#gladiator 2000

[vermutandherring]

It was kina hard to catch Joaquin Phoenix' beauty and my Sim-version isn't the exact copy. But I like how it came out anyway 🤔

CC credits:

• Quadriga: Chariot | Carriage Set | Leg Accessories | Boar Bridle • Commodus: Armor | Laurel wreath | Cape 1 | Cape 2 | • Details: Rose decor | Garaland | Flying Petals | Lying Petals | Wall Torch | • Architectural elements by TheJim07 x Felixandresims x AnnaDeDanann&Stereo-91

[haveyouseenthismovie-poll]

[diet-bathwater]

ridley scott’s quest to babygirlify joaquin phoenix over all historical decades continues

[rosesloveletters]

midnight rain.

pairing: Commodus x Fem. Reader

word count: 3,777

warnings: toxic/unhealthy relationship dynamics(?) and mentions of specific gender roles (I don’t know how else to describe it)

summary: A retelling of the ‘frightful dream’ scene . . . Your husband Commodus requests some time alone while he reads scrolls from the senate. When night comes and he still has not sent for you, you take matters into your own hands; you find him fast asleep, but never at peace. // Reader stumbles upon her husband Commodus who’s been crying and offers him comfort. 

author’s note: I never thought I’d write for Commodus again and I am so pleased that inspiration struck! A few things before reading: I am not trying to promote toxic masculinity or the idea that men shouldn’t cry or express emotion, but at the time, it would have been viewed as a weakness especially from someone of Commodus’ social standing. I wanted to delve into his mind a little and write a softer side to him that he surely has, but that we did not see too much of onscreen. His descent into madness intrigues me and I wanted to explore that in this fic somewhat. All seriousness aside, I just want to hold Commodus while he cries and writing this allowed me to do so, at least, in some form. If you read this fic, I hope you enjoy it. 

Edited. 

The emperor was midnight rain.

Winds rich with humidity blew through the open palace halls, carrying the pungent scent of fresh herbs, smoke from guttering torches and the heavy rains yet to come. Storms were brewing on the horizon and while the people of Rome slept, unbeknown to them, there too was a cacophonous melody playing inside of their Caesar’s tired mind.

It was far too late for you to be wandering the palace alone, but Commodus had bid you leave; he was to spend the twilight hours poring over scrolls from the Senate, as his father was apt to do in the past. The young emperor sought not to follow in his father’s footsteps, but be that as it may, some things cannot be helped.

You had busied yourself in the gardens earlier, when the light still stretched across the sky and plunged the Roman landscape in a vibrant orange glow that slowly faded until the wispy clouds high above your head twisted into a mesmerizing purple-pink majesty. You found solace amongst the flowers, watching idly as little bees busily buzzed from bloom to bloom.

When the light died and you still had not been sent for by the emperor, you took leave of the gardens and reentered the palace through the open doors.

Inside, you made yourself comfortable in the library for a few hours to delve into a book or two, devouring the words on each page like your mind was starved of food for thought.

Immersed in another world were you and did not pay mind to the bustling which took place beyond your imaginings.

Servants passed through the halls, completing their evening duties, lighting torches for ease of sight as the night set in, cleaning the already spotless floors, checking and rechecking stock to be certain there was enough of everything… Even the ghastly praetorians and their looming, statuesque figures faded while you were so captivated by ink on a page.  

As the pitch black of midnight bled in through the outer walls of the fortress, the hustle and bustle of evening had dissipated considerably and the only prevailing sounds were those of the whispering winds through silk curtains billowing in the minor disturbance or a barely imperceptible clink or grate of armor as a praetorian moved from his post.

Still, no word from your emperor.

That fact disturbed you, though you knew he was safe. The palace would have been thrust into chaos had anything been amiss, yet it still gnawed at you that this was highly unusual.

Commodus was protective to a fault and rarely let you out of his sight for any length of time, but he had been pulled in many a direction for the duration of the week at hand and you had to find entertainment where you could. The Senate and the people of Rome needed him now; you could wait.

When Commodus became emperor, everything changed like midnight.

You put your book back in its place on the shelf and quietly crept from your sanctuary. Your guards, stationed at the door, fell into step behind you and trailed you down the hall like phantoms of night. It felt silly to be so cautious inside the palace, but it was Commodus’ orders; what was the use in listening to him if he was just going to forget about you?

Turning, you dismissed them and, with a shared, confused expression between the two of them, they branched off and left down a side hall.

It appeared that you were finally alone, but such was never the case in Commodus’ domain.

You forged ahead beneath the watchful gaze of praetorians you knew were there, but you could not see them. They were there for your protection, to diligently guard the palace and the emperor, but their strict stoicism and the serious air about them made you nervous. The unwavering loyalty between emperor and his personal guard was strengthened by one man’s resolve, though your Commodus had been plunged into manic paranoia until it became oppressive.

Your footsteps carried, heightened by the fact that there were no other movements or sounds coming from elsewhere to blend with yours.

You took yourself straight to Commodus’ chambers.

There were two guards posted at the doors that were still shut tight. All was as it had been when you left, except these guards were fresh and bright eyed, having replaced the two that had been there before.

