You continue to cry, lost in your own mind and Marcus curses himself for what he's about to do. "I'm so sorry about this," he mutters, shaking his head, then slaps your cheek - not hard enough to really hurt, but it's enough to shock you back into clarity. The moment he hears the slap is the moment he sees recognition and coherence resurface in you, along with a look of shock and vulnerability. Marcus buries the instant remorse he feels. He can feel bad about it later. Right now you both have to get as far away as possible.

In a no nonsense tone he says, "Get. On. The. Horse. Now... Or this was all in vain." That seemed to have knocked some sense and urgency into you as you nod and rush back to Inga, who's stomping a hoof in frustration. You untie the reins from the tree and Marcus helps you up onto her back. Once seated you extend your arm to pull him up. Between his heavy weight and lack of strength it takes a lot of effort to pull him up. Eventually he settles behind you, wrapping his arms tightly around your waist. With a kick to Ingas ribs, she speeds off into the forrest and the dead of night.

Series Masterlist Chapter 1 Chapter 3 Ch 4 Ch5 Ch6 Ch7 Ch8 - coming soon

@myownwholewildworld @imherefordeanandbones @picketniffler @h0w-1-wanna-l1v3 @chrissy-forfucksakes-wakeup @meetmeatyourworst @yorksgirl @joeldjarin @echo-ethe @whirlwindrider29

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal fandom #pedro pascal characters #marcus acacius fanfiction #marcus acacius x you #marcus acacius x reader #marcus acacius smut #marcus acacius x female reader #gladiator 2 #gladiator 2 movie #general marcus acacius #marcus acacius x ofc #marcus acacius fluff #marcus acacius angst

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erajunex · 5 months ago

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Posting a smut one shot about this man soon

Leave a comment if u wanna be added to the tag-list!

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thanyatargaryen · 6 months ago

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Masterlist

I'm slowly coming up with ideas to write, I hope you like them and give me some ideas too!!

Pedro Pascal

Surprise My Love (one shot)

Make it Official (one shot)

General Marcus Acacius

Marcus x f!reader (Lucius older Sister)

Rater M (18+, MINORS DO NOT READ)

Warning (age gap, mentions of death, mentions of possible abuse, 18+ ONLY)

Mutual Agreement (part 1)

Mutual Agreement (part 2)

Mutual Agreement (part 3)

Mutual Agreement (part 4)

Mutual Agreement (part 5)

Mutual Agreement (part 6)

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quinnophile · 4 months ago

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𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐔𝐍𝐓 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐒𝐀𝐋𝐕𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 - 𝐈

pairing. emperor Geta x original character

description. In the heart of Rome, two brothers rule an empire on the edge of chaos. As Caracalla's mind continues to derail, Geta shoulders a responsibility as heavy as the throne itself.

When Diana, a mysterious stranger, visits the emperors' General, everything begins to shift. To Caracalla, she is a symbol of divine favour. To Geta, she is a woman who awakens feelings he's long buried beneath duty.

As alliances strain and desires clash, Diana becomes the key to the empire's future… and to the hidden desires of a man torn between love and responsibility. In a world where power reigns supreme, can trust and passion survive, or will their hunt for salvation be the downfall of them all?

warnings. violence, misogyny, infidelity, forced proximity, discussions of producing an heir, mental/physical abuse, forced marriage

word count. 1.3K

notes. I am supposed to be focusing on my assignments right now... whoops

Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7

The air in the council chamber was heavy, the torches on the walls casting flickering shadows over the assembled counsellors. The room was grand, it's towering black columns intricately adorned with golden embellishments. Statues of the gods and of past rulers leered down at the subjects in the room, commanding a presence of seriousness. Stood aside his throne at the head of the room, Geta held a carefully neutral expression as he listened to the counsel's measured words. Beside him, sprawled in his throne with clear disinterest, was Caracalla.

Caracalla's fingers tapped against the gilded armrest, the sharp, repetitive sounds of his nails clinking against the stone filling the silence between their conversations. The counsellors exchanged wary glances among themselves, clearly feeling unnerved by the situation.

"Is there anything of actual importance to discuss?" Caracalla drawled, irritation clearly tinging his words. "Or are we to sit here all day listening to dull debates of imports?"

Geta shot his brother a sidelong glance, his lips almost twitching into a smile if he weren't so tired. "Patience, brother. The greatness of Rome must be built on 'dull debates' such as these."

Caracalla groaned, theatrically so, as he pushed himself up off of his throne. "Rome's greatness is built on action, brother, not on endless talk." He turned to look at the room, seeing all eyes on him as they waited with bated breaths. He rolled his eyes, gently grabbing Geta's shoulder and speaking directly to him. "If you don't need me, I'll take my leave. Perhaps Dondas will provide better entertainment than this drudgery."

Before Geta could respond, Caracalla turned and strode towards the exit, his crimson cloak sweeping behind him. "If you have something interesting to say, do send for me." He waved dismissively before disappearing past the arched doorway.

The silence that followed was thick, broken only by the faint shuffling sounds from the guards outside resuming their positions. Geta exhaled softly, dropping himself onto his throne and leaning back comfortably against it.

"Well," he said dryly, "if there is nothing left to discuss..."

The sound of shuffling and the scrolls being gathered filled the room as the council rose from their seats, the meeting clearly having been dismissed. As they murmured amongst themselves, the chief counsellor hesitated, casting a careful glance towards the doorway in which Caracalla exited, then towards Geta.

"Emperor," he said quietly, his tone deliberate. Geta's eyes flickered towards the older man. "Might we have a moment of your time... privately?"

Geta's brow arched in intrigue. "Privately?" He leaned forward, his hands clasping together. "I assume this is a more pressing matter than grain shipments and repairs?"

"It is indeed." The counsellor nodded, his expression cautious as a few other elderly members circled beside him. "May we speak plainly?"

Geta waited for the other men to leave, sending a dangerous look to any who seemed curious in this new conversation. Once only they remained, Geta sent the chief counsellor a curt nod. "Proceed."

The chief, in response, exchanged a glance with his colleagues before continuing. "It's the matter of succession, Emperor. I know it is a delicate subject, but one must address it for the stability of Rome."

Geta fiddled with the rings on his fingers. "Succession." His father's ring weighed heavy on his index finger, the family crest gleaming under the torchlight. "I assume you mean the matter of securing an heir."

"Yes," the counsellor confirmed, awaiting an angered reaction. Geta continued to look down upon his crest.

"We have spoken of such matters before," his tone was mundane, "I do not see what has changed for it to come up again so soon."

"Your brother, Emperor Caracalla" The chief spoke quickly, "He has his strengths... but his temperament is becoming unpredictable." He glanced between his fellow men, who all stood quietly at his statement. "Rome cannot afford uncertainty in its future."

The words hung in the air like a blade waiting to fall. Geta's gaze flicked from his hands to the counsellors, his expression cold yet amused. "You're suggesting my brother is now unfit for this responsibility?"

The chief stiffened, his expression showing his unease. "His devotion to Rome is unquestionable. But his priorities do not align with what is necessary for the stability of the empire."

The sound of murmurs filled the quiet space, the counsellors agreeing, yet none dared to meet Geta's eyes directly.

Geta sat back, folding his hands in his lap. The counsellors flinched as he finally spoke. "Your loyalty to Rome is admirable, as is your concern for its future." His voice was calm, almost lazy. "But let me remind you, my brother is the emperor." The men stood back as Geta rose quickly from his throne, his figure looming over their feeble bodies. "His strength is Rome's strength, and to doubt him is to doubt the gods who placed him on the throne."

They shifted uncomfortably, yet still no challenge arose.

"That said," Geta continued, his tone hardening slightly "I understand your concerns. And I will address them. But this is not a discussion to be had at my brother's expense." The counsellors murmured in agreement amongst themselves. "Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes emperor!" They chanted in unison. The chief counsellor bowed his head, the others following suit.