You approached them and bid they let you enter, “I request that you allow me access to the emperor’s chambers,” you said.

“Caesar has requested that he not be bothered,” one of them spoke, unconvinced to let you pass despite your connection to the emperor.

“I can assure you that, should Caesar be displeased by my admittance, it will not fall upon your shoulders.”

They seemed uncertain, but soon relented, stood aside and allowed you to enter.

You did not want to disturb him and you did your best to keep any sound of your entrance to a minimum as you slid through the doorway and into the vast room.

The cold floors were contrasted by the wet winds that blew in from the open terrace. Night was well under way and you were worn, though your walk from the library to your emperor’s chambers had accelerated your heartrate considerably. It would be nice to relax with him, alone, if he had found himself at a proper stopping place with his scrolls.

Upon initial inspection, the room looked relatively unchanged. The desk was still covered with open scrolls, parchment and ink. His quill rested idly by and, though all appeared well within your initial inspection, the only thing out of the ordinary was that the emperor was missing from his workspace.

You cast a look over your shoulder, noting the miniature scale of the colosseum was unchanged, and your searching gaze landed on the bed. Commodus was curled in on himself tightly, his back to you, as he snoozed lightly on the plush mattress.

You smiled to yourself, reasoning that he must’ve gotten so absorbed in his work that he’d not realized the time, grown exhausted and retired for the night before he could send for you.

Odd as that may have been, it was plausible. Commodus had never been known to have forgotten you before, but things were different now. He made a conscious effort to please the Senate and that meant spending extra time revisiting scrolls, passing legislation and participating in, as well as negotiating, Rome’s politics with the dry old men your emperor had once been so critical of.

Commodus rarely slept, at least, undisturbed sleep was near impossible for him to achieve. Perhaps the scrolls kept him from thinking of it, you thought, and that was why he had been able to visit the land of dreams, but you were relieved that he had finally found peace.

Your fingers skimmed one of the jade marble pillars as you shifted about the room, uncertain of how you should bridge this gap. Torchlight streamed in from the carved stone latticework, coating half of the room in a spectacle of oddly shaped shafts of light, including the curtains which framed the imperial bed.

To avoid the embarrassment of awakening him, you swiftly removed your sandals so that the noise of you walking would not echo. You shivered as the chill of the marble floor penetrated your skin and sank deep within you – a pleasant reprieve from the humid air.

However, when the wind blew in through the open terrace particularly hard, you drew your yellow stola in closer about your shoulders. You noticed that Commodus’ own garb had been removed – his cape and armor lay on a table not far from the colosseum model – and he slept in just his tunic.

It puzzled you that he lay on top of the linens and your brow creased in thought.

Tentatively, you approached the bed, careful to remember to step up onto the raised platform; the thought of tripping and unceremoniously toppling onto the emperor of Rome as he slept was not a pleasant one, but the thought still made you smile. If something of that nature were to happen, it might make Commodus shriek in terrible fright and send the guards at the door into a frenzy, but once he realized it was only you, there would have been no repercussions, only gentle laughter as he pulled you into the bed beside him.

You had fallen in love with the young Roman prince, before he had become emperor, three summers ago when the heat of late August was not the only thing which left you feeling breathless.

There was nothing he would not have done for you then and that was still the same now, even if everything else was different.

You remembered fondly how he had courted you, eventually asking for your hand in marriage and how you had eagerly accepted. You were wed the summer before this; little did you know those few months would be the last time that things would ever be so simple.

You sank onto the bed and the mattress dipped beneath your weight.

Commodus murmured softly and folded in on himself a bit more, instinctively protective of his vulnerability. It pained you to witness his paranoia, even while he slept. The ever-present thought that at any given moment someone might burst through the door and try to hurt him kept him from ever letting his guard down completely. That, among other things, kept him awake most nights.

The torches and oil lamps still burned bright; the fuel had been replenished earlier by some servants while Commodus was busy with his scrolls. Your heart ached for the young man who never slept in the pitch black of night; he was afraid of the dark and maybe that was why he never would look in the mirror either, because that same darkness lived in him, too.

You were compelled to reach out and touch him, then, gently stroking your hand along the curve of his face and as you did, you gasped in surprise, almost drawing your hand away; his warm cheek was damp with tears.

It had not been long since the emperor had fallen asleep, cried himself to sleep, you painfully reminded yourself.

Why had he not sent for you?

Resisting the urge to wake him, you shifted your weight as you settled in behind him and draped an arm over him. Soon, the solid press of his back against your front eased your nerves and you carefully and deliberately reached up and combed your fingers through his dark hair. He cooed softly in his sleep, sniffling a little as he relaxed beneath your touch. The tension flooded out of his shoulders while you held him like this. Even in his sleep, he could sense that the comfort was yours, brought to him by his cherished wife who loved him more than his own father ever had.

His father.

Commodus had tried to be the son that the great Marcus Aurelius had wanted. He had tried to make his father proud, but nothing he had done was good enough and, what was worse, he did not know why. Why did his father not love him? Commodus did not know the reason, but in the end, it was clear: Marcus Aurelius had longed for a different son.