"Good." Geta held his gold and crimson cloak as he turned away, "Then we are finished here."

~~~

In the imperial gardens, Caracalla was pacing restlessly. Dondas, his pet monkey, was darting between the hedges, little chirps of amusement sounding from it's tiny mouth as it followed him. Caracalla's movements were erratic, his hands gesturing animatedly as though in an argument. He finally came to a stop as Dondas reached out for something, causing him to chuckle as he pulled a fig off a nearby tree.

"Dondas," Caracalla spoke animatedly, breaking off a piece of the fruit and holding it out to his friend, "You are the only one in this entire empire who truly understands me."

Geta, who had been watching from a distance, dismissed the guards that were standing close by.

"Talking to yourself?" Geta called out as he approached.

Caracalla spun on his heel, a manic grin splitting his face. "Of course not brother... Have the dreary old men finally stopped talking?"

Geta observed as Dondas scrambled for more of the fruit, his brother happily breaking off more pieces and chucking it towards the monkey.

"They have," he started, folding his arms. "Though they again brought concerns of heirs and stability."

Caracalla snorted. "Concerns? Stability? Have we not given them enough victories to secure the empire?"

"They want assurance-"

"They mean to control!" Caracalla stiffened, his wrist flickering with anger as he tossed the pieces of fruit to the floor.

"It is more than that," Geta's words were careful, yet his voice was firm. "It is about strength. Continuity. The people must see us as enduring. If we are to secure our rule, we must show them that Rome's future is unshakable."

"And you believe marriage will achieve that?" Caracalla mumbled innocently, turning to look up at his brother.

"It is a step," Geta replied, sending him a smile of reassurance. "A necessary one, however... We must consider it."

Caracalla was silent for a long moment, taking in his brothers words. Dondas neared his feet, and as if being pulled from a daze, he slowly bent down to let him climb his body. Geta observed as the monkey perched himself atop Caracalla's shoulder, bringing a small grin back to his face.

"Very well brother. I will consider it... But if I am to endure the monotony of marriage, she had better be extraordinary."

Geta allowed himself a faint smile, his mood lightening at his brother's acceptance. "Leave it to me. I'll ensure she's everything Rome needs - and more." He gently ruffled his hand through Caracalla's hair, causing the later to laugh in amusement.

Dondas jumped repeatedly on Caracalla's shoulder, bringing his attention back to the small creature.

Geta turned away, his expression darkening. The counsellors' words echoed in his mind, a reminder of the precarious balance he was tasked with maintaining. Rome demanded perfection, and Geta knew that both he and Caracalla were far from it.

#emperor geta fanfic #emperor geta x ofc #emperor geta #joseph quinn #emperor caracalla #gladiator 2 #joe quinn #paul mescal #lucius verus #hanno #fred hechinger #pedro pascal #general acacius #marcus acacius #frenemies #frenemies to lovers #arranged marriage #emperor caracalla x ofc

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visionsofyouandme · 5 months ago

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I. that original lifeline

𝚜𝚢𝚗𝚘𝚙𝚜𝚒𝚜: A celebration, a visit, the marketplace- it's all your beginning of something new.

𝚠/𝚌: 5.6k

𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜/𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚜: Slow burn. Sexual tension. Food & alcohol consumption. Love at first sight-type meeting. Exposition. Age gap (or no age gap- you decide!). Marcus is That Guy™️. Terrible use of ancient Latin (and Swahili? bear with me). Symbolic dreams.

𝙰/𝙽: Well, well, well... Who's really surprised here? Marcus has a chokehold on me, like he does on most people. Starting a series is always daunting, and I'm kind of writing it with a vague outline of what will happen. Probably going to open up asks to get some inspiration and advice! Anyway, I hope you enjoy this lil series that I've been dying to share.

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Walking through the courtyard of the massive celebration, Marcus felt out of place.

Having just come back from a recent campaign, he always had a hard time adjusting to life off the battlefront. That was where he belonged- among men, sword in hand, blood on his skin, rage coursing through his veins. To be here, welcomed with smiles instead of grimaces, drinks flowing instead of blood, and the scent of incense instead of death in the air was all… strange. Familiar yet foreign.

Dreams had plagued him for nights on the battlefield, filled with cries of the grieving and moans of agony. Fires burning, the stench of death seemed to be all around him. No matter how far he wandered, he would be stuck in a never ending field of death. If it was what Pluto had condemned him in sleep, he feared what awaited him in the afterlife.

But, there had been a shift in his dreams. Instead of wandering aimlessly among the dead, he followed a figure- slim, ethereal, and leading him to peace. He never saw her face, but he knew she held the key to a life finally calm and filled with tranquility. But every time he reached out for her, and she began to turn, he awoke with a racing heart and sweat collecting on his brow.

Now, he saw friends- really, acquaintances- and greeted them with smiles, handshakes, nods of acknowledgement as he passed. They showered him with jovial tones, congratulations of a campaign well-won. If only they knew the looks of terror the opposition had on their faces as Marcus slayed them on the battlefield, surrounded by strong and capable men. Some of the opposition weren’t even men- some of them were young boys with weak holds on swords. Boys who should have been growing up, and not fighting the rich man’s battles.

But, Marcus could not think of that now. He was here to celebrate not himself, but another acquaintance who had just accelerated to a seat in the Senate. Marcus was no politician, but he was invited as one of the highest ranking generals in Rome.

All he could see were the boys’ eyes, wide as their life seeped from their bodies, crimson all around them. A goblet of wine was thrust into his hands, and he saw himself in the deep red liquid, and the poor boys’ corpses who littered the ground at his feet.

A voice called to him, and he lifted his head with a forced smile as he walked over to the group of men in luxurious and colorful togas. They welcomed him, some patting him on the back, with more compliments thrown his way. He would just nod and wave his hand. Simple, dismissive.

“And Caecilius, here, he is just recently wed! And to a lovely little thing, too.” one of them said, patting an older, shorter, sparsely-silver haired man on the shoulder. He looked so frail that Marcus could have breathed too harshly and knocked him over. But, the man nodded, smiling with joy.

“She truly is a vision. Would make even Venus jealous with her beauty.” Caecilius said, and raised an arm in greeting as his eyes moved over Marcus’ shoulder. When he turned, he was completely taken aback.

Surely this was not Caecilius’ new bride?

You walked- no, floated- with such grace that Marcus could not tear his gaze away. You looked young. Far too young to be married to an old and decrepit man such as the Roman council member. But, you smiled, moving past Marcus to come to Caecilius’ side, taking his arm.

“How are you, my dove? Hopefully not partaking in too much drink?” Caecilius laughed, and you produced a fresh goblet of wine in your hand.

“As fine as this night is. And of course not, I would not make a fool of myself in such a public place.” you said, and Marcus could only watch in awe… and jealousy. You were an excellent vision of beauty- hair done in the latest fashionable style, neck and wrists adorned in gold, even threaded through your hair. The curve of your lips, the angle of your eyes, the tone of your skin all drew him in like a ship sailing towards its beacon. Like a sailor chases the stars at night, like a poet upholds its muse.

“... General Acacius has just returned, himself. And to come back to such a celebration!” one of the men said, his name jarring him back to reality. He didn’t realize he had been staring, but saw you looking expectantly back at him. He cleared his throat, nodded and took a sip of wine.

“Yes. Another successful win for Rome and her people!” Caecilius said, raising his goblet. It was then that Marcus noticed he was swaying on his feet, really only standing upright because of your hold on him.

“Your city and people thank you, General Acacius.” you said for the first time, directed at him. And your voice? Gods, your voice could rival the sweetest chorus of the city, and the way you said his name had him weak in the knees. He would have fallen to them and bent to your every whim had your… Had your husband not been standing next to you.

The jarring fact that you were taken ripped through him like a knife to a piece of cloth. You were already spoken for, and this hurt him immensely.

While you held his gaze for a moment, you then said something to Caecilius that he could not hear and pulled away, walking through the crowd. His eyes followed you, though the conversation the men had continued on in rancorous laughter. He finally swiveled, his brown eyes casting back to the men before him, but his mind reaching for you. Reaching as if to call you back into his sights so he could admire your beauty again.

It was later in the evening when the sun had set that he had found you again. You stood on the balcony of the second story, alone, leaning against the bannister as your face turned towards the sun. It cast you in a beautiful golden glow, and he felt like he was imposing upon a piece of living art.

But, selfishly, he wanted to hear your voice again. To hold your gaze, your attention.

Before he could breathe a word, you turned your head to him, and smiled.

“General Acacius. We meet yet again.” you said, and he walked towards the bannister to stand next to you, offering a soft smile.

“And so we do. Where is your spouse?” he questioned, and the smile faded on your face, turning to face the sun again. Your grimace was disguised as a squint to look towards the orange and pink skies, and he wished for nothing more than to see your smile again.

“I am sure he is wining and dining with the finest of Rome. I am surprised you are not joining him.” you said, a tightness to your tone that he did not like.

“I would much rather take a step back, look out rather than in. The sunset is beautiful, dare I say the best part of the day, save the dawn that beckons a new beginning.” Marcus said, and stood closer to you, his body facing the rays of sun that were beginning to fade under the horizon. He glanced at you in his periphery, and you continued to look out. He continued to stand, content with the sound of the party continuing behind you both as the sun made its way steadily down.

“Are you really as fearsome as they say?” You finally said, and he looked at you to see you were looking down now, fiddling with your gold cuffs. He watched you with a gentle expression. Your hands, so soft and lithe, he knew they had never held a day’s worth of work in their life. Innocent, untouched.

Oh, how it ached to know you were already spoken for.

“What do you think?” he said, and your gaze moved to meet his own. You studied him, tilting your head to the side as your eyes swept him up and down.

“I think you are just a man. Capable of good as well as bad. That is what is expected of all good leaders, yes?” You questioned, and he felt something stir within him. His deep brown eyes never strayed from yours, not even to the sunset he was praising just moments ago.

“I am whatever you make of me, My Lady.” Marcus said quietly, and you looked at him, a hint of surprise crossing your face. Your hands continued their work on your cuffs, spinning them this way and that. A nervous habit, he observed. He could only wonder why you were acting so, if you thought of him as nothing but a simple man.

“You should mind yourself, people will talk.” You say, and he frowned deeply, but knew what you insinuated. How could anyone speak of your conversation, when it was nothing but innocent? You were not entirely unchaperoned, the laughter and chatter of the party were only feet behind you. Anyone could come out and see you two, and there would be nothing to hide.

But, Marcus wanted something to hide. He could barely contain his gaze as he looked at you, coming across as both lustful and adoring. He could only wonder which way you took it, but he felt both so deeply in his bones that he wouldn’t know what to do with himself. He could reach out and touch you now, move his arm just so to brush against yours, intertwine his little finger with yours.

How had you bewitched him so?

“Go. Be with your kind, in celebration and laughter.” you said, nodding back to the threshold that held the party within. Marcus’ eyes never left you, though, and his feet did not move to carry him elsewhere.

“What is your name?” he questioned, his voice more steady than he anticipated. Your gaze slowly moved up to meet his, and you breathed your name so lightly that it could have been the wind. He repeated it, feeling sweeter than honey rolling off of his tongue.

“I would like to know how to properly address such a decoris femina (beautiful woman).” This drew a small smile on your face, and you looked away shyly with a minute shake of your head.

“You flatter me, General-”

“Marcus.” he countered, and slowly but swiftly took your hand in his, raising it to his lips. Your knuckles, tender and delicate, brushed across his lips, the small bit of his facial hair tickling your skin. “I implore you, call me Marcus.”

“But, it is improper. You are a General, the General Acacius. I should address you as such.” You said quietly, the soft rise and fall of your chest under your stola causing Marcus an internal battle between watching that or your mesmerizing eyes. He was just a man, after all- like you said.

“If I order you to call me Marcus, will you deny me?” he questioned, and you stiffened at first, then melted as he lowered your hand to rest within his on the bannister. He tilted his head forward, eyebrows raised in question. You resigned yourself to shake your head, and he felt something like pride swell in his chest.

“May I call upon you again?” he questioned, and your eyebrows knit together, eyes shifting to the doorway. You shook your head slightly, though he could still see the shuddering rise and fall of your chest.

“I do not think that is wise-”

“I will see your husband, then. And you will be there, yes?” he questioned, his tone so light and hopeful that it made his stomach twist with fear. What if you denied him? What if you refused to see him after tonight?

Your eyes finally moved to his own, and he gave your hand the gentlest squeeze of encouragement.

“I will be having wine and food midday tomorrow. Whether or not my husband is there, is up to chance.” you said, and he smiled a bit wider than he could help. He nodded, his eyes alight with excitement, but he countered it with a neutral expression.

“Right. I suppose I will have to call to see if he is available.” he said, and you smiled lightly, knowingly. Nodding, you pulled your hand from his grasp and clasped your hands in front of you.

“And so you shall. I- we would be so happy to have the General as our guest. Under any given circumstances.” you said, and he chuckled, looking back at the horizon that was now dark, turning light blue and black to signal the night had come. He felt your hand on his arm, his head swiveling so fast he thought it might come off.

“I will be looking forward to your visit, Marcus.” you said quietly, like it was a secret between the two of you, your hand dropping. His eyes flitted between yours, and he smiled. Yes, it was like a secret. One he was intent on keeping close to the chest for as long as he could help it.

Days later, you hadn’t found yourself worrying about Marcus’ coming to your home until the sun was high in the sky. Caecilius had left for a “meeting” with other senators, which you took as a sign he was going out to drink, be merry, and indulge in debauchery. You didn’t mind, so long as he was away from you and gave you a bit of peace.

You had your servants place the table for one, knowing it would seem suspicious if you set one up for another. You were beginning to think he wasn’t coming, and sat at the table in the garden. Just as you had picked up a grape, your houseguard announced General Acacius’ presence. You stiffened, and slowly put down the fruit and rose, turning to see him approach in a red toga with gold trim. You offered a smile, and his eyes shone with the sun and a hint of something else.

“General Acacius. To what do I owe the pleasure of your coming here?” you questioned, but knew full well his reasoning. He smiled knowingly, and looked around,

“I was inquiring if your husband was here.” he said, and you shook your head,

“Regretfully, he is not. Out on senate business. However, may I entertain you for a bit? Food has just been laid out.” you said, gesturing next to you. He looked down at it thoughtfully, and then nodded. You asked for another place to be made for Marcus, and he settled into the seat across from you. Picking up the grape you had discarded, you had bit into it and pure sweetness flooded your tastebuds. Dismissing your servants, you looked to Marcus, who was already gazing at you.

“You look well, My Lady.” he said, his voice soft, and you smiled, taking another piece of fruit.

“As do you, General. I hope you enjoyed the celebration of your victories, and that you enjoyed the company of many.” you replied, and he picked up a piece of pomegranate, looking down at it. You watched him, the way his large, calloused, strong hand held the delicate fruit with such tender care. You selfishly and fleetingly thought of what those same hands would feel like wrapped around your body.

“I particularly enjoyed the company of one. That is all I remember from it.” he said, his words making your heart flutter. You smiled and took a sip of wine, eyes casting to the bountiful food place between the two of you.

“However I did not meet you before, it is a mystery. I did not know Caecilius had a new wife until your introduction.” he said, and the bitter reality settled in and you did your best to contain your disdain. You shrugged,

“Caecilius and I share a similar background- widowed, others looking for a decent union. My father pressed it, and Caecilius was more than willing to accept.” you said, trying to state the facts but your face became hard, lips pressed together. To mask it, you took a sip of wine, but Marcus could see right through it.

“Widowed?” he questioned, and you nodded, sitting a bit straighter with a sigh.

“My former spouse was an officer of the Roman army. Septimus Juventus. Did you know him?” you questioned, and your eyes moved to Marcus, who looked deep in thought, looking over at the fountain.

“I do not think I had the pleasure of meeting him.” he said, and you noted a stiffness to his tone. You did not press, but Marcus turned his head back and grabbed a piece of bread. Even that was small in comparison to his hands. Tearing a piece off, he dipped it in the mixture of oil and herbs, taking a bite.

“He was… a soldier. Proud, assertive… thought he would be the next great leader of the Roman Army.” you mused, and shook your head. Marcus was quiet, patient, listening. His brown eyes were receptive, understanding. “He was killed in a battle overseas. They burned his body in a funeral rite, and I heard about his death via messenger boy. Next thing I know, I am to be wed to Caecilius.” you recounted.

“Did you love him?” Marcus questioned, and your gaze never strayed from him. You lifted your chin slightly, like you had encountered a bad smell, and your smile was sour.

“As much as any good wife could love their husband through an arranged marriage.” you said, tone clipped and you shook your head minutely, eyes roaming the garden and let out a breathy laugh. “Please, do carry on from my lamentations. I cannot bore my honored guest.”

Marcus smiled weakly, and shook his head, “You could never bore me, My Lady. I wish to know about you, your past and present and future.”

This took you by surprise. No one, especially not a man, had ever spoken to you in such a gentle and concerned way. His gaze was genuine, eyebrows knit together in a way that offered worry, but also comfort. You looked down, and busied yourself with another grape.

“I am not my past. The present is here. And my future has already been decided.” you said, with a curt nod, and Marcus shook his head.

“The future is up to the Fates. They spin the web of life and pull us back and forth. Nothing is ever set in stone.” he said, and his words offered you comfort. Maybe one day you would be free from this prison that all of the men in your life had encased you in.

“Well, then. If I may be truthful, the present is much more bearable with you in it.” you said casually, but Marcus stilled in his seat, eyes moving up and down your figure. You acted like you did not see, and picked up a piece of bread and meat. When you finally had the courage to raise your eyes, you saw him looking down at a piece of fruit and smiling gently, shaking his head.

“Do I amuse you?” you questioned, cocking an eyebrow. He took a bite, taking time to chew and to look back at the sprawling gardens of your villa.

“Your straightforwardness is admirable. Are you this direct all the time?”

“Why? Are you going to cut out my tongue for it?”

Marcus smiled, and shook his head with a chuckle.

“No, no. I quite like it. Not many people speak so freely of themselves in Rome. Much less women.” he said, and you nodded, your shoulder offering an apathetic shrug.

“I have nothing to lose, except my life. And even that is treated as a piece to be bargained off like cattle.” you said. You really did feel you had nothing to lose. You had no family to care for, no one to love and protect and to truly provide for. Your soul was just a lost ship in the night, bobbing in the waves, listless.

Marcus gave you the slightest beacon of light. Hope and light.

But, could you trust it? Or was it leading you straight to the rocks?

“You are anything but. You are a figment of beauty, of grace. Smart as a whip, a tongue quicker than a viper.” he said, and you laughed out loud.

“You flatter me yet again, General Acacius. You best be careful, sir, or I will find your affections to be real and true.”

“Would that be such a bad thing?” he questioned, his voice quiet that only you could hear it from across the table. There was a longing in his eyes, a plea of want, and you smiled sadly.

“In a world like this, one cannot afford such luxuries such as true affection. Not if they want to maintain appearances and status.” you said with a resigned look, and Marcus frowned deeply.

“Do you care about that? Appearances and status?”

“No. Not for me, but for you.” you sighed, and took your glass in hand, swirling the liquid thoughtfully. “You are the Roman General, people love you and look up to you for guidance and strength. If they find something to have tainted your image, you may lose all of that, and more.”

“I do not think I could value those things over love.” he said quietly, and you swallowed dryly. “Valor? Glory? The thrill of a victory? They mean nothing in life when you have no one to love at the end of day’s light.”

Was this his way of saying-? No. It couldn’t be. You were young, but not young enough to believe in such foolishness. You shook yourself internally of the spell the General was seeming to put over you.

“You speak like a poet, General.”

“Marcus.” he finally reminded you, and you smiled lightly. “But I am not a poet. Just an honest man with intentions that are clear and true.”

“And what would those intentions entail?”

He smiled, and chuckled deeply. “The more I see you, the clearer they will become,” he explained, and you felt that small glimmer of hope light within you. You couldn’t help the soft smile that graced your face, and nodded.

“I will be counting on that, then. Seeing where you lead with your intentions.” you said. He nodded, and raised his glass,

“To the future, and all that it holds. May the Gods treat us kindly, and the Fates weave their web in good fortune.” he said, and you nodded in agreement, raising your own glass.

“To the future.”

A few days had passed. You still held on to the conversations with Marcus close to the chest, confiding in your close friend from the African colonies, Jaheim. He was the only one who understood your struggles, having faced some of his own overcoming oppression and fighting for Roman citizenship. He was also the only one who you could truly confide in, every else too untrustworthy and suspicious. You didn’t want any handmaidens or servants going to Caecilius and revealing your meeting with Marcus.

Walking through the market in the heart of Rome, you looked over fruits in the vendor stands, placing a few in your basket and paying the seller with fine gold coins, Jaheim at your side.

“So, the General has taken a liking to a Briton. Who’d have thought you would have that luxury?” Jaheim laughed, and you shook your head, a frown on your face.

“He doesn't know I am not fully Roman. He may turn away should he find that out. People frown upon “half-breeds.” It is a miracle father pushed for my marriages and were successful in them,” you said sourly, and Jaheim shrugged.

“You make a very convincing Roman lady. No one would think you’re a savage by blood.” he chuckled, and you cast him a hard look, but rolled your eyes.

“Fooled you once, too.”

“Ah, but I could see right through you. However, I am more observant than most men of Rome. They see women as nothing but objects- to use or to admire or both. Where I am from, women are warriors. Fighters. Strong, unwavering. You remind me of them.” Jaheim said, and you smiled sadly.

“I wish that were true. I feel like I am not strong, having been tossed around from man to man. I am no better than a common whore.” you said, and Jaheim stopped you with a hand on your arm, his eyebrows furrowed deeply.

“Rafiki yangu (my friend), do you think I am also lesser because of my past? That is what they want you to believe. We rise above what they think, what they assume. We are stronger than what they think. Who we are resides here,” he said, putting his hand on his heart, giving you a light smile. “Kitakuwa sawa (it will be alright). We must persevere. What else is there to do?”

“Where would I be without you?” you breathed, and placed a hand on his shoulder. “You have given me more wisdom in the short time that i’ve known you than any tutor I have ever had.”

“Well, they do not have my worldly experiences, nor the insight of different perspectives on life. Or my stunningly good looks and mesmerizing charm.” he said with a smug expression. You laughed, shaking your head as you weaved in and out of the people.

“I wish I had your confidence. And your good looks.” You stopped at a vendor and looked over the silver and gold jewelry, Jahiem began to converse with an acquaintance that had approached, leaving you to your devices. You picked up a particularly beautiful gold necklace with an engraving of a goddess.

“Good choice! Juno- Queen of the heavens, fertility, and wife of the most powerful of the gods. I always say the first one you choose is a way of that god or goddess reaching out to you. Perhaps she has something in store for your future.” The saleswoman said, and you glanced at her, knowing she was just trying to push a sale, but your stomach fluttered a bit with anticipation. You began to put it back until a voice came up beside you,

“She will have it. Name your price.”

Your head whipped to see Marcus standing next to you, and you tried to hide the surprised look on your face. He cast you a soft smile and handed the woman over far too many coins than the necklace was worth. She bowed and thanked him with a twinkle in her eye, and you smiled and took the necklace in your hand. Marcus gestured for you to walk, and your eyes cast up and down his form in a purple toga with silver linings on the edges, signaling his high status. You smiled lightly,

“General Acacius. What a surprise.” You said, genuinely happy to see him but kept it down. He looked so handsome in the sunlight, the silver in his robes reflecting his own silver in his hair.

“I came to the market for entertainment and food. Looks like I found a little more than that.” He said, and you bit your lower lip to keep the smile that threatened to spread on your face. “You seem to have had a bountiful haul. But surely, it is getting heavy.” He noted, and you shook your head,

“No. It’s bearable, really-“

“Allow me.” He said, taking the basket without further argument, and your eyes narrowed at him but didn’t dare try to retrieve it from him. To do so would draw eyes, and you did not want to invite more speculation to yourself.

A voice called your name, and you turned back in relief to see Jahiem come up to your side.

“I was just telling Athos about the new bathhouse. He invited me to-“ but he stopped abruptly when he saw Marcus standing there, holding your basket. He seemed to wrack his mind for the identity of the man standing next to you, so tall and stoic. He looked at him with a hardened face, and Jahiem could only guess it could be one person.

“General Acacius… It is an honor.” He greeted with a bow, the sly look on his face as he glanced at you. You felt your face flush, thankful for the heat to mask it. You smiled at Jahiem, and gave his arm a firm squeeze.

“The honor is mine. Your name? You are a friend of the Lady’s?” Marcus questioned, his brown eyes questioning as he looked between you and the man with rich brown skin and sparkling blue eyes like the ocean.

“Jahiem Ventus,” he introduced, and bowed gently. “The Lady and I have a closeness, all good-natured and amiable of course.” He said, and Marcus nodded, his eyes moving back to you.

“Perhaps I could steal her away? Walk the rest of the marketplace with her?” Marcus questioned, and you opened your mouth to speak but Jahiem smiled wide,

“Of course, General. I was just about to steal away myself with a friend. But I wouldn’t dream of leaving her unchaperoned.” Jahiem said, and you glowered at him.

“I believe I am capable of taking care of myself on my own, my friend.” You said icily, and he looked at her with a nod, but a bit of shame in his face.

“My apologies. But I will see you at the games, yes?” He said, leaning to give you a kiss on the cheek. You forced a smile and returned the sentiment,

“Of course. Be on your best behavior, now.” You said, patting his shoulder gently and he chuckled, giving you a wink.

“Only the Gods can judge that. Good day.” He said to you, then Marcus and bowed respectfully before departing. Marcus chuckled, and shifted the basket in his hand.

“Your friend is amusing. You do not seem pleased that he released you to me.”

“Yet another man speaking for me does not please me, General. I exercise what little free will I have. I shall walk with whom I please.” You said, and Marcus looked at you with furrowed brows.

“You do not wish to be accompanied?” He questioned, and you looked at him, seeing that pitiful look on his face. You sighed, and shook your head with a small smile.

“Hard to deny you when you look at me like that.” You said, and turned to keep walking. You glanced down at the necklace and Marcus turned in step beside you.

“Look at you like what?” He questioned teasingly, and you grinned down at your hand before looking up.

“Do not make me say it, General. It could be a dangerous observation.” You said, and stepped past a salesperson boasting the best leather sandals, entirely too close to you for comfort. You felt Marcus shift closer to you, as if to stave the man off if he came any closer and you clasped the necklace tight in your hand.

“Here, My Lady. Allow me.” He said, and handed off the basket to you in exchange for the necklace. You paused, and he swiftly put it around your neck, clasping it and letting it sit over your collarbones. His fingertips rested on the top of your spine for just a beat, and your heart flew into your throat. You cleared your throat, and looked at him when he came back around. He regarded you with a smile,

“As radiant as ever.” He complimented, and you looked at him with a soft expression. You looked away as you both neared the end of the marketplace, and felt your chest deflate at the thought of having to part with him.

“You mentioned the games, are you going to be present for them? In the Colosseum?” Marcus questioned, and you nodded.

“Yes. Caecilius insisted we join a few other senators and their wives for the spectacle. I could do without the gore and bloodbath, but I suppose I must keep up appearances.” You sighed, and Marcus nodded thoughtfully. You could see the gears turning in his mind as he looked off into the distance.

“Perhaps you will also find your way there?” You questioned casually, and you could sense the faintest smile from Marcus. He shrugged halfheartedly,

“Perhaps.” He said vaguely, and you smiled small yourself. Marcus’ hand brushed yours at your side, and it took everything in you to keep from taking his smallest finger within your own in the sea of people in the marketplace.

That night, Marcus dreamed.

The same sounds of anguish and cries of pain echoed around him, his feet crunching under the gravel of the battlefield. The smoke and dirt wafted around, but he saw the figure ahead of him, leading him through it all. While the field was cloaked in darkness, he saw sun threatening to break on the horizon, where he followed the figure. Whoever this was, she would bring him to peace and serenity. Was it the goddess Minerva, with all of her wisdom and finally bringing him out of war? Or maybe Eos, the goddess who brought the new dawn, signaling the end of darkness?

But, he stopped as the sun finally broke the horizon, and the figure turned to him.

You looked at him, a small smile on your face, and extended your hand out for him.

Reaching out, he knew you would lead him to salvation.

Comment, like, reblog, anything is appreciated! Divider by @/saradika-graphics!

#marcus acacius #marcus acacius x you #marcus acacius x reader #marcus acacius x female reader #gladiator ii fanfiction #marcus acacius x ofc #visionsfics #heartlines series

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mandaloriankait · 2 months ago

Text

Sweet Surprise

A/N: Honestly I'm just writing for myself right now and hoping you guys enjoy it. This is a FFM smut one-shot, my first time writing one. Thanks to @gothcsz for hyping me up enough to post it 💕

Warnings: unprotected pinv, fingering, oral(f!receiving), FFM

Taglist: @clubsoft @the-only-din-i-want @greenwitchfromthewoods

You walked through the palace, reaching the doors to where Marcus was being housed. Pushing them open, you were surprised to find him there already, with a woman straddling him. “Marcus? What is this?”, you asked, voice trembling slightly. He had summoned you, asked you to come here because he had a surprise for you, and instead you find this. You watched as he sat up, lifting her with him with ease; she didn't react to your presence, only moved to suck a bruise into his neck. You watched him shudder slightly and the tension in your chest grew. “You're early, my love.”, he said, reaching out a hand for you. You stayed back, fury clear as day on your face as you watched her continue to lavish his neck with kisses. When you didn't come closer, Marcus lifted her off his lap, depositing her on the bed beside him. She giggled, eyes darting between the two of you in obvious amusement. You didn't miss the way her eyes raked down your body, and if you weren't so angry, you'd be flattered because she was beautiful. Marcus walked towards you, arm outstretched to greet you; you dodged his touch, moving to the window at your left. He followed you, quickly wrapping you in his arms and pulling you back against his chest. You struggled slightly, but knew from experience it was no use trying to fight him.

“What's wrong, sweet one?”, he rumbled, leaning down and placing kisses on your neck. You sighed, your mind slowly letting go of your anger as he sucked on your pulsepoint. “Who is she and why is she here? For you?”, you asked, finally pushing away and glaring up at him, arms crossed. The look on his face morphed from confusion to amusement as he scoffed at you. “No, she's for you.”, he replied, hands smoothing over your arms as he stepped closer. The woman watched you both with interest, hands trailing over her scantily clad body lightly. Your eyes widened as you realized you had it wrong, after all; you and Marcus had talked about adding a third before, and since you had never been with a woman, he wanted to give you that experience. “I thought….I don't know what I thought.”, you murmured softly, allowing Marcus to pull you into his arms, finally. He pressed a kiss to your forehead before tilting your chin up, kissing you lovingly. The two of you stood there, making out slowly until the woman stood up and made her way behind you. Her featherlight touch on your arms made you gasp into the kiss, and Marcus took full advantage of your open mouth to swipe his tongue through your lips. She started to kiss and mouth at your neck and you moaned, grasping at Marcus’ tunic with both hands. She sucked a bruise into your neck before pulling away, circling to your side to push you back from Marcus. Taking your face in her hands, she kissed you gently, the softness of her lips against yours a direct contrast to Marcus. Her tongue slipped into your mouth, sliding against your own softly. You whimpered as she slid her hands up your chest, pinching your nipples through the fabric of your dress. Marcus moved to the bed, thoroughly enjoying watching the pair of you.

You broke the kiss with a small grin and you both turned to look at Marcus, who was lounging on the bed palming his cock through his tunic lazily. He beckoned you both to him and you obeyed, dragging her with you with a giggle. You tumbled onto the bed with them on either side of you and immediately, hands were on your body. Your dress was pulled over your head, leaving you bare before them. She and Marcus both palmed your breasts with her leaning down to suck one of your nipples into her mouth, tongue swirling. Marcus swallowed your moans as he kissed you roughly; your hand slid into her hair as she laved at your skin. He trailed his mouth down your neck, pausing to kiss and suck at the bruise she had made on your skin. Her kisses continued lower down your body until she reached your cunt. You could feel her breath against you as she repositioned herself between your legs, spreading your thighs wide. Marcus leaned back, watching intently as she licked up through your folds, causing your back to arch and your hand to fly down to tangle in her dark hair. “Fuck! Marcus, she feels so good.”, you moaned, turning your head to look at him. He smirked, watching her continue to fuck her tongue into your dripping hole, her thumb rubbing circles on your clit. Your grip on her hair tightened and she moaned into you, causing your hips to jerk against her face. “That's right, use her face.”, Marcus murmured, tweaking a nipple with one hand as your hips started grinding against her mouth. He got up, shedding his tunic before returning to kiss you once more. Your hands gripped at his shoulders, pulling him closer to you as one of his hands trailed down your body. He fisted his hand in her hair and pushed her down against you, forcing her into your dripping pussy harshly. She moaned, the vibrations feeling like heaven against your clit. Your hips moved faster, grinding against her face as she sucked at your clit and pressed two fingers into you. Her slim fingers curved into you, pressing against the spongy spot inside your walls and you keened as she thrust them in and out. Finally, with one last grind of your hips, you came with a shout, gushing all over her face.

She crawled up your body, planting kisses everywhere she could reach until she faced you and Marcus. Before you could kiss her, Marcus grabbed her by the back of her neck and pulled her in for a searing kiss, moaning at the taste of you on her tongue. You whimpered, watching the two of them together was mesmerizing. Marcus pressed hungry kisses into her neck as she leaned forward and kissed you, her tongue moving with yours as she moaned. He tapped your hip, motioning for you to move over; when you did, he quickly flipped her over onto her back, breasts bouncing as she giggled. He then pulled you towards him, kissing you for a moment before positioning you over her, thighs bracketing her own, ass in the air. His grip on your hips was tight as he pulled you back, grinding against his cock. You moaned as he slid into you, filling you up as he bottomed out. She immediately started touching you, mouth on your breasts as Marcus started to thrust into you, pushing your hips down against hers. Each thrust caused you to grind together and the sensation had you both moaning Marcus’ name repeatedly. “Fuck, Marcus, ohmygod you're so deep.”, you cried out, losing yourself to the sensations. He leaned over you, pressing openmouthed kisses to your spine and shoulders as he pistoned his hips into you. She continued to mouth and suck at your tits, your back arching against Marcus as he fucked into you. The faster he moved his hips, the faster you ground down against her and it was almost overwhelming. Your clit kept catching the hair on her cunt, the sensation heavenly.