Since then, Commodus had tried to squeeze love from various sources but it never satisfied him.

Not until he met you.

“My love…” you whispered to him, careful to lift him gently out of his dreams, “please awaken and talk to me.”

Commodus moaned and for a moment you were not sure if he had heard you until he responded with a full-bodied stretch and the rustling of fabric met your ears as he turned to glance at you over his shoulder.

His eyes were green like freshly sliced limes and just as bittersweet; they were red-rimmed and tired, lined with dark circles that alluded to the many nights he had suffered through without sleep.

He said nothing, but turned over until he was able to wrap his arms snugly around your shoulders. He remained that way for a time, clinging to you while his body adjusted to wakefulness after the impromptu nap.

His heavy eyelids fluttered and his head dropped to your shoulder, “I’m sorry…” the apology was whispered into your skin and you almost did not hear him.

When he looked up at you with an almost childlike expression on his face, you cupped his cheek in the palm of your hand and stroked across it with the pad of your thumb, “Commodus,” you started, “is everything alright, my love?”

He craned his neck and kissed your palm, “it is,” he said, “now that you are here.”

Your hand fell away and reached for his, sliding your fingers into the spaces between his own thicker digits. He squeezed you tight, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips before he looked away again, “I meant to send for you, but I was in such a state…”

He did not need to tell you more. He had been crying, that much was confirmed by the drying tear tracks upon his smooth cheeks and the redness in his eyes. Commodus’ emotions were often left unchecked; he felt so viscerally, violently and brutally and the tears would come, whether they were born out of pure sadness, or frustration and rage.

It was one thing to express emotion, but it was another entirely to witness it from the emperor of Rome.

The only time he could fall apart was when he was by himself.

He was supposed to be a fearless hero but instead he cried more than some women did and that was unacceptable.

At least, it had been for the stoic philosopher Marcus Aurelius, who had once grown tired of his son’s outbursts. Commodus doubted it would be any different now. The palace was his own, but this new life was not.

He did not want his servants or his guards to see him crying while asking after you; that was not an image he wished to paint for them.

While he waited for the tears to subside, he had relaxed on the bed until he succumbed to his exhaustion.

“That is alright,” you assured him, “I was reading in the library for a time because I thought you were still at work.”

“No,” he responded, the dulcet tones of his honeyed voice was indicative of sleep, the vestiges of which still clung to him like ivy on stone, “I finished with that some time ago. These senators demand more from me each passing day that I have no choice but to work as I do now, just like my father had done.”

That sentiment hit some nerve within him and was certainly the source of these tears and what had brought them forth, “Commodus,” you repeated his name but the sound of it did not reach him.

He was looking through you, unsettling as that was, he was prone to it. Often did you wonder what he heard and saw in these moments that were lost to the wind and rain. These elements were, too, present within the emperor who was waning into crescent, tearstains glittering like stars on his cheeks – this man was made of midnights and he was hauntingly beautiful.

Only, when the darkness had overtaken him, he did not reemerge anew.

You tenderly kissed his forehead; his skin was warm against your lips. He drew you closer through the barely imperceptible inhale as his nose rested at your collarbone and you tilted your head back, allowing him to find comfort where it was needed.

He had dropped your hand in favor of holding you while his full lips pressed bruising kisses against the bare column of your neck. Your fingers found his hair again, giving it a gentle tug of affection that made him groan appreciatively.

He lifted his head and leaned close, his sweet breath fanning across your face as he pressed his forehead to yours. His eyes flickered in the lamplight as he looked at you, “do you know what my father said once?”

You languidly chased his lips with your own, but he eluded your desires, resolving to let you capture and conquer him in his own time, when he was ready.

“I don’t,” you replied, “won’t you tell me?”

“He said that it’s a dream…a frightful dream, life is.”

You looked into Commodus’ eyes, but he was somewhere else. You did not have the courage to speak up until he asked you, “do you think that’s true?”

You hesitated, momentarily assessing how best to respond.

“Sometimes it is,” you settled on a half-hearted agreement for now and his shoulders slumped into you as though out of some sort of relief.

“And I have only you to share it with…” Commodus’ eyes brimmed with tears and he bit back a sob, “but I have no proper time with you now. It is all like some great nightmare!”

Your arms encircled him comfortingly and you rubbed his back to soothe him, understanding that his tender state was in part the fault of his father who had failed him as a child, but also because Commodus was just so tired. In his fitful sleep, it was difficult to reach him, but even more when he was awake because he could not escape his nightmares even during the day.

There was a slowly burning madness inside of him and soon it would boil over.

But, not tonight.

“Shh, Commodus.”

You held him close while he cried, shoulders shaking with the force of each painful sob that carried and reverberated off the palace walls and made it seem all the louder.

You pulled him in against you, your bodies flush to one another and you could feel his heart beating rapidly against your chest.

Commodus scrounged for love in every aspect of his life, searching for fulfillment in dealings with his guards, the people of Rome and occasionally even the senate. He desired love himself, but he also wanted to be the provider of love to his people because if they respected him then perhaps, they might love him, too.