She moaned against your chest, hips and thighs trembling as she came against you, her slick causing more friction between you. “Oh my god, Marcus, please, I'm so close!”, you moaned; he lifted you off of her and started pounding up into you, your back to his chest. She lifted herself up, standing on her knees in front of you. A hand slid down your body until her fingers landed on your clit, rubbing tight circles in time with Marcus’ thrusts. One hand fisted in his curls, the other bracing yourself on her shoulder, you keened and your body shook as your orgasm crested within you. Your hips shook as he continued to fuck into you once, twice, three more times before he came deep inside you. Marcus let you go and you collapsed onto the bed, breathing heavily. She followed you down, kissing your neck and shoulders as her hand slid through the mess of your pussy. She brought her fingers to her lips and sucked them into her mouth with a heady moan. You couldn't help but watch as she licked the digits clean, humming around them. Marcus rested against your other side, pressing his lips to your cheek reverently. “You okay, sweet one?”, he asked, resting his hand on your stomach. You nodded with a tired giggle, pulling her into your side as you grinned at him. “That was such a good surprise.”, you whispered, kissing his lips softly.

#marcus acacius #marcus acacius x reader #marcus acacius smut #marcus acacius x reader x ofc #kait's fics

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vulpine-spectacle · 6 months ago

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GODS OF THE RISING SUN (Acacius/OFC)

by vulpine_spectacle

In the aftermath of Emperor Commodus' fall in the arena by the hands of Maximus Decimus Meridius, the state of Rome is left as fragile as a broken whisper. Aurelia, Commodus' only living child through his late wife Bruttia Crispina, falls into a state of danger. To secure the safety of her niece, Lucilla orchestrates for Aurelia to be safeguarded by the Temple of Vesta, under the esteemed and powerful Vestal Virgins; watchers of the eternal flame. Fourteen years have passed since the death of Commodus. Rome is now governed by the children of Severus Septimus, a pair of mad men driven by blood and their own desires. Emperor Geta has turned his eye to the Temple of Vesta. The people call his power into question; to have a daughter of Commodus as a bride would be a show of power. In an effort to protect her niece once more, Lucilla orchestrates a union of her own. Upon his return from a conquering campaign, Lucilla convinces General Marcus Acacius to request Aurelia as his bride. Torn from her temple and faith, Aurelia is forced to play the game of emperors and pawns once again. As a granddaughter of Marcus Aurelius, she is the rising sun over Rome.

#marcus acacius #marcus acacius x ofc #acacius / ofc #gladiator #gladiator ii #gladiator fic #ao3 #ao3 fic #// WELP I DID IT #anyway im gotta go do adult stuff (sign up for health insurance WHOOP)#enjoy this guyzzzz #( and yes im still working on eiob dont worry ; )

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theetherealbloom · 5 months ago

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Whole Package, Babe, I Like The Way You Fit

Summary: Holiday beach trip with Pedro and friends.

Or, that one new Pedro shirtless pic…

Pairing: Pedro Pascal x F!Reader

Warnings: Established Relationship, TOOTH-ROTTING FLUFF, Slight Nudity, Slight Angst, Swearing, Anxiety, Cheesy Dialogue, Romance, Kissing, Real People Fiction, Cameras, Paparazzi, Social Media, Beach Trip, Light Blood, Scratch, Ocean, Swimming, Swimwear, Shirtless Pedro, Light SMUT, Spicy, Sweet, Implied SMUT, Banter, Idk Spanish so the terms might be wrong but I'm trying my best

Word Count: 4.6k

A/N: The mf decided to give us shirtless Pedro and suddenly I have the will to live again LMAO. Weirdly enough, I am also at the beach while writing this so it’s kinda a funny coincidence… Imagine if we were at the same beach, that would be so funny (He can never know my existence I might die.)

No one ask me how I knew what hotel they were staying at. I scare myself too dw.

Song: Juno by Sabrina Carpenter

| Main Masterlist |

HOTEL ESENCIA, MEXICO — DAY

The warm tropical breeze carried the salty tang of the ocean as you stepped onto the soft, powdery sand of the secluded beach Pedro’s friends had chosen for the Christmas getaway. The sun kissed your skin, palm trees swayed lazily overhead, and the gentle rhythm of waves provided the perfect soundtrack for a holiday escape.

The group—Lauren Alexander, Brandan Campbell, Omar Apollo, and Pedro’s ever-charismatic agent, Franklin Latt—had already claimed a prime spot near the water. Lounge chairs were lined up under brightly colored umbrellas, a massive cooler sat brimming with ice and drinks, and Omar was enthusiastically attempting to set up a speaker while humming the latest tune stuck in his head.

Pedro lagged a few steps behind you, carrying your beach bag and his, though his attention wasn’t on the task. It was on you.

When you shrugged off your airy cover-up, revealing a stunning red bikini that hugged your curves just right, Pedro froze mid-step. His sunglasses couldn’t hide the way his jaw tightened or how his eyes darkened as they roamed over you.

“Everything okay there?” you teased, tilting your head as you caught him staring.

Pedro blinked, visibly gathering himself. “Yeah, yeah, everything’s fine.” He cleared his throat, but his gaze didn’t waver. “More than fine.”

You smirked, adjusting the straps of your bikini for good measure. “You’re staring.”

“Can you blame me?” he shot back, taking a step closer. His voice dipped, low and husky. “You look... breathtaking.”

A flush crept up your neck, but you refused to let him win so easily. “Not too bad yourself,” you quipped, lightly poking his chest. His white linen shirt was unbuttoned just enough to reveal a tantalizing hint of his tan skin and the gold chain that rested against his collarbone.

Pedro chuckled, the sound warm and intimate. “If I’d known you’d be wearing this, I’d have hired a bodyguard to keep everyone else from looking.”

“Oh, please,” you replied, rolling your eyes but unable to stop the grin tugging at your lips. “I’m here with you, aren’t I?”

He leaned in, his hand brushing against your waist as he planted a soft kiss on your forehead. “Stop being so cute, or I might never let you leave my sight,” he murmured.

“Is that a promise or a threat?” you teased, your voice playful but your heart racing.

“Both,” he said, his grin widening as he pulled back to admire you once more.

From nearby, Omar let out a loud whistle. “Pedro, are you gonna stand there all day, or are you gonna help us with this speaker? Some of us want to vibe to music!”

Pedro groaned, turning reluctantly toward the group but throwing an arm around your shoulders as he led you over. “Fine, but only because she’s coming with me,” he called out, earning a round of laughter.

As you settled into the setup, the sun beamed overhead, and the carefree energy of the group was infectious. Pedro stayed close, his arm brushing yours as you helped Lauren unpack snacks, and his eyes never strayed far from you.

At one point, Franklin handed you a coconut with a straw and a cheeky smile. “Best way to stay hydrated,” he said, winking.

“Cheers,” Pedro said, clinking his coconut against yours. He took a sip before leaning closer, his breath warm against your ear. “But if you spill even a drop, I’m licking it off you.”

Your cheeks burned as you nearly choked on your drink. “Pedro!” you hissed, swatting at him.

He grinned, unapologetic. “What? I’m just being practical.”

The day unfolded in easy laughter and warmth, with the sun high overhead and the turquoise ocean sparkling like a field of diamonds. Pedro carried you on his back through the shallows, his hands gripping your thighs as you pretended to be his commanding officer.

“Faster, soldier!” you commanded, leaning forward and tugging gently at his ears as if steering him.

“Ma’am, yes, ma’am!” he called back, mock-serious but laughing as he jogged through the water, sending small waves splashing around you both. “Anything else, ma’am? Should I do some push-ups in the sand too?”

You grinned wickedly. “Push-ups? I’d like to see you try—with me on your back.”

Pedro stopped abruptly, twisting his head to glance at you with a raised brow. “Oh, you think I can’t?”

“I know you can’t,” you teased, leaning down to press your cheek against his.

He smirked, suddenly spinning in place. “You’re asking for it now.”

Before you could protest, he dropped into the water with a dramatic splash, sending you tumbling off his back and into the cool embrace of the ocean.

“Pedro!” you shrieked, surfacing with a gasp and pushing your wet hair out of your face.

He was already laughing, standing a few feet away with his hands on his hips, his soaked hair plastered to his forehead. “That’s what you get for doubting my strength!”

“Oh, you’re so dead!” you shouted, lunging toward him.

Pedro yelped playfully, backpedaling but not fast enough. You caught his arm, laughing as you pulled him down into the water with you. The two of you wrestled like kids, splashing and laughing so hard your stomach hurt.

“Truce! Truce!” he called out, holding up his hands in surrender as you pelted him with another wave of water.

“Do you admit defeat?” you demanded, a triumphant grin on your face.

“Never!” he declared, darting forward to grab your waist. Before you could react, he lifted you effortlessly, spinning you around in the water.

“Pedro!” you shrieked, laughing and trying to wriggle free.

“You wanted a soldier,” he said, his voice full of mischief, “and now you’ve got one!”

You finally stopped struggling, letting your arms drape around his shoulders as he held you close. The laughter faded into something softer, the two of you catching your breath as you stood chest-deep in the water.

His hands slid down to your hips, steadying you as he gazed at you with a look that made your heart flutter. “You’re beautiful, you know that?” he murmured, his voice low and intimate.

The way he said it, like it was a simple truth he’d always believed, made your cheeks warm despite the cool water. “You’re just saying that because I’m soaked and ridiculous-looking,” you replied, biting back a smile.

“No,” he said, leaning in so his forehead pressed against yours. “I’m saying it because it’s true.”

Your breath hitched as his lips brushed against yours, soft and hesitant at first, like he was savoring the moment. The kiss deepened quickly, his arms pulling you closer until there was no space between you.

When you pulled back for air, Pedro’s eyes were dark, his lips slightly swollen from the kiss. “You’ve got this effect on me,” he admitted, his voice husky.

“Oh yeah?” you teased, though your voice wavered with the same breathless energy.

“Yeah,” he said, leaning in to kiss you again, his hands sliding up your back. “And I never want it to go away.”

For a while, the rest of the world melted away. You stayed there, wrapped in each other’s arms, the ocean rocking gently around you. He kissed you like he was memorizing every detail, every taste, and you couldn’t help but smile against his lips, feeling completely and utterly adored.

At one point, he pulled back just enough to whisper, “If this is what it feels like to surrender, I’m never fighting again.”

You laughed, threading your fingers through his damp hair. “I think I like you defeated.”

“And I think I like you here, in my arms,” he replied softly, his lips brushing against your temple.

The sound of your friends laughing and splashing in the distance barely registered. For now, it was just you and Pedro, lost in a world of sunlit kisses and salty skin, the ocean your only witness.

The group gathered in a loose circle, each person holding a large green coconut decorated with colorful straws and tiny paper umbrellas. The warm, golden light of the late afternoon sun bathed everything in a soft glow, making the moment feel like a scene out of a postcard. Omar crouched to capture the perfect angle with his camera while Lauren struck a dramatic pose, tilting her head back and raising her coconut like it was a chalice of the gods.

“Lauren, you’re doing the most,” Franklin said, shaking his head but smiling as he adjusted his sunglasses.

“Darling, I am the most,” Lauren shot back with a wink, drawing laughs from everyone.

Pedro, standing just behind you, pulled you snugly against his side, his arm wrapped securely around your waist. “C’mon, let’s show them how it’s done,” he murmured in your ear, his warm breath sending a shiver down your spine.

Franklin, standing in front with his phone, held it up. “Okay, lovebirds, your turn. Smile for the camera!”

You turned your face toward Pedro’s at the exact same moment he turned toward you, and the laughter bubbled up before either of you could stop it. Your foreheads bumped lightly, and you both dissolved into giggles, the kind of uncontainable joy that made your chest feel light.

“Oh, my god,” Lauren groaned theatrically, pointing at the two of you. “Are they even real? Look at them, they’re in their own damn rom-com!”

“Y’all are embarrassing,” Omar chimed in, snapping pictures anyway. “But keep doing whatever that is because it’s disgustingly cute.”

Pedro’s grin widened as he tilted his head toward you, his nose brushing against yours. “You’re ridiculous,” you said through your laughter, feeling your cheeks warm under the attention.

“And you’re perfect,” Pedro replied, his voice low but playful, the corners of his mouth lifting into a smirk.

Franklin groaned loudly, still holding up his phone. “For the love of all things holy, just kiss her already! We’re trying to make memories here, not watch a slow-burn romance unfold in real-time!”

Pedro raised an eyebrow, glancing at the group before looking back at you with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “What do you think, Hermosa? Should we give them what they want?”

You laughed, pretending to ponder. “Hmm… maybe. But only if you make it a good one.”

“Challenge accepted,” Pedro whispered, and then his lips were on yours, soft but sure. The kiss was sweet and unhurried, the kind that made everything around you fade into the background.

“Oh my god, they’re actually doing it,” Lauren shrieked, clapping her hands together like a giddy child.

“Finally!” Omar exclaimed, snapping several pictures in rapid succession. “This is going on the Christmas card.”

“Make sure you get my good side!” Pedro joked, pulling back just enough to shoot Omar a wink, his arm still secure around your waist.

“I don’t think you have a bad side,” you teased, your eyes meeting Pedro’s.

“Ugh, stop!” Franklin groaned, clutching his chest dramatically. “This is too much. I need a drink—and not out of a coconut. I’m going straight for the tequila.”

Everyone burst into laughter, the lighthearted teasing filling the air as the moment was immortalized with photos, laughter, and a shared sense of joy. Pedro leaned closer, his lips brushing your temple as the group continued to banter.

“They’re just jealous,” he murmured softly, his voice filled with affection.

You tilted your head up to meet his gaze, your heart swelling at the warmth in his eyes. “Maybe. But I’m not sharing, so they can stay jealous.”

Pedro chuckled, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Good. Because neither am I.”

The heat of the day softened into a golden, languid warmth as the two of you found refuge under the shade of a broad umbrella. The beach stretched endlessly before you, the waves lazily licking at the shore. Pedro reclined in a beach chair, his book propped open on his lap. The faint breeze tousled his hair, a few stray strands falling over his forehead, and the way he absentmindedly pushed them back sent a flutter through your chest.

You leaned against his side, your legs stretched out on the chair beside him, the perfect picture of ease. With one hand, you held your favorite romance novel, its dog-eared pages evidence of how many times you'd read it. With the other, you traced patterns along the inked lines of his tattoos. Your fingertips moved slowly, savoring the ridges of muscle and warmth beneath his skin, as if committing every part of him to memory.

Pedro’s free hand slid into yours, threading your fingers together with a natural intimacy that still made your heart skip a beat. He didn’t look up from his book as he murmured, “Everything feels right when you’re with me.”

The sincerity in his tone made you pause, your eyes lifting from the words on the page. A small smile tugged at your lips as you squeezed his hand gently. “I know the feeling,” you replied, your voice soft.

For a while, the two of you sat in comfortable silence, the kind that only comes when you’re entirely at ease with someone. The distant laughter of your friends mingled with the rhythmic crashing of waves, creating a serene soundtrack to your stolen moment.

Pedro finally set his book down, slipping a receipt in as a placeholder. His gaze shifted to you, lingering in a way that made your cheeks heat even before he said a word.

“You know,” he began, his voice warm and teasing, “you’re kind of amazing.”

You tilted your head, meeting his eyes with a playful arch of your brow. “Kind of?”

Pedro chuckled, his smile widening. “Okay, more than kind of. Very. Incredibly. Like, the kind of amazing that makes me wonder what I ever did to deserve you.”

You closed your book, setting it on the small table between your chairs. Turning slightly, you rested your chin on his shoulder, your fingers still entwined with his. “Pedro, where’s all this coming from?”

He shrugged, but his eyes were soft, almost vulnerable. “Just thinking. Watching you. It hits me sometimes how lucky I am. How lucky I feel to be the one sitting here with you.”

You laughed lightly, shaking your head. “You’re the one everyone loves. The kind, talented, ridiculously handsome Pedro Pascal. If anything, I’m the lucky one.”

Pedro leaned closer, his free hand brushing a strand of hair away from your face. “You’re wrong about that. Don’t get me wrong—I like myself just fine,” he teased, earning a laugh from you. “But you? You’re everything. Smart, funny, compassionate. And don’t even get me started on how beautiful you are.”

Your cheeks flushed, and you tried to deflect with a teasing grin. “Oh, so it’s just my looks, huh?”

“Not even close,” Pedro said, his voice dropping to a softer, deeper tone. “It’s the way you talk about your favorite books like they’re old friends. The way you laugh with your whole body. The way you care about everyone—how you make every room brighter just by being in it.”

“Pedro…” you whispered, your throat tight with emotion.

“And don’t think I haven’t noticed how you’ve got everyone wrapped around your finger,” he added, his grin returning. “Omar can’t go ten minutes without asking if you need something, and Lauren keeps calling you her ‘new favorite person.’”

You laughed, brushing at your cheeks as your emotions threatened to overwhelm you. “Stop. You’re going to make me cry.”

Pedro’s expression softened further, his thumb brushing over your cheek as if to catch a tear before it could fall. “If I do, they’d better be happy tears. Because, cariño, I love you more than I ever thought was possible.”

Your breath hitched, and you leaned into his touch. “I love you too. So much.”

For a moment, the world around you faded into the background. Pedro leaned in, his lips brushing against yours in a kiss that was slow and tender, like a promise. When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Promise me you’ll always stay this close,” he said, his tone carrying a weight you couldn’t quite place.

You smiled, your hands cupping his face. “I promise. Always.”