It was you who gave him what he needed, only, it seemed that it was not enough.

He had an empire to run, scrolls to read, legislation to propose and citizens to care for; Commodus was meant to be an emperor first and a husband, second.

His sobs grew quieter and more restrained, changing from full-bodied cries to soft whimpers. Your cheek rested against the crown of his head, your hand still rubbing his back as you held tight to him.

Many times had you found yourself in this position, but few of them were like this.

The tearful emperor would have been perceived as weak by anyone who might have seen him like this, but not you. You knew what he was capable of, even if no one else did. The moon might only reflect the sun’s light back upon the shadowed earth, but there were things one could only dream of that lurked in the darkness that not even the light of day could brighten. There, too, were demons veiled by the emperor’s dark side and once in a blue moon they were revealed by the light.

He was quiet now, but he breathed deeply, dragging in oxygen harshly through his nose while his cheek rested gently against your chest. He could listen to your heartbeat in this position and his lips bore a marginal smile.

“You know I love you,” Commodus whispered to you in that unassuming, hushed tone his voice took on when he was calm.

His lips found purchase on your neck again and you released a pleased sighed, “and I love you, too.”

The storm had passed.

The drought had been the worst, but the rain was over and the clouds had begun to part; Commodus was returning to himself, and after the downpour, you both would flourish again.

When he was overwhelmed, Commodus had to purge the emotions that consumed him.

“Shall we ready ourselves for bed, darling?” you posed the question as not to disrupt him; he seemed comforted by your closeness, satiated and remedied now that you were in his presence once more.

You felt him nod once, “I think that would be for the best,” he agreed, lifting his head when the sound of rain suddenly flooded into the room.

Beyond your chambers, the sky opened and rain came down from the heavens like you had anticipated might happen into the night. The gods were crying with the emperor, watering the lands of rich, fertile soil for the flowers, plants and food that would grow here.

Commodus smiled wistfully as he gazed out to watch the droplets fall to earth, “What did you mean?” he asked.

The sudden question perplexed you.

“Meant what, darling?”

“That life is a frightful dream, only sometimes,” he clarified, “implying that it is not so all of the time.”

He had turned to look at you and your heart skipped a beat. Your lover’s eyes held their usual mischievous brightness that enchanted you, sparkling like springtime and full of icy vitality. His full lips parted as he waited for your response and you had to steel your imagination against kissing him instead.

Your fingers played with the hair at the nape of his neck that had grown long enough to curl a little, “well,” you began and felt him press even closer, if that were possible, as he hung on your every word, “life does often feel like a dream to me, but not always an unpleasant one.”

“Yes,” he appeared childlike as he agreed with you, “I suppose that for all of the unpleasantness, there are still good things.”

“Like you,” you said, “us.”

Commodus expelled a brief, lighthearted chuckle, “you are right about us, my love.”

That is a good thing. We are a good thing.

You heard the admission in his voice, he did not need to say it because you felt it. It was there, in all that he did. You were enough for Commodus and you always would be, even on days when he was pulled in different directions that did not lead to you; he would always come home.

The love was present in the way he held you, kissed you, made time for you, loved you.

Yes, Commodus loved you.

He always had.

[the-glory-of-rome]

Pro Gloria Romae~ For the Glory of Rome🤍

[bonojour]

RUSSELL CROWE in strength and honor: creating the world of 'gladiator'

[sc4llywag]

MEET THE ARTIST WHAAHAHAAH

Here are the closeups

Hehee thank you for reading and learning about silly me

[perioddramapolls]

Period dramas dresses tournament: Orange dresses Round 1- Group D: Lucretia, Spartacus (gifset) vs Lucilla, Gladiator (gifset)

Propaganda for Lucilla's dress (written by a submitter):

This dress is actually modeled off of a Roman wedding dress, though it is not used as such in the film. The orange bridal veil is called a “flammeum,” and the color is supposed to suggest fire, and the goddess of marital fidelity. There’s many ways to interpret that, some brides opted for a more straightforward yellow. I loved how the metallic sheen of the fabrics here gave that all important veil extra dimension.

[oscar-nominee-tournament]

Oscar Nominee of All Time Tournament: Round 1, Group A

(info about nominees under the poll)

LILY TOMLIN (1939-)

NOMINATIONS:

Supporting- 1975 for Nashville

--

RUSSELL CROWE (1964-)

NOMINATIONS:

Lead- 1999 for The Insider, 2001 for A Beautiful Mind

WINS:

Lead- 2000 for Gladiator

[mystery-star]

Whumptober 2023 - Day 13 | Infection

Gladiator (2000)

[didanagy]

GLADIATOR (2000)

dir. ridley scott

[lyledebeast]

One aspect of Gladiator that has stuck with me since my rewatch earlier this month and through subsequent discussions with @malicious-compliance-esq is how well the opposition of the hero and villain works. Part of the reason, ironically, is how much they have in common. Maximus and Commodus are not only both Roman men. they are both sons of Marcus Aurelius, which allows comparison from multiple points of view within the story: Marcus himself, Lucilla, and the Roman people collectively. Commodus references the list of Roman Virtues his father wrote to him about, confessing that he has none of them. Marcus agrees, describing Commodus as "not a moral man" and telling Maximus, "You are the son I should have had." Lucilla tells Maximus that she is terrified every hour of what Commodus will do to her and her son and that "The only time I ever felt safe was with you." The more Maximus defies Commodus as a gladiator, the more the people love him. Their proximity is used to highlight their opposing traits, making for clear, clean, simple, effective storytelling.