Pedro’s heart swelled at your words, and though he didn’t say it out loud, a plan began to take shape in his mind. He pictured the perfect ring, the perfect moment, the perfect way to ask you to spend forever with him.

“I’ll hold you to that,” he said softly, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead.

You didn’t need to say anything else. The way you melted into his arms, the way your fingers found his once again, said everything. For now, this was enough. But in his heart, Pedro knew it wouldn’t be long before he made good on the promise his soul had already made: to love you, always.

The late afternoon sun bathed the beach in golden light as you wandered back into the water. The waves lapped gently at your legs, warm and inviting. Lost in the tranquil rhythm of the ocean, you didn’t notice the jagged rock just below the surface until it grazed your shin. You winced, feeling the sharp sting before brushing it off as nothing.

You emerged from the water, the salty breeze brushing against your skin. Pedro, lounging nearby with a half-finished coconut drink, immediately sat up. His eyes darted to your leg, catching the small but noticeable trail of red trickling down your shin.

“Are you bleeding?” His voice carried that signature mix of concern and urgency that only Pedro could make sound so endearing.

You glanced down, surprised to see the cut. “Oh.”

“Oh?” Pedro’s tone was incredulous as he practically leapt from his chair, already reaching for the towel draped over the back. “That’s all you have to say? Oh?”

“It’s just a scratch, Pedro,” you said with a small laugh, trying to wave him off. “I’m fine.”

But Pedro was having none of it. He crouched in front of you, his warm hands circling your calf to keep your leg still. The towel dabbed gently at the cut, his brow furrowed in concentration. “You’re not allowed to get hurt on my watch,” he muttered, more to himself than to you.

“It’s barely a paper cut,” you teased, watching the way his features softened even as he fussed over you.

“Doesn’t matter.” His voice was firm, though his touch remained impossibly gentle. “What if it gets infected? What if—”

You laughed, cutting him off. “Pedro, it’s not like I got bitten by a shark.”

He looked up at you, his expression a mixture of exasperation and adoration. “Don’t joke about that. I’d fight a shark for you, you know.”

The sincerity in his voice, paired with the completely ridiculous statement, made you laugh even harder. “Oh, I’m sure you would,” you said, brushing your fingers through his damp curls.

“Don’t test me,” he quipped, finally satisfied that the cut was clean. He reached for the small first-aid kit Franklin had insisted on bringing, pulling out a bandage. “Hold still.”

“Seriously?” you asked, your amusement growing.

“Seriously,” he said, shooting you a look that dared you to challenge him. He peeled the adhesive back and smoothed the bandage over your shin with a precision that would make a surgeon proud.

“There,” he said, sitting back on his heels and surveying his work with a nod. “Good as new.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you said, shaking your head but smiling all the same.

“And you’re reckless,” he shot back, standing up and pulling you into his arms. “I leave you alone for five minutes, and this is what happens.”

You leaned into him, your hands resting against his chest. “I think you’re overreacting. It’s a scratch, Pedro.”

“It’s your scratch,” he said, his voice softening. His fingers tilted your chin up, his eyes searching yours. “That means it matters to me.”

Your heart did a little flip at his words, and you couldn’t resist teasing him just a little. “You know how you’re like—”

“Absolutely embarrassingly in love with you?” he cut in, a smirk tugging at his lips.

You rolled your eyes, though you couldn’t help the grin that spread across your face. “Yeah, that.”

Pedro leaned in, his forehead resting against yours. “I am, you know,” he said, his voice dropping to a tender murmur. “Completely, hopelessly, embarrassingly in love with you.”

Your teasing melted away as you cupped his face, brushing your thumbs over the scruff of his jaw. “Good. Because I’m absolutely embarrassingly in love with you too.”

His smile grew, and he kissed you softly, as if sealing a promise. When he pulled back, his eyes sparkled with mischief. “Now, no more rock fights, okay? You’ve got to take it easy on me.”

You laughed, wrapping your arms around his neck. “I’ll do my best. But no promises if a shark shows up.”

Pedro groaned dramatically, lifting you off your feet as he carried you back to the lounge chairs. “If a shark shows up, I’ll negotiate with it. Tell it I’m already your protector and it can’t have the job.”

You giggled, nuzzling against his neck. “Sounds like a good plan. My hero.”

He set you down with exaggerated care, pressing one last kiss to your forehead. “Always,” he said simply.

And as the two of you sat there, the ocean stretching endlessly before you, you felt it again—that perfect, undeniable feeling of being home.

HOTEL ESENCIA, MEXICO — SUNSET

The sunset painted the sky in hues of orange, pink, and deep indigo, casting a magical glow over the beach. The group sat in a loose circle, their laughter and conversation mingling with the soft crash of the waves and the mellow strumming of a guitar Omar had picked up. The mood was serene, the kind of calm that felt like it could stretch forever.

Pedro sat behind you on the sand, his strong arms wrapped securely around your waist as you leaned back against his chest. His chin rested lightly on your shoulder, and you could feel the soft puff of his breath against your neck. His warmth enveloped you, a perfect contrast to the cool ocean breeze.

“You cold, cariño?” Pedro murmured, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“Not even a little,” you replied, turning your head to catch his eyes. They sparkled, reflecting the fiery colors of the horizon.

His fingers traced slow, idle circles against your stomach. “Good. Can’t have you shivering out here, not when I’ve got two perfectly good arms to keep you warm.”

“You’re too good at this,” you teased, smiling as you reached up to brush a strand of hair from his forehead.

“Good at what?” he asked, his tone playful, though his eyes held that familiar, unspoken intensity that always made your heart skip a beat.

“At making me feel like the luckiest person in the world,” you said softly.

Pedro’s lips curved into a slow smile, and he leaned down to press a tender kiss to your temple. “That’s funny,” he murmured, “because that’s exactly how I feel about you.”

The golden light of the sunset cast a halo around his face, and you couldn’t help but reach up, cupping his cheek as you brought his forehead to yours. “I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of hearing you say things like that.”

“You’d better not,” he said, his voice warm and teasing, though there was an edge of vulnerability beneath it. “Because I’m not planning on stopping.”

“I’ll love you forever,” Pedro whispered, his lips ghosting against your ear as the first stars began to peek through the darkening sky.

You tilted your head back to meet his gaze fully, the world around you falling away. “You promise?”

He cupped your face in his hands, his thumb brushing tenderly over your cheek. “I promise,” he said, his voice steady and filled with so much certainty it made your chest ache in the best way.

His lips found yours in a kiss that was soft and lingering, filled with a sweetness that felt endless. When he pulled back, he pressed another kiss to your forehead before tucking you closer to him.

The night deepened, and the group eventually wandered back to the cozy beachfront hotel. Pedro’s hand never left yours as you made your way to your shared room, the two of you moving in quiet, comfortable synchronicity.

Inside, the room was dimly lit, the glow of a single bedside lamp casting a warm, intimate light over the space. The sound of the waves was faint through the open balcony doors, and the scent of salt air mingled with the faintly floral perfume you’d spritzed on earlier.

Pedro closed the door behind you and turned to face you, his expression soft but unmistakably intent. “You know,” he said, stepping closer, “I meant it. Every word I said out there.”

You tilted your head, giving him a playful look. “Even the part where you said you’d never get tired of me stealing the covers?”

“Especially that part,” he said with a grin, his hands finding your waist and pulling you flush against him. “Though I might need extra cuddles as compensation.”

You laughed softly, your hands sliding up his chest to rest on his shoulders. “I think that can be arranged.”

His grin faded, replaced by something deeper, more serious, as his eyes searched yours. “I love you,” he said, the words simple but carrying the weight of everything he felt. “So much that sometimes it scares me.”

You leaned up, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I love you too. And you don’t have to be scared, Pedro. You’ve got me.”

His lips claimed yours in a kiss that was slow and deliberate, his hands splaying across your back as he pulled you closer. The kiss deepened, his lips parting to taste yours, and you felt the warmth of him everywhere.

He backed you gently toward the bed, his movements unhurried, as if savoring every moment. The backs of your knees hit the edge, and you sank onto the soft mattress, pulling him down with you.

Pedro’s hands roamed, his touch reverent as his lips moved from your mouth to your jaw, then down the column of your neck. “Tell me if I’m going too fast,” he murmured against your skin, his voice low and husky.

“You’re perfect,” you whispered, threading your fingers through his hair and tugging lightly to bring his lips back to yours.

His breath hitched at your words, and you felt the weight of his love in every kiss, every touch. The world outside faded away, leaving just the two of you wrapped in each other, lost in a moment that felt infinite.

Pedro pulled back briefly, his forehead resting against yours as his fingers laced with yours. “You’re my everything,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

“And you’re mine,” you replied, your heart full to bursting.

And as the night stretched on, the love between you grew even deeper, wrapping around you both like a warm, unbreakable cocoon.

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missadangel · 28 days ago

Text

⊱ AMOR MEUS AETERNUS ⊰

(Marcus Acacius x Ofc)

II. Tensio

prev chapter series masterlist next chapter

Chapter Summary: You’re making Marcus regret bringing you, and he’s considering a decision you won’t like. Chapter W. Count and warnings: 11k; romantic comedy, ancient rome, using drugs (tranquilizer), anxiety attacks, violence, power imbalance, a little angst, mention about marriage. authors note: conubium: Roman law; the right to intermarry. pater familias: He is the oldest living male in a household. Pairing: Marcus Acacius x Ofc!Reader (Her name is Rose, and her hair is dyed) Rating: Explicit, 18+ MDNI, Smut General Warnings: Harsh, cold, grumpy Marcus, and the reader is NOT innocent a little bitchy, Lucilla is mean, Lucius is a jerk(but falls in love with reader), its Septimius Severus' era but Geta and Caracalla are the prince of Rome, time travel, modern-ancient era travels, falling in love, slow burn, rough sex, smut, sex, oral sex (both f&m receiving), all sex, dirty talk, gladiators, battle, war, violence, blood, ancient time language, fluffy, injury, forced marriage, arranged marriage, sexism, haters to lovers, first love, angst, vestal virgins, vestal priestesses, age gap; reader is 25 Marcus is 42, reincarnation my masterlist

gif by nicolethered

chapter theme (sorry tumblr didn't let me to add this before)

A searing headache throbbed in your temples, reminiscent of the intense pain that often accompanied your period. Oh, right—your cycle was just around the corner. Thankfully, you had taken your painkillers from the pharmacy and stashed them in your bag alongside your depression medication. You should taken it immediately because this was unbearable.

And that smell—

Wait, was that a horse neighing?

With a jolt, you realized something was pressing against your face. You blinked your eyes open, only to find your head resting on a shaggy bale of hay. A massive horse loomed inches away from you, its large, dark eyes fixed on yours.

This wasn't a dream.

“Aaaaah!” you screamed, your voice piercing the stillness of the small stable, the sound reverberating off the wooden beams. Startled, the horse reared back, its powerful hooves striking the ground with a resounding clatter that echoed like thunder in the confined space.

“Why are you screaming?” an irate voice demanded.

And there he was.

Him.

That psycho.

The source of all your frustrations.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asked.

A tremor of rage coursed through you as your anger bubbled up. The surrounding scene intensified your fury, and you asked, “Where the hell am I?”

“I had to carry you here after you lost consciousness,” he replied.

Wait a minute—what were you wearing? Had he draped that black robe over you?

“Why am I dressed like this, and why are we in this… place?”

"Wearing your usual unconventional attire may attract attention. Besides, I need to make sure your legs are covered properly."

“That sounds rather bigoted,” you grumbled.

Marcus let out a troubled sigh, the annoyance stretching across his face. "Could you rise if you are feeling capable? I need to proceed to the villa now."

With hands pressed into the dirt-strewn floor for support, you attempted to rise but staggered, the earth beneath you gritty and unpleasant. “It stinks! Everything stinks!” you whined, finally managing to stand upright.

He had the audacity to not even offer a hand to help you up.

Rude bastard.

The flowing black robe cloaked you entirely, brushing the ground with each step. Marcus’s expression remained stoic as his gaze raked over you from head to toe. "At least you're less conspicuous now. Let’s pull this over your face,” he instructed, tugging the hood down to obscure your features.

“What’s wrong with my face?” you frowned.

“Your hair looks a bit odd compared to the other women around here,” he explained.

You let out a hysterical laugh, incredulous. “I just dyed it a salted caramel color. Do you have any idea how expensive that is?”

He paused, seemingly baffled. “I wonder why a woman would choose to change her hair color at all?”

“What do you know anyway? You’re practically a caveman,” you muttered beneath your breath.

He didn’t understand your sarcasm, as usual. “I need to lay down some rules, and I ask that you please follow them, alright?”

You shrugged your shoulders, noncommittal.

“First off, in your time, I may appear as a nobody, but here I possess some dignity. When with my family, you will refer to me by my title, not by my name. You will not speak disrespectfully to them, and foul language is strictly off-limits. If you’re asked a question, I’ll take care of it. It’s best if you just keep your mouth shut unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

Crossing your arms defiantly, you retorted, “Why should I abide by any of this? Why did you drag me here if your reputation means so much to you?”

Marcus rolled his eyes, his expression hardening. “It’s going to be more difficult for both of us if you don’t comply. I’m trying to help you.”

“Hah! Help! Of course!” you scoffed.

“Stop it,” he warned, his tone low and menacing. “Act like a woman.”

“What did you just say?”

He let out a deep sigh. "You’re acting like a child. Can't you show a little more maturity? I truly regret what’s happened to you, but I need you to trust me. I promised I’d do everything I could to find a way to send you back."

“You’d better find it,” you shot back, narrowing your eyes defiantly.

“I will,” he replied.

“Ugh, let’s hurry up and get out of here. The stench is making me want to hurl,” you said, your face contorting as a wave of nausea struck.

“Follow me closely and quietly,” he instructed, stepping cautiously out of the stables first.

You clutched your -his- robe tightly around you and trailed behind him. However, it was a bad idea, as you walked, your foot suddenly squished down onto something soft, warm, and utterly revolting.

“Aaaaaaaaa! Damn it! Ugh!”

Marcus pivoted sharply, rushing back to you and clamping his large hand over your mouth. “Didn’t I tell you to keep quiet?”

Muffled protests escaped you, anger bubbling within. He removed his hand to understand what you were saying, but he regretted it. “I just stepped in something disgusting! What do you expect? My Converses are ruined! It's all your fault!” You lifted your shoe, revealing the smeared evidence of horse manure that now coated it.

“What kind of woman...” he muttered through clenched teeth. “You’ve never encountered horse manure before?”

“Do you think I would react this way if I had?” you yelled at his face, frantically attempting to wipe the muck off your shoe against the ground.

Marcus shut his eyes tightly, exhaling a deep breath as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Gods, have mercy on me and grant me the patience I need. Just be more careful with your steps,” he scolded, exasperation lacing his tone. “You can clean them once we reach the villa, but for the love of all that’s holy, keep it down until then,” he said, turning away in annoyance.

With gritted teeth, you followed behind him, your eyes narrowed with frustration.

As you walked through the gloomy, dark streets of the ancient city, your jaw dropped in disbelief. You still couldn’t fathom it—you were truly in ancient Rome. Shops lined the streets, their facades adorned with elaborate carvings, while majestic temples loomed in the distance. The rich fabrics draped across the citizens—very few of whom were out at this hour—were a stark contrast to the modern world you knew. It was as if you had stepped onto a film set, and part of you desperately wished it were just that. Tears began to form in your eyes as you fought the urge to scream. How did you end up in this bewildering situation?

The structures surrounding you took your breath away. Many of them existed only as crumbling ruins back home, yet here they stood tall and resplendent, as if freshly crafted by artisans. You felt as though you were walking through a living, breathing history lesson, and the sheer beauty left you trembling.

You desperately wanted to retrieve your calming medication from your bag, anxious to ward off the looming threat of an anxiety attack just at the fringes of your mind. It was maddening that Mr. Psycho clutched your bag as if it were something undesirable. Of course, if you carry it yourself, your robe would come undone, leaving your legs exposed.

What a true gentleman, indeed!

After what felt like an eternity of walking, your feet began to protest, aching with each step. Finally, he stopped and surveyed the surroundings. “Here we are,” he announced, casting a glance about.

You followed his gaze, taking in the imposing wall that surrounded the area, shadows dancing along the surface of the torch-lit stone. He pushed open a heavy wooden door, gesturing for you to enter.

As you stepped inside, your breath hitched in your throat. It was a stunning ancient Roman villa, far more magnificent than anything portrayed in virtual re-enactments. The centerpiece was a grand fountain, water glimmering in the dim light. Towering columns of white inlaid marble reached for the sky, while lifelike statues adorned the space, all framed by a beautifully landscaped garden. A film crew would have gaped in awe at such splendor—if only you had thought to capture a picture with your phone.

“Domina!”

You were pulled from your reverie by a woman's voice echoing through the spacious hall. She appeared to be in her middle years, her eyes wide with a blend of anxiety and hope as she called up the polished marble stairs. Clad in a modest dress that whispered of simpler times, she was a vivid reminder of the era—this was ancient Rome, a place where the specter of slavery loomed large. You had made a dress like that before, back when you were crafting costumes in the set.

Before long, a couple more men and women showed up, and then an older woman made her way down the stairs. Her silver hair gleamed like moonlight, and despite her age—perhaps seventy—she carried herself with an air of vitality. “Acacius! My son!” she called out, her voice filled with both worry and relief.

Wait, what? *My son?*

You couldn't help but stifle a chuckle as you leaned closer to Marcus, whispering behind him, “So the great Mr. General lives with his mother.”