The Patriot's opposition of Benjamin Martin and William Tavington is far murkier. One reason is the jingoism that lies in the film's framing of difference in terms of binary opposition. The British and American Patriot characters are on opposing sides in a war but are more alike than different. They share the same language, religion, even military customs as we see when Martin attempts to school Tavington on the rules of war. Martin is himself a former officer of a Colonial British regiment. A slightly more effective, but still questionable binary the film sets up is gentleman/rustic. Cornwallis extolls the virtues of "gentleman in command" to both lead and restrain their men and is mortified at the end of the film to find himself defeated by an army of "peasants." Martin, however, manages to be both at the same time. He is equally comfortable in a rowdy tavern and an assembly of South Carolina landowners, or even a meeting with a British general: a man for all seasons. When Gabriel has reservations about the men his father has recruited, Martin says. "They're exactly the sort of men we need. They've fought this kind of war before." He is not referring to their uncouth appearance and manners but the ferocity and unconventional approach to warfare that made them effective guerilla fighters. Who else has these traits?

Though Cornwallis describes Tavington as coming from an esteemed family, his fellow officers clearly do not recognize him as a peer. We see this when he arrives at a gathering with blood on his cravat from the battle the British just won and they look at him like he forgot to wear pink on Wednesday. Cornwallis reprimands him for executing surrendering enemy soldiers, the same thing Martin forbids his men from doing (also after it's too late to stop them). While Martin being neither gentleman nor rustic but somehow both at once wins him the respect of both sides, the traits Tavington shares in common with rustics make him a pariah among gentlemen, but this is less a difference between the two men than between British and Patriot values. That Martin and Tavington both collapse this binary means not only are they more alike than different, but they have more in common with each other than either one has with anyone on his own side.

No one in the film can comment on this similarity because no one has enough proximity to Martin and Tavington to notice it. The focus of the few scenes they share is on a third binary the film attempts to construct: child killer/father. Again, these things are not opposites. For one, the two are not mutually exclusive. Whether through intent, accident, or negligence, fathers are regularly responsible for the deaths of their own children. The opposite of a child killer would be a child protector. Does Martin fit the bill? Well, let's see. In the scenes immediately following Tavington's murder of his son Thomas, he abandons his youngest children in a field by his burning house, orders his next youngest sons to shoot British officers, and when the son he did all this to free is used as a human shield, Martin throws a tomahawk at his head to take out his captor. The only scene where Martin may be said to protect his children comes when he lures the Green Dragoons away from the burning plantation. However, the dragoons are only there in the first place because Martin blew his cover at Fort Carolina to save his captured men. The majority of Martin's children survive his negligence, but those of his men are not so lucky. He has no qualms about both making them targets of British aggression and eliminating their main source of protection from that aggression by recruiting their fathers. So much for "I am a parent; I can't afford principles."

Gladiator's comparison of Maximus and Commodus is effective because they are judged by the same standard: Maximus meets, even exceeds it, while Commodus does not. The Patriot, however, applies very different standards to strikingly similar characters. All of Tavington's reprehensible choices are made with an end goal of British victory, yet neither he nor anyone else can imagine a future for him in England in which those choices are not harshly condemned. Meanwhile, Martin's past war crimes and more recent abandonment/endangerment of his children are presented asforgivable, even laudable, because of the results he achieves. "The honor is in the ends, not the means," or something like that.

[five-miles-over]

Alone With You Inside My Mind - Part 3 (Yandere!Commodus x Reader)

Word Count: 2,038

A/N: Hi, everyone! A huge thank you to everyone for your patience. I know that I promised to release this chapter at the end of September and I haven't been able to deliver. My apologies. I sincerely thank you for putting up with me. I hope to write some more Commodus in the future, since he will always be one of my favorite movie characters. Thanks again for all of your patience and support! I couldn't do this without you :)

Summary: Three days after the banquet at the palace, you cannot stop wondering why Commodus chose to approach you. And the rumors of Commodus's madness have not made things better, both inside and outside of the palace. Lucilla and Emperor Marcus Aurelius are convinced that something must be done about the prince, but what can they do before things get out of their hand?

Warnings: reader doesn’t have the best/supportive parents, yandere/obsessive behavior, death threats, coersion into marriage

Read Part Two here

It had been three days since the incident at the palace with you and the Emperor's son. You'd never thought that out of all the men in Rome, you would catch the eye of Prince Commodus, the only living son of Caesar Marcus Aurelius. You would be lying to yourself if you said that you did not find him handsome, but…why did he come to you? The prince could have any maiden he wanted, even though for years it was rumored that he only favored the company of his sister. 

Yet that night, in front of the entire Senate and the whole of the nobility of Rome, he claimed to want you.

"Don't you remember?" He asked, "You came to me, night after night. The gods sent you."

What was he even talking about? You had never been to the palace within the past year, let alone the past night. The only time that you were even near the palace was for the funeral of one of Marcus Aurelius's daughters  

"The gods sent you to me," Commodus repeated, his voice light and airy as if trying to comfort you. "Don't you see it? Let me help you remember." Commodus brought your hand to his lips, a sinister twinkle in his peridot eyes. 

He called you his dearest and insisted upon taking you to his chambers in the middle of the banquet, not caring one bit about decorum.

A chill ran down your spine even at the memory of his intense gaze upon you, his strong grip on your wrist. 

Perhaps the whole thing was a prank, some sort of public spectacle meant to amuse the guests at the banquet. Or it was merely the prince acting out of boredom - weren't most princes always fooling around before marriage? 

Thank the gods you fled before things could get worse. You could not even bring yourself to imagine what he might have done had he brought you to his intimate quarters…and what would people think of you. 

Unfortunately, that didn't stop rumors of various kinds from circulating through the city. Some thought that you were a witch who cast a spell upon Commodus, causing him to lose his obsessive feelings for his sister. Others believed that Commodus, the son of Marcus Aurelius, was truly on the path to insanity. That if crowned, Rome would have another Mad Emperor sitting upon the throne. 

And when the rumors reached the ear of your father, he was furious. He even scolded you last night, for the tenth time, for running away at the worst moment possible. That if you had quietly stayed until the end of the banquet, no one would suspend a thing. But then your mother argued that all damage had been done the moment that Commodus pushed a servant aside, and made a scene before all the guests.

Still, you wondered, why you?

"My child?" Your mother interrupted your rumination with a gentle nudge. The two of you were walking in the public markets, carrying freshly-baked bread, cheese made from goats' milk, fruit, and vegetables needed for the week. "Where are you?"

"What?"

She tutted under her breath and led you away from the crowds of sellers hawking their wares. "Your mind is somewhere else. What happened?"

Swallowing, you confessed your thoughts as concisely as possible. 

"You should be vigilant of your surroundings. Don't think of such things," she chastised you. "Anyway, all of that is in the past."

"But Father is still upset with me for leaving the banq- "

"He gets angry about things like this, and then he forgets. You just focus on what needs to be done."

And what does need to be done, Mother? You wanted to ask her, but by that time, she had already found one of her friends and began making small talk about the weather. 

——

Bedsheets left in disarray, robes scattered across the floor, wine spilled on the rug, and a bruised servant…the young prince's room had never been in such a state before. According to the servant, the prince had flew into a blind rage since the banquet, refusing to eat anything, physically punishing any of the servants who deigned to bring him food. He was rumored to be taking out his rage in his swordplay lessons and exerting his emotions on his personal possessions, crying out your name all the while.

Lucilla sighed to herself as she picked up a small pot of lavender cream from the floor. Luckily the container was immune to breakage otherwise its contents would've stained some of the expensive silk garments tailored for her brother. Her father Marcus Aurelius merely surveyed the chamber from a distance with his arms behind his back, the look on his face a mixture of disappointment and shock. 

"I did this to him." The aging emperor finally spoke after a long silence.

Lucilla winced. "I don't understand."

"It was my faults as a father that made him this way." Marcus ambled towards her and glanced at the shreds from a pillow at the foot of the bed. "I…have failed in some way, and now…now he has become his own man."

"You will always be our father," Lucilla assured him before assuming a more serious tone. "But we must do something about this. Commodus has gone too far this time." She continues, "He has made a mockery of our family and the family of a noble girl in the presence of the people. He needs to be stopped before he can do anything else like this." "And what would you suggest?"

"Make him your co-emperor. Make him imperator."

Marcus Aurelius shook his head. "Commodus is not a moral man! He must not rule. Commodus must not rule."

"I know my brother." Lucilla calmly took her father's arm. "And I know the Senate as well. They will not spare my brother if he is not declared as your successor."

"I trust the Senate with the future of Rome more than I trust Commodus."

"And you love Commodus more than the Senate." Lucilla led him away from the mess surrounding Commodus's bed. "Commodus wants power. He cries for attention. I see the way he fumes when you praise the generals."

"Only Maximus," Marcus gently corrects. "He is the only one worthy of praise."

"Why don't you praise Commodus in the same way?" When Marcus doesn't answer, Lucilla continues. "If you make Commodus your co-emperor, then he will be content. So content that he won't even think of doing something utterly horrid as what he did to that girl. And she," Lucilla assumes a lighter tone, "will be free to marry someone better suited for her. Someone who will truly care for her."

Marcus looked at his daughter with a twinkle in his eye. "You care for her."

"She is a noble lady, as I am. I see it as a responsibility to ensure her safety."

He nodded in approval. "You make many fair points, my dear daughter. But I still cannot have Commodus as my heir."

"Father - " Lucilla protested. 

"I will arrange for Commodus to marry her." Marcus declares, "Commodus will not be the emperor of Rome, but he will be able to live comfortably with the one he loves."