He shot you a stern look from the corner of his eye, a silent warning that made you quickly redirect your gaze.

As the old woman carefully descended the stairs, Marcus stepped forward to greet her. Just then, a tall, good-looking guy walked into the courtyard, his eyes wide. “Brother,” he said, wrapping Marcus in a warm hug. “It’s really you! Where have you been?”

The old lady placed her hands on Marcus’ shoulders, concern etched on her face. “We feared the worst, dear son. We couldn’t find you anywhere.”

Marcus let out a weary sigh. "I was attacked, but I'm alright, truly. I was meant to be away from Rome.... for a while," he said, casting a sidelong glance in your direction.

Suddenly, every eye shifted toward you with curiosity. You raised a hand slightly. “Hi.”

“Who is this young man?” the woman inquired, her brow furrowed in confusion as she took a closer look.

You raised your eyebrows, letting out a laugh that turned hysterical. The woman's eyes widened as she realized you were a woman after removing your hood and revealing your face.

“This woman will stay here for a while. She will be our guest,” Marcus interjected, his voice firm and assertive.

“*This woman?*” you echoed incredulously. “I have a name, you know.”

Marcus shot you a warning glare, his patience thinning.

The old woman, along with the handsome man, exchanged perplexed glances.

“Is she outlander? Barbarian? Or a savage?” the woman questioned, her gaze roving over you with a scrutinizing intensity. “Did she brought here as a prisoner of war? Or Gods forbid... a whore?”

“Hey!” you snapped, your indignation flaring.

Marcus raised a hand, silencing your protest. “She’s neither. Rather, she’s an outlander who helped me. She will be residing here for a few days, after which I will ensure her safe return to her homeland."

The old woman and the other man shared a look that hinted they weren’t completely convinced. “Very well, if that’s what you believe. Let the girls take care of her,” the woman said, nodding toward the two young girls. “You need rest too my son; you must be tired.”

Marcus nodded and turned back to the other man.

The two girls gently took hold of your arms, urging you to follow. “Come with us. This way,” one of them said.

You turned to look at Marcus again, but he wouldn’t even glance your way.

Bastard.

“Hey! Psycho! Where are they taking me?” you called out, frustration spilling over.

Your shout caught his attention, and he finally turned around, annoyance flashing across his face. The girls exchanged glances, trying not to laugh.

“Calm yourself; a room will be provided for you shortly,” he replied, a hint of indifference in his tone. With a dismissive wave, he signaled to the girls and turned back to the other man, leaving you fuming with annoyance.

What an asshole.

The girls pulled you into a cramped little room, and one of them quickly untied your robe, letting it slide off your shoulders. Their gazes widened in astonishment as they took in your short shorts and halter top—garments that were completely foreign to them.

“This is quite peculiar, the attire you wear,” one of them remarked, her brows furrowing in confusion.

“It resembles what the tribes don,” another mused, tilting her head as if trying to figure it all out.

You kicked off your Converse sneakers and tossed them aside, feeling a bit annoyed when one of the girls reached out to help you. “I got this, okay?” you snapped.

“Just trying to help—” she began, but you cut her off.

“No thanks, I can handle it,” you said, pushing her hand away.

Her expression shifted to one of surprise, and she shared a glance with the other girl, whose head bobbed in agreement.

After a brief moment of consideration, the girl returned, a cloth draped over her arm. “Here, dress yourself then,” she said, her tone soft but firm.

“How am I supposed to change with you all just staring at me?”

They looked at each other, clearly not getting it. “Alright, fine, but where can I take a shower?” you asked, a little desperate for some privacy.

“Shower?” one of the girls echoed, disbelief etched on her face.

Right, that slipped your mind. “I mean a bath,” you corrected, feeling a wave of embarrassment wash over you.

“You can go there during the daytime. Didn’t you know?” she replied, bewilderment lingering in her voice.

“Where are you truly from? You’ve obviously never set foot in Rome or heard of it. You’re a total outlander,” she continued, her eyes searching yours for answers.

Well you had been living in Rome for many years, but it was the Rome of the future.

How ironic.

“How did you come to meet the general? What was your purpose in coming here?” they probed, their curiosity unyielding.

“Isn’t it funny how, regardless of how many centuries I travel back, women’s curiosity remains unchanged?” you giggled.

But their expressions remained serious, their eyes reflecting concern as if you had just shared a bewildering riddle.

“That guy forced me here,” you explained, taking off your shorts and blouse as they gasped at the sight of your underwear. They had no clue what it was.

“It’s, uh, an accessory,” you tried to make sense of it, but you knew they wouldn’t get it. After slipping on the weird dress they gave you, you realized it was just way too revealing. Your black bra was sticking out, and you were feeling a little odd.

“I think you should remove that... thing,” one of them suggested, a slight frown marring her features. “It looks strange.”

“Yeah I agree,” you muttered, you couldn’t judge them for their confusion, so you took off your bra. But the panties? No way you were parting with those. How did they get around without them, anyway? It was a question you couldn't shake.

In the morning, you jolted up at the sound of a rooster crowing and birds chirping. It felt just like your alarm clock going off. You jumped out of bed like you were shot out of a cannon. “Grab the fabrics, get the drawings approved by the head designer, make sure the stuntman’s suit is done by five, and don’t forget to take your meds.” Those words had turned into a daily mantra you whispered to yourself each morning, coming out without a second thought. But the place around you was nothing like the chaos those words suggested. It felt like you were stuck on a movie set with no way out. A sudden pain shot through your back, prompting you to pat the aching spot. “Ugh, what kind of bed is this?” you complained as you hopped out. This tiny room looked like some slave quarters you’d seen in a museum in Rome. Tears threatened to spill and you buried your face in your hands. “Is this real? Wasn’t it all just a nightmare? Wake up! Please wake up! Why, God, why? What have I done to deserve this?”

A chill swept through you, and panic set in. You had to find your meds. Oh no, your bag was still with that psycho.

You bolted out of the room, your bare feet hitting the cool marble—it was at least clean, not gross dirt. How many rooms were in this place? The courtyard was so bright now, the complete opposite of last night’s darkness. You squinted against the sun and ran to the expansive courtyard. If you weren’t already anxious, you might have taken a moment to appreciate the view, but all you could think about was your meds. Where were all the people?

“Psycho!” you shouted.

As soon as you stepped into the courtyard, a few girls and guys in matching clothes and necklaces turned to stare at you. Of course, that look again—the stunned expression. But maybe it was because you were yelling; well you didn’t shout just for fun.

But where was he?

You spotted one of the girls from the previous day and sprinted toward her, desperation in your voice. “Hey! Have you seen that psych-? I mean, Marcus?”

Her eyes widened in alarm before she glanced apologetically over your shoulder. Confused, you turned to find the old woman from yesterday, seated upon a throne-like chair that seemed to hold both authority and menace, giving you a piercing glare that could shatter glass.

“Hello,” you offered, lifting your hand in a tentative greeting as you approached her cautiously. “Um, you’re Marcus’s mother, right? I’m looking for him. Have you seen him?”

She raised a gaunt finger, stopping you in your tracks. “What kind of disrespectful girl are you to address the general by his name? Your mother or father clearly never instilled any manners in you.”

“Look, I—”

“How dare you interrupt Domina!” a man beside her growled, his voice like thunder.

“You truly lack decorum. Weren’t you taught how to show respect patricians where you come from? Acacius may be kind, but I will not tolerate this insolence.”

Kind? That psycho? Seriously?

You suppressed a laugh.

“Cicero, take this girl away from my sight,” she ordered.

What the fuck? Were you an object?

“But you don’t understand, I need my meds. I have anxiety, and my bag is with that- General.”

She sighed, gestured Cicero who grabbed your arm and started to drag you away. “Look, this is a tough spot for me too, but I really need my meds.”

He clearly didn’t care; his grip tightened as he pulled you toward inner courtyard, barking the two girls from yesterday. Keep a close watch on her,” he warned, his tone brooking no argument. “She is strictly forbidden from stepping foot in the main courtyard. If anything goes awry, I’ll ensure Domina hears that it’s your fault.”

The girls nodded frantically, clearly afraid.

What on earth was this madness?

“Seriously, how could you stand up to Domina? Are you insane?” one of the girls whispered harshly.

“I wasn’t-- I just want to find Marcus. He has my bag!” You felt frustration bubbling within, the absurdity of the situation overshadowing your growing fear.

“Refrain from using his name. It’s simply not appropriate here; such disrespect is utterly unacceptable,” another girl scoffed.

With an exasperated huff, you retorted, “Fine! But where is he? Where can I find him?”

“He must have left early for his duties. He won’t return until nightfall,” one of the girls informed you.

“What?” you squealed, the panic rising in your throat. “I can’t wait that long! Just tell me where his room is—my bag must be there.”

Their eyes widened incredulously as if you were proposing the most outrageous act. “Are you mad? They warned you not to go into the courtyard, and now you want to invade the general’s chambers?”

“This girl is truly a savage! Are you a member of a barbarian tribe?” another girl chimed in, shaking her head in disbelief.

“Just please, stay in your room and wait quietly for evening. Do not provoke Domina; she has no tolerance for disrespect.”

They warned you as they led you towards the room. They closed the door and left.

This room was just like a prison cell. Small, bare, and totally lacking a window, it felt stifling. As someone who struggled with anxiety—unable to even ride in an elevator without freaking out—you knew this wasn't going to last long. How on earth would you manage to spend the whole day like this? It was a miracle you got any sleep last night. Now, with the sun creeping in—was it maybe 8 or 9 a.m.?—the idea of being stuck here until evening twisted your stomach.

And Lizzie... what was she going to think when she found out you were missing? Just 17, still a kid really, and you were all she had. What about your dad, the hospital, your job, the rent and all those bills?

Life is moving on out there but you trapped here, this world and you can't do anything to go back, unable to return your time.

Was time different here?

You recalled the fantasy worlds depicted in movies, such as Narnia. In Narnia, time doesn't align with Earth; it generally moves much faster. Another example is the movie "Interstellar," which is Lizzie's favorite. In it, there is significant time dilation—one scene features a difference of around 23 years!

Suddenly, a wave of panic surged within you, your burried your face in your hands—“Oh my God!!!”

You had to escape before you lost it completely, just like Jack Nicholson in "The Shining." Bursting out of the room, you gasped for air. Your stomach growled angrily—how could they not provide food or water?

You loathed it.

Fortunately, the area seemed eerily deserted. From the distant clatter and murmur of voices, it was evident the kitchens were bustling, filled with the sounds of life beyond this cold corridor. You needed to find the stairs leading to the upper floors where the owners probably stayed.

“Looking for the general's chambers?” A voice interrupted your thoughts. You turned to see a woman about your age, dressed like she belonged to the upper crust.

“Well, I am, yes,” you managed to reply, your voice steadier than you felt.

“Head upstairs, turn right down the hallway, and you'll find it,” she said, her smile curving with an unsettling warmth that sent a chill racing down your spine.

Why was she aiding you?

You had no time to ponder motives though; you needed to get to your bag.

“Thanks,” you answered, forcing a smile as you extended your hand, “but who are you? My name is Rose.”

She scrutinized your offered hand as if it were tainted. “Lydia. How did you and the General meet, and what's going on between you? No one has ever seen him with a woman before.”

“Oh, it’s nothing like that, really. It’s complicated and very strange.”

Lydia squinted, taking a moment to consider your words. “Hmm, I see. Walk quickly before someone notices you.”

Nodding, you rushed upstairs, completely unaware of the cruel smile that crept onto her lips as you turned away.

Upon entering the room, you were struck by its grandeur—everything looked rich and authentic, but it felt more like a woman’s chamber than a general's.

“Domina! Mother! This is unacceptable!” Lydia's voice rang out, startling you. Before you could react, she grabbed your arm and dragged you back down the stairs.

“What are you doing?” you protested, bewildered.

“Shut your mouth! How dare you enter Domina's room? You there! Come back here this instant!”

Your expression morphed into one of shock and disbelief.

She had trickd you, but why?

The tension swelled around you as they had gathered in the stairs below.

“Lydia, my daughter, what in the world was all that commotion about?”

“I caught this brazen girl trespassing in your room!” Lydia exclaimed, her voice sharp. “Who knows what her intentions were?”

“Hey, no! She's lying! You told me it was the general's room!” You interjected, desperation rising in your throat. “She's deceiving you—believe me! She’s a liar!”

Out of nowhere, the old woman’s hand flew across your face, delivering a stinging slap that left you momentarily speechless. A sharp pain erupted on your cheek, and reflexively, you pressed your palm against it, feeling the heat radiate from the spot as tears blurred your vision. “How dare you call my daughter a liar?” she thundered, her voice cracking like a whip. “What right do you have to step foot in my room after I told you to stay out of my sight?”

“I didn’t know it was your room—” Before you could even finish your sentence, she gripped your hair with surprising strength, yanking it as if trying to pull you closer. “Shut your mouth,” she commanded, her voice low and threatening, leaving you feeling both powerless and shocked. “Bring the whip at once. Apparently, this is how I must teach you rules and manners. Bring the girls responsible for this girl here too.”

Did she just say 'the whip'?

No, that couldn't be right; they couldn't be so primitive, so cruel.

Could they?

They brought the whip along with the other two girls. They fell at her feet, begging for forgiveness. It broke your heart to see them in such a state. This was a consequence of your own foolishness and Lydia's deceit.

She looked at you and the girls, smiling cruelly.

What a bitch.

So, even in ancient Rome, there were undoubtedly cruel individuals. Why were you surprised anyway?

Such people have always existed and will continue to exist in the world.

“It’s my fault,” you suddenly said. “These girls didn’t know, they're innocent. I will take the punishment; please spare them.”

Lydia almost laughed and felt cheerful as she looked at her mother.

"Very well." Domina signaled to the slaves and two of them came to you and turned you around. One of them stripped off your dress exposing your back. You were trembling with fear; you had never felt so scared in your life.

“Grab her arms,” she said, adding more fear to your fear. Your body shook uncontrollably, and your tears flowed like waterfalls.

All those movies came to your mind, depicting scenes of whipping and wounds.

“Oh, God, please,” you murmured, pleading, hoping for something to happen.

In that moment, a masculine voice shouted, “Mother!” It was filled with anger and warning, but it was too late. You felt the blow of the whip on your bare back with a great reverberation. You gasped, as if your ribs had been crushed from back to front and your heart was about to jump out of your throat. And the pain came later than the sound, searing, crushing, so strong and sharp that your brain stopped functioning. If they hadn't been holding you tightly, you would have collapsed violently to the ground already. You couldn't feel your feet; all you could feel was the wound in your back as if they had cut you with a knife.

Your cries reverberating in the courtyard. That voice you just heard, the commanding voice of a man, echoed around you, likely directed at his mother, but the words were drowned out by the buzzing in your ears. Every thought focused on the searing pain from your wound, and your vision blurred, turned murky as if shrouded in fog. Just as you felt yourself slipping away, strong arms enveloped you, preventing your fall before you could collapse to the ground.

Looking up, you were met not by the face you had expected, it wasn't him, it was his brother. Suddenly, it was as if the world sharpened around you, and you could hear his voice cutting through the haze. “How dare you treat my brother's guest like some common slave? What are we going to say to him now?” he snapped at his mother, his tone laced with indignation.

He lifted you with unexpected gentleness, surprising both you and the onlookers around you. The weightlessness was brief as he carried you to a different room, where he gently set you down on a luxurious lectus. His demeanor shifted; he hesitated to touch you, yet he grasped your chin with careful fingers, lifting your gaze to meet his. “Are you alright?” he asked, a storm of concern evident in his eyes.

How could you even answer that?

You were far from alright; you were in terrible pain, feeling paralyzed by it.

He glanced away, frustration flickering across his features. “Damn it. My brother Acacius sent me to check on you, and look what I found. Oh mother, why did you do this?” His voice softened as he urged, “Lie down here. I'll find the medicus and come back shortly.”

You could barely catch his words; your eyelids were heavy, and all you could focus on was that soothing hum in the background.

When you finally opened your eyes, the rough texture of the wall met your gaze as a low murmur pierced the haze of your mind. A voice drifted to you from behind. “Fortunately, the whip’s blow wasn’t deep; the bleeding has ceased. If she applies the ointment I prepared, it will mend in a few weeks.”

You closed your eyes again, the ache in your back still pulsing. When you opened them again, a familiar voice drifted in, but it felt far away. “You may hold the title of Domina in this house, but remember, I am not your trueborn son. As the paterfamilias, it is I who commands, and everyone under this roof must heed my authority.”

Closing your eyes again, you felt the weight of your own anger seep into every fiber of your being. A hand brushed against your back, the coolness of an ointment container sending a shiver through you. When you turned, his face was stark against the dim light, concern etched on his features.

“Are you awake? Stay still while I apply the ointment,” he said, his tone laced with an authority you found infuriating.

So frustrated, you propped yourself up and slapped him across the face, tears of anger stinging your eyes. “This is all your fault! Why did you just disappear and leave me with these people? Where the hell have you been?”

He didn't even flinch. “Are you still in pain? I heard Julius arrived just in time.” His tone was even, but the lack of sympathy ignited the fire within you.

“I’m in pain, yes, but not because of my wound. It’s the humiliation—the way they treated me,” you spat, turning your back on him in frustration. He continued to apply the ointment quietly, a reminder of your wounded pride.