Lucilla pursed her lips, slightly angered. "Father, she is terrified of him. It is the only reason she would flee from him. Is it really worth ruining her life just to keep Commodus under your thumb and away from the Senate?"

"Rome is worth one good life." Marcus turned to the servant in bruises. "Now tell me where my son is."

"He has left the palace, imperator," the servant emotionlessly answered.

——

Carrying a loaf of bread in one hand and a basket of vegetables on the arm, you used your free hand to open the door of your home. The hot afternoon sun made your forehead bead with sweat, and the fabric of your off-white stola clung to you.

"Are you busy?" Your mother asked as you opened the door. You said that you were not, and she suggested that you help her in preparing dinner. "Of course, mother." And once you opened the door, the sight was enough to make you as still as a statue.

Inside the living room of your home was none other than Prince Commodus, who wore a full body set of heavy black and gold armor with a Tyrian purple cape wrapped around his neck. He sat across from your father, in a completely relaxed position as if he knew of the power that he possessed. 

And your father, on the other hand, sat with his hands tied behind his back. Two praetorians bearing large, naked swords stood behind him on either side, frowning.

"Join us," Commodus addressed you and your mother with a strange cheerfulness in his voice. "You have come at the perfect time."

Your knees buckled, you could barely summon the strength to move a muscle, let alone sit down. Sensing this, your mother protectively placed her hand upon your arm, and led you to an empty couch between the two men. She sat down, and helped you to do the same. Then, she placed your hand in both of hers before looking up at the prince.

"I was telling your father about an offer that I would like to make." Commodus explained, "I was certainly not pleased with you leaving me that night, my dearest. Why did you do it? I called for you, and yet you did not come back like I asked you to."

"She did not know better, Your Highness. Forgive her." Your father answered before either you or your mother could say a word.

Commodus nodded with a chuckle, and then turned to you. "She will love me, as I love her. My heart will belong to her and to no one else. If you accept, then I can assure you - and your family - that you will want for nothing.

But…" Commodus straightened himself, glancing at his praetorians. "Should you choose to deny my offer, then my praetorians will have no choice. With a snap of my finger…I would rather not think of that. It would be far better for you to gain a husband than to lose a father. Wouldn't you agree?"

With heavy breaths, you slowly looked up at Commodus, your eyes tentatively meeting his. Your lip quivered and goosebumps flooded your arms. 

"Tell me." Commodus urged you.

You swallowed. "I…I…why me?" You stuttered. "Why me, Highness? You're…powerful and strong and -"

Commodus stood up and cupped your cheek with his hand, causing you to look up with wide eyes. "Because I cannot live without you," he answered. "Night after night, you came to me in my dreams and offer me strength. And when I saw you, held you, it felt as if spring has come after a long, cold, and dark winter. You're more perfect than anyone I have ever met." His thumb moved across the top of your cheek. "Don't you see it? The gods have favored us. And now, I do not intend to let you away from me for another moment. You will be mine, and I will be yours forever…if you accept."

Your mother held your hand a little tighter, as if she were letting you know that you weren't alone.

Commodus snapped his fingers with his free hand, and the praetorians immediately drew their swords, lining them against your father's neck. Immediately, your mother gasped, crying out your father's name.

"Gain a husband…or lose a father." Commodus asked again. "Do you accept?"

Biting your inner cheek, you accepted.

"Then the praetorians will have your things packed. You are to stay with me in the palace, with a chamber of your own until the day of the wedding."

Your mother gathered the courage to address the prince. "Will she…will we be able to see her?"

"When she proves her love for me, then perhaps I shall give you the pleasure of seeing her." Commodus dismissed the praetorians and knelt to kiss your hand. "Do not fear, my dearest," he whispered your name, "You have made the right choice."

Tagging: @darknessisafriend , @galos-writing , @jokerflecker , @that-dummy-girl , @iamthewifeofwilliamthatcher, @fly-like-a-phoenix , @beatlebabe1996 , @artemiscastle , @spicykitten99

[sunny-writes-flowers]

“Dagger of Love.”

Summary: "I know today is the day of Julius Caesar's assassination, but technically, Commodus is also a Caesar, and he was also assassinated, whether in the film or in real life. So, I thought I could rewrite it, with a bit of drama, obviously. " 

Rating: M

Statut: One Shot

Relationship(s): Commodus x fem!Reader 

Warning(s):  Established relationship;  angst; murder by stabbing; implied description of smut; Emperor/wife relationship; description of female and male bodies. 

Commodus was in his lavish room, his mind filled with thoughts of his wife. After a long day of hunting and imprison his enemies and traitors, he could hardly contain his excitement as he waited for her arrival. Commodus was sat impatiently on the edge of his bed, his fingers tapping rhythmically on his knee as he waited.  

As he reclined on his bed, his eyes roamed over the opulence that surrounded him. The walls were adorned with intricate murals, and the floor was covered in a soft, plush carpet. The room was filled with the sweet aroma of roses, and the soft sound of a lute being played by a musician in the corner. 