“Is it always like this? How one person tie up another like an animal? Do you have to be the daughter of someone important for anyone to care about what you say? Nobody takes a slave an outlander seriously, but if a noble girl lies, everyone believes her, right? Is this what Rome is like?”

Ignoring your questions but contemplating about them at the same time, he stood and placed the pot of ointment onto the nearby table. “Can you stand?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I thought that if I could take you there and you read the words inscribed in the parchment. Maybe this time it might open a path for you to return to your own time at last”

“First, give me my bag.”

He nodded, calling out, “Julius!”

Moments later, Julius entered with your bag in hand, his expression solemn. “Do you feel well, now?” he asked as he handed it over.

“Yes,” you replied, accepting it with gratitude. “Thank you for saving me,” you muttered, your anger dissipating slightly.

“No. I’m sorry I wasn’t there in time to prevent her,” he said, extending his hand toward you. “How is your wound?”

“Better, and it will be well,” Marcus answered for you, his voice firm. “We should leave now.”

You eagerly rummaged through your bag, relief flooding over you as you confirmed everything was intact—reminders of your life, your comrades. A smile tugged at your lips when you found the painkiller. “I need some water, psycho. I have to take this pill,” you murmured.

Julius chuckled lightly, while Marcus shot him a disapproving look, his brow furrowed with annoyance.

What was that?

One of the slaves trembled as he offered you water.

“Oh right, I asked the great general for water. My bad,” you said, popping the pill into your mouth.

“It’s not that you asked for water; it’s that you called me that peculiar, disrespectful term,” Marcus hissed.

You rolled your eyes, sipping the water. “I’m not from here, I am an outlander, so I can say what I want.”

“No, you cannot,” he retorted sternly. “I hope this time it works—so you can leave soon,” he added before turning to exit the room.

“I want to return more than you want me to!” you called after him.

Julius burst into laughter. “I’ve never encountered a woman like you before. You’re truly something else.”

“Believe me, you haven’t,” you laughed back as he extended his hand to help you up.

“Besides, I’ve never seen my brother so anxious in the presence of a woman before. In fact, no one has. Perhaps it’s because you traveled from another time.”

That caught you by surprise.

“True, he shared everything with me. Don’t worry, nobody else knows.”

“So you just believed him right away?”

“My brother never tells lies; I trust his every word. He’s a man of honor.”

You examined his face, noting the softer features that set him apart from Marcus. He looked a decade younger, his skin caramel and hair tousled, a perpetual smile illuminating his countenance. He exuded warmth and friendliness that drew you in, and despite the chaos around you, you found yourself liking him.

"Why, why, why, why?"

You were stuck on those words in the parchment, reading them over and over, but nothing happened. It felt like you were running in place, just trying to grasp something that slipped right through your fingers.

"You spell it like this last time, and... the... path... opened...?" Julius inquired, his voice laced with uncertainty as he leaned closer, his brow furrowed in thought.

“Yeah,” you murmured, your gaze drifting toward Marcus. "Was anything different when you traveled to my time that night? Has anything changed compared to tonight? Was the place altered somehow? Please, just one detail could make a difference! Try to remember."

Marcus crossed his arms, a stark figure of calmness that only fanned the flames of your frustration. "I wasn't here that night."

Shock rippled through you. "What? You weren't here?"

‘He was in the barracks,’ Julius interjected.

Marcus nodded. "They attacked me there, and I… died. When I opened my eyes, I found myself in your time."

Your heart raced, eyes widening as the weight of his words sank in. "What did you say? Died? Why didn’t you mention that before?"

"You wouldn’t have believed me," Marcus replied, adjusting the lethal strips of his armor with casualness. "You kept addressing me with words I didn’t know the meaning of and never believed what I was saying. Would it have made any difference if I said it?"

You sighed, lips tight. "But seriously? You’re dead? Dying and coming back… how does that even work? This is just... bullshit." You ran your fingers through your hair, feeling totally lost. "I can’t wrap my head around this. I don’t even know where to begin." Then a wild thought popped into your head. "Wait, do I have to die too? Maybe that’s how I’ll wake up there. What do you think?"

Both men stared at you like you’d gone off the deep end.

Marcus then responded, a hint of sarcasm in his tone as he kept his serious look. "Are you really considering ending your life? If it doesn’t work, you die for nothing? That idea is completely unreasonable."

"Well then, Mr. General, what do you suggest?"

"This parchment is a prayer. If we can find who wrote it, maybe we’ll have a clue," Marcus murmured.

"Priests and priestesses, they who inscribe the sacred symbols of the divine, much like on your own bulla... brother." Julius hesitated at the end of his sentence, a flicker of apprehension crossing his features as if he regretted speaking at all.

Suddenly, a shadow crossed Marcus’s face—pain or anger, or both, you couldn’t tell for sure.

Wait a minute, can they see those symbols? Katie didn't notice them last time.

What the fuck?

"So? What does that mean?"

"Tomorrow, I’ll go to the temple and speak to the pontifex maximus (the high priest)," he said, his voice cracking. Marcus wrestled with unseen emotions before regaining his composure; you wondered what caused this change in him. "We need to move forward promptly, night is approaching. I can’t take you back to the villa in case something happens while I’m away. So, I’ll take you somewhere safer."

‘Wait a minute,’ you stopped him, an idea sparking in your mind. ‘To the barracks? If I can read the words there, I can—’

"No, you can’t set foot in there," he growled, turning sharply away.

You furrowed your brow in frustration. "Why is he so angry?"

"It’s no place for women," Julius explained, falling into step beside you as you both trailed after Marcus.

"So, where are we going?"

"To the house of the second person my brother trusts most in this life," he replied, his voice softening slightly as a hint of familiarity entered it.

“Who is it?”

“Lady Lucilla.”

"There's no way I'm riding that!" you exclaimed, your voice tinged with disbelief as you stared at the majestic horse before you.

“Have you never ridden a horse before?” Julius asked, his eyes widening with surprise.

“We drive in cars, not horses. Sure, I know some folks ride in the countryside or for sport, but honestly, I've never even sat on one before,” you admitted, your heart thumping in rhythm with your anxiety as you eyed the large beast with trepidation.

“It is quite a distance to our destination, and walking may be time-consuming and exhausting," Marcus said, mounting the horse expertly. “Julius, help her get on my back.”

Julius nodded, extending his hands toward you. “Just give me a moment!” you protested, halting him with outstretched palms, eyes locked on the horse. “I need to prepare myself mentally first.”

He chuckled. “Don’t be scared, I’m here. Just place your foot here.” He motioned to the stirrup while enveloping your waist with one steady arm.

Marcus rolled his eyes, a flicker of annoyance crossing his features at the sight of Julius’s unguarded touch lingering on you. “Take my hand,” he urged, his voice resolute and sounding like a warning, extending his hand toward you.

You complied, gripping it tightly as you placed your foot in the stirrup. Julius supported you as you clambered onto Marcus's back, mindful of the wound on your back. Once seated, you instinctively wrapped your arms around his torso, clutching him tightly. In your fear, you closed your eyes, unaware of how uncomfortable you were making him. His breath hitched in his chest, and he felt your warmth pressed against him, the thin fabric of your black robe a mere barrier between you.

“How can I breathe when you cling to me like that?” he grumbled, wrestling your hands free to ease the pressure.

Opening your eyes, you replied, “It’s my first time on a horse! Can’t you be a little understanding? Aaaah!”

With a sudden jolt, he urged the horse forward, and your grip tightened once more, this time eliciting an unexpected smirk from him. As your initial panic began to fade, he turned the horse around to gather his thoughts. Casting a glance back at Julius, he said, “You go on ahead. I will ensure her safe arrival there and return to the villa."

“What? You’re going to leave me and return?” you squeaked, incredulous.

Julius smiled at you. “I hope to see you again.”

Before you could grasp the gravity of his words, Marcus kicked the horse into motion again, this time heading down the road. You squeezed your eyes shut and buried your head against his back.

“Does your back hurt?” he asked over the rhythmic pounding of hooves.

“A little, but it’s nothing serious. Why do you ask?”

In response, he kicked the horse's flanks, propelling it forward at a faster pace. A small scream escaped your lips. “Goodness! Don’t ride so fast, you psycho! Are you trying to scare me to death?"

He chuckled softly, clearly enjoying your dismay. “Cover your head,” he instructed as you approached a grand garden and a tall gate. He pulled the horse to a halt, and the sight of a man in polished armor standing by the gate captured your attention.

“General,” the armored man saluted.

As the gate swung open, you couldn’t tear your gaze from the intricately designed metal armor. Its craftsmanship was astonishing, far beyond anything you had ever seen or created in your costume design endeavors. It all felt surreal.

Marcus stopped the horse by a beautiful fountain, where bystanders began to approach, their curious gazes lingering on you. Dismounting, he turned to face you, his expression now serious. “Now, I want you to lower your foot off the horse.”

You nodded hesitantly. “What if I fall?”

“I won’t let you fall,” he assured you, holding out his hand. “Trust me.”

“Better catch me, or—” you began to protest as you attempted to swing your leg around. “Why is this dress so long?” you exclaimed, lifting the fabric only to realize it was inching dangerously close to revealing more than intended.

Fortunately, Marcus caught you as you slipped, his grip firm yet gentle, but his hands inadvertently brushed against the back of your thighs. He quickly set you down, maybe a bit more forcefully than he intended, his hands clenching into fists like he was trying to shake off the awkwardness of that brief touch. “Stop fiddling with that dress. Do you take pleasure in revealing your legs? Be more careful!” he scolded.

“Revealing... What? What can I do about it? It’s too long!” you shot back, still trying to manage the fabric.

“General Acacius,” a woman said with a tone of respect and authority.

You both turned and looked at the owner of the voice. It was a tall blonde woman who looked exactly like a Roman noble lady. Just like the statues in those museums. She was beautiful and charming despite her age.

Marcus bowed his head. "My lady."

Her jewelry clinked as she approached. "Who is this girl? To what do I owe the honor of your coming to my villa at this hour?" She looked you up and down and you smiled nervously.

“Forgive me, my lady, I wouldn't bother you at this hour if I didn't need help.”

You looked at him with your eyes wide open. That rude, grumpy, cold man had suddenly become a kind man.

"Why don't we talk inside?" she said, inviting you in. "Leta! Serve wine to our guests," she said to someone at the couryard and turned away so you can follow her inside.

You leaned toward Marcus as you walked together behind her. "Is she your girlfriend or something? Beautiful woman, congrats dude."

He looked at you sharply. "Cease your nonsene, never talk like that in front of her. Remember what I told you before and don't disrespect her. You'd better keep your mouth shut and let me do the talking."

"Do you want me to leave you two alone?" you taunted playfully stretching out the word 'alone.'

His expression hardened even more. "You really are a shameless woman with no respect."

“And you're a caveman with no sense of humor,” you muttered.

The woman invited you to sit at a table. There were fruits and something bread-like on it. Finally something to eat. As soon as you sat down, you grabbed the apple from the fruit plate, ignoring Marcus' judgmental gaze on you as you ate it, looking at her and smiling. “I'm sorry, but I haven't eaten since this morning, thanks to some people.” you said, squinting at Marcus.

Lucilla laughed and looked at the woman serving wine. “Leta, bring her some proper food.”

"Thank you very much, ma'am, um my lady."

The food they brought was very good, but you were eating a little too fast because you were starving. "You could eat a little more politely," Marcus hissed.

"I'm famished," you grumbled. "And I can't get better if I don't eat properly," you said with your mouth full.

Marcus turned his head away, obviously embarrassed by you.

“I’m truly sorry I couldn’t attend the banquet,” she said to Marcus, stifling a laugh at your unapologetic behavior.

"My lady, please rest assured, there was nothing of interest anyway."

"I heard about that you were attacked. Did you find out who did it?"

"Yes, and I punished them, but I couldn' let them talk."

“Could it be Severus?"

"Emperor Severus? I doubt it. Why do you think he would?"

Lucilla smoothed her dress and adjusted herself more comfortably in her ornate chair. “He might harbor resentment towards you for helping Lucius. Never place your trust in him, Acacius.”

They both turned to the sound of your coughing. Marcus handed you some wine. "I told you to eat slowly," he scolded.

Lucilla looked at you both and stood up. "Acacius," she said, calling him to her side.

They walked slowly towards the fountain, a distance you couldn't hear.

“She is a little odd, an outlander maybe? I have never seen her before.”

"My lady, this is a difficult thing to say. I can only say that I promised to send her back and she needs to stay somewhere until I find a way."

"Lady Balbina and your sister Lydia have obviously been difficult on her. Since you brought her here."

“You are correct, my lady. If her presence is an inconvenience, I will take her elsewhere; I certainly do not wish for her to cause any disturbance.”

“Of course, she is welcome to stay. I must express my astonishment though, I've never seen you with a woman since...”

Marcus paused and looked directly at her. “It's not like that, I assure you, my lady. I only made a promise and I must fulfill it, there is no other meaning.”

"Well, it would be good to see you with a woman rather than always grieving. I thought for a moment you had opened your closed heart to this woman that you couldn't even open to me."

Marcus looked away, his expression dark, gaze cold as ice. "As I’ve already stated, there’s no hidden meaning behind it. I ask you to endure this for just a few days; you may confine her if it eases your mind. I will now take my leave," he nodded to her and turned to leave.

"I'll return tomorrow evening, so there's no need for concern. Please don't create difficulties for Lady Lucilla during my absence; behave yourself and wait for my return."

Marcus’s words echoed in your mind as he rode off into the distance, disappearing, leaving you alone in this unfamiliar and somewhat unsettling place. Lady Lucilla appeared to be kind, but there was an air of strangeness that had settled since your arrival. Still, she was certainly a relief compared to Marcus’s cruel stepmother and evil sister, and you were allowed to wander through the sprawling courtyard.

Now, nestled in the soothing warmth of your tranquilizer pill, a wave of comfort enveloped you. Morning light filtered through the grand windows as you pulled your phone from your bag, only to be met with a frustrating ‘no network’ error. What had you expected? This was ancient Rome, devoid of GSM or Wi-Fi. With your battery at 67%, you decided to turn it off, conserving it for later.

But your chill vibe was quickly ruined by the awful smell of horse manure in the air. You really needed a shower; it was like a craving. Based on what you knew about Roman villas and their grandeur—this one was way bigger than Marcus's place—there had to be a bath somewhere. And sure enough, Lady Lucilla had mentioned you could use it, which brought a wave of relief. Once you were inside, you almost jumped for joy. The space was huge, with stone walls and steam rising everywhere, like a fancy bathhouse rather than just a simple pool. But then it hit you: no soap or shampoo—those were luxuries that hadn’t been invented yet. A little panic set in at the thought of dirty hair, but then some slaves brought you flower essences and oils that surprisingly smelled good.

As you soaked in the hot water, the pleasant smells revitalized you. Just when you were starting to unwind, a sharp pain shot from the wound on your back—a reminder that you’d forgotten to use the ointment Marcus gave you. You cursed yourself for not including a proper first aid kit in your bag; instead, you made do with only hand and face cream.

Then, amidst the tranquility, you heard a whistle—sharp and unexpected. A deep, unfamiliar, masculine voice followed, cutting through your moment of solace. "Gods above. What have we got here? Am I dreaming or what?" You instinctively crossed your arms over your chest, a sudden wave of vulnerability crashing over you.

What was a man doing here?

You froze in panic. When you turned to see who was talking, there was a man close to your age, with a playful grin o his face, his head tilted to the side as he clearly enjoyed the sight.

Frustration bubbled up inside you. “What are you staring at? Turn around and get lost!”

Instead of leaving, he laughed hard, stepped closer, a predatory gleam in his eyes. In a panic, you sank deeper into the water, the heat now a fierce contrast to the throbbing pain in your back. “Don’t come any closer or—”

“Or?” he challenged, his grin widening.

“Or I’ll scream!” You could feel the rising tide of emotion pushing to break free.

He chuckled, undeterred, and crouched before you, curiosity dancing in his gaze. With no choice left, you screamed at the top of your lungs, "Lady Lucilla! Leta! Help!"

“Oh, stop squealing like a damn rat,” he growled.

Within moments, a bunch of slaves rushed in, looking both concerned and annoyed. Lady Lucilla soon followed, glancing between you and the guy. “Lucius! My son!”

Your heart raced—her son? You watched them hug, the warmth of their family bond hitting you hard while your anxiety spiked. Lucius turned your way, curiosity painted on his face. "Who’s this girl? She doesn’t even look like a slave."

Lucilla sighed, focus returning to you, as she commanded one of the slaves, “Leta, get her dressed and get her out of there. Enough with the bath.” Her demeanor softened as she turned back to Lucius. "When did you arrive? I didn’t expect you so soon. I couldn't even speak to Severus."

“I arrrived this morning. Acacius' men brought me,” he replied.

Lucilla paused for a moment, a hint of worry flashing across her face before she focused back on the situation. "Come, I'll feed you. You must be hungry."

“Oh my god! It’s Marcus Aurelius.”

The moment your eyes landed on the bust of the emperor, which was Lizzie's favorite in the grand courtyard, your heart raced as if it might leap from your chest. Just last month, you had marveled at the original in a museum, but this one looked absolutely amazing, with a brighter contrast to the original.

“That girl is really disrespectful; she talks like she’s met my grandfather,” Lucius remarked, swirling his goblet of wine.

Lucilla, lounging gracefully in her chair, rolled her eyes.

Did he just say grandfather?

No way.

A wave of anxiety washed over you again.

“Your name is Lucius Verus Aurelius, and your name is Annia Aurelia Galeria Lucilla. Is that true?” you ventured, not quite believing what you were saying.

Lucius flashed a roguish grin. “Even a five-year-old knows that. Why are you so surprised?”

“My sister admires him—well, your father, my lady,” you corrected quickly.