Despite the grandeur of his surroundings, Commodus could not shake the sense of unease that had been gnawing at him since he had returned to Rome. He knew that his grip on the empire was tenuous, and he was acutely aware of the dangers that lurked around every corner. 

But in the company of his beloved, he could forget all his worries and simply revel in the pleasures of the moment. He had spared no expense for her visit, ordering her favorite foods and wines to be served. 

As he waited, he couldn't help but think back to the early days of their courtship. She had been so different then - so full of life and passion. But now, after months of marriage, he could sense a distance between them. He wondered if she still loved him as she had once done, or if she had grown tired of him. 

Suddenly, he heard footsteps getting closer and the young wife walked in, her beauty taking his breath away. She wore a gown of deep red silk, her hair piled high on her head in an elaborate style. He rose to greet her, a smile spreading across his face, she was standing in the doorway.  

"My dear," he said, taking her hand and kissing it. "You look more beautiful than ever." She smiled back, but the warmth in her eyes did not reach her lips. Commodus felt a twinge of disappointment but quickly pushed it aside, determined to enjoy the evening with his wife. He took her hand and led her to the bed, where they both sat down. 

Commodus poured her a glass of wine, and they both drunk it. Her eyes were trying to escape from his. For some reason she looked nervous, just like the first time they made love, but the young man didn't take this observation too seriously. Commodus leaned in to kiss her, but she pulled away slightly, playing the game of desire. He could see the desire in her red cheeks, and he was pleased. He began to caress her face, and she leaned into his touch, all the while hiding the dagger she had concealed under her clothing. 

Commodus began to undress her, his hands wandering over her body, the fabric hugging her curves. He moved towards her, his hands reaching out to take her in his embrace. She played along, pretending to be swept away by his passion, but her heart was pounding with fear and anticipation. 

When they were both naked, he lay back on the bed, and let her climb on top of him, straddling him as if in surrender. With his right hand, Commodus gripped his young wife's breasts, kneading them fervently. With his other hand, he guided his penis towards her enter, waiting for her to descend on his erected member, full of desire for her. He waited for it and waited, but it never happened. 

As he closed his eyes, she carefully pulled the dagger out from under the silk sheets, where she had hidden it before and plunged it into his chest, pushing down with all her strength.  Commodus let out a gasp, his eyes widening in shock and pain.  

Realizing what she was doing, she let her tears falling to his cheeks. The young woman had concluded that this was the only way to solve all the problems. Kill the husband she once loved so much. 

He tried to struggle, but she held him down, continuing to stab him over and over, each stab dedicated to a person whose life Commodus had reduced to hell.  He eventually stopped fighting and resigned himself to accept his destiny. She was his beloved wife, the young daughter of a senator, of who he falls in love years ago, when they were both children. He promised to give her the love she never receives from her parents. But he always knew that would eventually lead to his downfall. She was naive and innocent, perfect for him to control, but he also knew that she eventually could be just, loyal and caring for those in need. His father would have probably loved her, more than he had loved his son. 

He knew it was only a matter of time before she realized that he wasn't good enough for her. Commodus secretly hoped that that day would never happen. But when he saw Maximus, in the middle of the arena, he knew that at that precise moment he lost his sister and his beloved wife.  Commodus also know that this all plan wasn't from his dear wife, but probably from a senator or his own sister Lucilla. He knows that they used his dear dove, because she was the only one that he would have never see it coming from. Now, thinking about it, it was quite predictable. 

As his vision blurs, blood running down his jaw, Commodus put one of his hands on her small face. He caressed his young wife's cheek, and in a last breath he smiled. "I-I forgive y-you for everything..."  

She rather to close her eyes than confront his gaze and as she continued to stab him, one of her stabs was straight into his heart, and suddenly he lay still. There was only the echo of her cries in the air of the room. The young woman let out a howl of pain, she felt like her heart was going to tear into a thousand pieces. In a fit of rage, she threw her dagger right in the middle of the room. Her weak body caught in the bloodstained silk sheets, made her fall gently to the floor.  

Her hands were shaking with the adrenaline and fear. She knew it was the only thing she could do to free Lucilla, Lucius, the senators, Maximus and all of Rome and the empire.  Sprawled on the ground, her face was hidden by her arms. The tears continued to flow as the echo of his last words looped through his memory.  

Finally having the courage to get up, she approaches the lifeless body of the man who once was the love of her life. She took the little scissors from a gold tray. She took a dark lock of the dead emperor's hair and cut it off. Leaning lightly, she inhaled the scent of his hair, before whispering "In another life, maybe, we could have been happy." 

Note: Thanks for reading, don't forget to like and share. Please give me your opinion !

[imdonnalynn]

Random Plot Idea

Plot: What if Maximus had become Emperor in Gladiator instead of Commodus? What could have become of things?

A/N: I just like the idea of playing out what could have happened had Maximus been allowed to assume the role of Emperor like Marcus wanted.

Fandom: Gladiator (2000 film)

Pairing: open

Warnings: open

I reserve the right to attempt a plot idea of my own and anyone else is welcome to try as well. Long as they give credit where they at least got part of the idea.

[the-glory-of-rome]

Commodus, the merciful.