Lucilla reclined back, a soft smile dancing on her lips. “My father was a very wise man, a good emperor. Many still hold him in high regard.”

“I wish we could say the same about the current emperor,” Lucius muttered, his voice dripping with disdain.

Lucilla shot him a warning glance that could silence a storm.

Right, the current emperor.

You couldn’t ask about that directly. You could already feel the awkwardness creeping in. You racked your brain, trying to recall your Roman history. It couldn’t be Commodus; it had to be after him. Oh, those years with all those emperors. Which one was it again? You figured it was best to talk to Marcus when he showed up. But he didn’t come. It was dark now, and he was still missing.

Living in this ridiculous, twisted reality without him was nearly unbearable. Being around living versions of those historical figures you only knew from books and museums felt surreal. You needed something to take the edge off, another pill.

“I wouldn’t do that,” a voice drawled from the corridor, making you jump.

Lucius approached, his presence both imposing and oddly captivating, as he leaned casually against the stone pillars.

“You wouldn’t do what?” you asked, confused.

“I mean I wouldn’t venture out into the courtyard,” he explained, his gaze drifting over the stone wall. “They’re here.”

“Who?” you followed his line of sight.

In the shadows of the courtyard, illuminated by flickering torches, two young blonde men sat facing Lucilla. One was tall and striking, exuding an air of authority; the other, shorter and clearly overwhelmed, seemed to shrink under the weight of expectation. When you caught sight of the golden crowns atop their heads, panic seized your gut. “Who are they?” you stammered.

“They are Geta, the cunning one, and Caracalla, the mad one."

Your eyes widened in disbelief.

“The sons of Emperor Septimius Severus?”

His silence confirmed your fears.

“Oh, no. Fuck. Why? Why?” you moaned, pressing your hands against your temples, feeling the heat of dread seep into your bones.

“What’s wrong with you? Your face has turned pale,” Lucius observed, his smirk painting an amused picture against your turmoil.

You sank your head into your hands. “How much worse can this get? I just want this nightmare to end. That psycho is nowhere to be found. He promised he’d come,” you lamented.

“General?” he chuckled. “You actually believe he’ll return?”

You eyed him suspiciously. “What do you mean by that?”

“He must want to be rid of you if he brought you here,” he replied, a mischievous glimmer in his eyes.

"Stay out of stuff you don’t get."

“This is a prison,” he said. “Once something enters these walls, it rarely escapes. Just think about it—my mother, Lucilla, hasn’t seen the outside world since that day—only allowed out for the Princes’ birthday celebrations. She was practically coerced into attending that damned banquet.”

"But she’s the princess, right? She’s kind of important, and there are soldiers—"

“Praetorians,” he corrected, his voice dripping with disdain. “And they’re the emperor’s dogs. They do whatever he says."

“So your mother is being held here against her will, like some form of house arrest?” you asked.

“Yes, because of her importance and me, and also because of the general.”

“What do you mean?"

"The general serves the emperor, not my mother. Severus didn't deserve the throne. After my uncle's death, everything became chaotic. Severus manipulated the military to seize power over the Senate. It could have been different if Acacius had assisted me, but he didn't. Unlike Severus, he has no interest in politics, Acacius is a man of war, eager for battle—though I know the real reason behind that."

"What reason?" Your heart raced, curiosity fighting against your unease.

He grinned, brushing his finger against your cheek. His touch made you uneasy. “That one thing that bothers all men.”

You recoiled, pushing his hand away, your pulse quickening. “Anyway, I believe he will come—he promised me.”

“Keep waiting then, flower.”

You stood there, eyes wide, watching him walk away, his words ringing in your head.

The only thing that bothers all men.

What could that possibly mean?

Or was he alluding to love or something equally absurd? That cold, grump guy—love? What could he possibly know about any of that?

It felt like the most absurd joke ever.

“We must do this to eliminate Acacius.”

You turned your head, it was Geta. You were curious about what he was talking about. And why did Lucilla seem so unfazed? Then you remembered Marcus’s earlier words: “Someone betrayed me; I need to find out who.”

Was it Lucilla?

What kind of outrageous nonsense is this?!

This was all beginning to feel like one of those dramatic soap operas—full of intrigue, even in the world of ancient Rome.

You reached into your bag, fingers grazing the familiar contours of a pillbox, but just as you grasped it, an unexpected yelp rent the air. A quick flicker of movement caught your eye—a creature, not quite human, darted past you with astonishing speed, snatching the pillbox from your grip. It leaped away with the agility of mischief incarnate.

A fucking monkey?

For a moment, you froze, utterly astonished. Then instinct kicked in, propelling you into a chase. “Hey! Come back here, you little thief!” you shouted, your heart racing as you pursued the nimble primate. It was a ridiculous pursuit; the monkey, far too agile, danced and dodged your every effort, leaving you flustered.

“Dondus! Where—”

Before you could figure out who shouted, you collided with someone and fell to the ground.

“What the hell?” the person exclaimed, clearly annoyed.

You rubbed your head where it bumped against his. “Watch where you’re going!” you shot back, realizing too late you just insulted a prince—probably Caracalla.

“How dare you!” he bellowed, scrambling to his feet, his garments slightly askew. Perched on his shoulder was the very monkey you were still trying to catch, nibbling curiously on your pill box.

You pointed accusingly at him. “That’s mine!”

“Brother, what’s happening here?” Geta called out, approaching with Lucilla by his side.

“This insolent wretch dared to throw herself at me, sending me sprawling!” Caracalla’s voice dripped with indignation.

Your blood boiled. “I didn’t mean to! The monkey stole my medicine!”

Geta wrinkled his nose, scrutinizing you with a mixture of disdain and curiosity. “How dare you treat my brother, your prince, with such disrespect?” His sudden grip on your hair made you gasp, panic surging as you felt his intimidating presence. “Do you wish for your life to be snuffed out?” The menace woven in his tone made you swallow hard.

“Who is this? A slave of yours?” he tossed at Lucilla.

Lucilla rolled her eyes at you, her lips parting to speak when the thunderous neigh of a horse interrupted.

“My Lady!”

All eyes turned toward the sound, and relief washed over you as you spotted Marcus. In a flash, you elbowed Geta, urgency driving you to escape from his grasp. He groaned as you dashed toward Marcus who leaped down from his horse. You huddled behind him, a barrier against the escalating tension. Marcus nodded toward the princes, a mix of confusion and caution shadowing his posture.

“Acacius?” Caracalla narrowed his gaze, suspicion oozing from his words.

“You whore!” Geta thundered, clutching his side where you had elbowed him earlier. “General Acacius, I insist you tell me—what is your connection to this insolent girl? Speak up immediately!"

"Do you know her?” Caracalla asked.

Marcus glanced at Lucilla, then swiftly nodded. “Yes, your highness, I do.”

“I swear I didn’t do anything,” you whispered to him, desperation crystallizing your words. “His monkey took my medicine. He started it!”

“Do not say another word, girl or I'll cut off your tongue,” Marcus snarled through clenched teeth, clearly tense, startling you.

You pressed your lips together in response, a wave of fear silencing the words that lingered on the tip of your tongue.

It became clear that you had both landed in a perilous situation.

“There’s one more thing I’m curious about: Do you visit Lucilla often?” Geta's tone dripped with dry sarcasm, a predator circling its prey.

Marcus's eyes hardened. "I was surprised to find you here at this hour. I thought you might be with your father, who told me you weren't joining him for dinner and asked if I could help. It seems I was right to look for you here."

“Are you demanding an explanation from us, general? We can go wherever we please!” Caracalla retorted, anger flaring in his words.

“Of course, you may, it is not my place to tell you otherwise. However, as I mentioned, the emperor is concerned, and it is my duty to serve him,” Marcus replied, steady and resolute.

"Looks like you're dodging the real issue here, Acacius," Geta said, shooting you a pointed look. "I wonder why..."

With a gesture, he signaled one of the guards standing by the fountain. The guard bowed his head and approached you, reaching out to grab your arm. Marcus’s muscles tensed, an uncertain battle waging within him as he watched, powerless to intervene.

The piercing sound of metal as the guard unsheathed his sword reverberated in your ears, but when it was pressed against your throat you felt your heart beating right there.

You gasped and screamed.

“Please! I didn’t do anything!” Your heart raced with fear, body trembling.

"Do you hold any concern for this woman? No? If she’s merely a slave, I assume you find it acceptable for her to suffer the consequences of this defiance against your prince."

What the hell is this?

'Suffer the consequences…'

You looked at Marcus, your eyes wide, but he didn’t even flinch—just cold and blank. Then it hit you: everyone else was the same, totally chill like this kind of thing happened all the time. Was offing someone part of their daily routine? Panic shot through you because you had zero plans of being a victim. “Do something, you psycho! Tell him I saved your life!” you shouted, feeling the guard shake you hard in his rage. Caracalla’s laughter sliced through the air, wild and menacing, like a predator enjoying the hunt.

“Is that even true?” Geta said, clearly amused.

“Come on! Tell them you forced me here! Why aren’t you saying anything? Are you really just going to let them kill me? After everything I’ve done for you? What if I hadn’t come to get you from that police station—”

“Shut…” he growled, then went on in a quieter tone. “…that mouth.”

Geta and Caracalla traded glances and burst out laughing.

"Do you have feelings for this girl, general? Our father will be deeply affected when he finds out about this; was she the cause of your rejection of the unions he proposed for you?" Geta teased, still chuckling at Caracalla.

Lucilla crossed her arms, all of them looking at Marcus, waiting for an explanation.

With a heavy exhale, Marcus gathered himself, the weight of the moment pressing down on him. “This woman...” He swallowed hard, searching for the right words, but found there was no escape from the truth. “It’s all true...” His gaze flicked to you for a heartbeat and then fell away, as if he couldn’t bear the intensity of the moment. “I brought her here because...” He closed his eyes, letting out a pained breath. “She is the woman I love.”

There was silence, you stood there with your eyes and mouth wide open, almost forgetting the sword pressed against your throat.

“I ask you to release her. I promise you that nothing like this will ever happen again. Forgive me for everything that has transpired. My lady, I beg you to forgive me as well. I have caused you trouble.”

Wait a minute — that “trouble” was you?

With a dismissive gesture, Geta motioned to the guards, who stepped back to release you. “So the rumors had a kernel of truth. My father will certainly be surprised to hear this, Acacius,” Geta chuckled, his grin widening as he ambled towards the waiting carriage in the garden. Caracalla snatched the medicine box and threw it in your direction. “Don't appear before me again."

You squinted at him, relief flooding through you as he returned your medicine box. Lucilla’s gaze lingered on you as their carriage rolled away. “Did you lie to me, Acacius? I never took you for a dishonest man. You’ve disappointed me.”

Marcus bowed his head. “My lady, I implore your forgiveness.”

“Regardless, it’s not suitable for this woman to remain here now that Lucius is present. Please, take her and leave.” With a casual wave of her hand, she turned and strode back inside.

I didn't like staying here anyway, you thought to yourself.

Marcus turned and walked to his horse, where a slave was holding the reins. The slave gave a quick salute, he then grabbed the reins, and hopped on without hesitation.

“Are you really going to leave me here?” you wailed, jogging to catch up with him.

He glanced over his shoulder, a flicker of annoyance in his eyes, then extended his hand. You reached for it, trying to pull yourself up onto the saddle, but stumbled and landed hard on your butt. “Aah, shit,” you groaned, wincing at your clumsiness.

With a deep sigh, Marcus dismounted. “You really are a troublesome one,” he remarked, and before you could protest, he grasped you by the waist, effortlessly lifting you and placing you onto the horse like you were as light as a feather. He swiftly mounted, took the reins, and urged the horse into a gallop. The wind whipped through your hair as you wrapped your arms around him tightly, exhilarated to escape from this place, though a wave of nervousness washed over you about what awaited next.

Julius was waiting for you near the Pantheon in the distance. Marcus dismounted, gently lowering you to the ground before turning back to guide his horse toward his brother. You rushed after him, your bag slung over your shoulder, urgency in your steps as you looked up at his face. “Hey, are you mad at me or something? It was not my fault, I swear. As if it wasn’t enough dealing with that Lucius guy, then that monkey came along and stole my medicine. How was I supposed to know it was Caracalla’s monkey? I still can’t believe he’s the real Caracalla. Do you know how significant he was in my time?” Despite your frantic words, he remained silent, his focus ahead, lost in thought as he strode forward.

“Um... did you mean what you said back there? Were you serious? I mean, I was really surprised. You don’t exactly seem like the love type, and you’re always so grumpy with me. You won't even look me in the eye. Seriously, you’re still not making eye contact.” He turned his head, when you were stealing a glance at his face. “Look, you’re still avoiding my gaze.”

He picked up the pace, and you hurried to keep up. “Honestly, I’m mad at you. It was dark, you didn’t show, and that Lucius guy said you weren’t coming, and I—” Suddenly, he grabbed your wrist, spun you around, and pulled you in close, your body bumping against his shoulder. “Never approach someone with a sword from behind. And never touch him without warning. If you do, your hands will be cut off immediately.’" Then he shoved you forward, and you stumbled, nearly losing your balance. Anger bubbled up inside you as you shot him a look—still rubbing that sore spot where his hand had grabbed you. “Wow, you’re seriously rude! You’ve got zero sense of humor."

“What I said earlier...” he started to explain.

“Yeah, I get it,” you cut him off.

He blinked, looking caught off guard. “Get... what?”

“You had to say it; I get it. I’m not stupid. And honestly, I don’t care. I’ve got no interest in arrogant guys like you. Let’s just say I didn’t hear a thing.”

“Good,” he muttered, his voice barely making it out.

Feeling a sudden jolt of courage, you stepped in closer, put your hand on the corner of your mouth, and whispered playfully, “But too late; I’ve already heard everything,” nudging him with your elbow before darting off toward Julius, who was standing on the steps of the grand temple. Marcus just stared after you, his fingers still lingering where you nudged him. 'Gods. Among all those people from her time, why did it have to be her, why?' he thought angrily.

Once again, the night had turned out to be a total bust. Even though you had put in the effort to spell out the ancient parchment's inscriptions, nothing had changed. A wave of despair washed over you as the thought crossed your mind: 'What if I never make it back home?' Your thoughts lingered on your sister and father; your work felt minuscule compared to family. You longed to escape this bizarre, anachronistic world that felt so alien.

While you journeyed through your thoughts, the horse abruptly halted, jolting you back to reality—you were at Marcus’s villa. The thought of entering sent a shiver down your spine. “That woman won’t want me here,” you mumbled, dread twisting in your gut.

Marcus looked at you with unwavering eyes. “No one will ever harm you again, you have my word,” he said with a conviction that defied doubt.

“Why are you so confident? That woman—and her daughter—they scare me,” you admitted, anxiety clawing at your insides.

“Trust me,” he asured you before stepping into the courtyard.

You looked at Julius, whose gentle smile offered slight reassurance. “Trust my brother,” he insisted.

What was he insinuating?

You didn’t have many options left but to take a leap of faith; you were stuck here, after all.

As you stepped into the grand courtyard, the old woman and her daughter regarded you, their eyes widening in surprise. They rose from their seats, gliding toward Marcus, and your nerves instantly tightened with memories.

Marcus surveyed the gathering, as if to ensure that every ear was attentive, preparing them for something significant. His gaze darted to you momentarily, then he composed himself, taking a deep breath as he addressed everyone. “I’m going to say this just once, so listen carefully. As the eldest living male in our family, I’ve reached a decision that you all must honor.” He paused, his gaze lingering on you with a mix of contemplation and determination. Then, with a commanding gesture, he continued, “This woman will now be considered part of our household, treated as if she were our own kin. Any hint of disrespect towards her will be viewed as a direct affront to me.”

A grateful, warm smile emerged on your face, yet the anger brewing inside Balbina was evident, prompting you to suppress a mocking laugh.

“Acacius, my son,” she began, her voice laced with scorn. “What title will this woman have while she is here? Considering that Julius is a widower and you are an unmarried man, her staying here might raise questions about propriety and attract unnecessary gossip. You are aware of how individuals can be quick to judge, especially in your position as a general. Such circumstances could potentially jeopardize your reputation. Furthermore, I want to remind you that she is not a citizen.”

“Do you think I’m unaware of these implications? I will petition the Emperor for special permission to grant her conubium,” he declared.

Gasps erupted from the residents of the house.

Lydia fumbled, dropping the glass in her hand, her jaw hanging open in disbelief. Balbina pressed a trembling hand against her chest, shock evident on her face. Julius's expression mirrored the astonishment shared by everyone present. Even the slaves froze, exchanging wide-eyed glances, as though witnessing something very rare.

You, however, were completely lost. The word “conubium” escaped your mind entirely, leaving you confused as you tried to remember its meaning.

“Preparations will commence tomorrow,” Marcus continued, his voice assertive. “Prepare one of the other rooms for her, she shall stay there until then.” With that, he strode purposefully up the stairs, leaving the courtyard in a hush of murmurs, disbelief, chaos.

Lydia steadying her flustered mother, they were still caught in shock, trading looks of disbelief.

“What’s going on? Why is everyone so surprised?” you asked Julius, your eyes still on Marcus, who was ascending the stairs without looking back at you or anyone else.

“Don’t you understand?”

You shook your head. “I mean, I’m not certain what that word means.”

He sighed, a hint of bewilderment slipping through. “Honestly, I’m surprised too; I never guessed my brother would do this.”

“What? Why? What did he just say?”

“He conveyed his intention to marry you,” he revealed softly.

In that fleeting moment, the meaning of “conubium” surged back into your mind, and it was your turn to freeze, caught off guard by the situation.

hope you enjoyed the chapter babies, thanks for reading ❤️

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