#lays of ancient rome

[too-antigonish]

Morse: Fathers & Father Figures

What we learn about Morse's father in the Dexter's novels can seem a bit surprising in light of the way their relationship is depicted in Home.

According to a piece written by fellow author Mike Ripley, however, Dexter was, "...just about the only crime writer I know who has never bitched or complained about television adaptations of his work. He once told me that his philosophy was: “Books is books, telly is telly.” Only he probably put it more grammatically than that."

In Death Is Now My Neighbor, Dexter finally revealed Morse's first name: Endeavour. The chapter in question begins (tellingly?) with the epithet:

They fuck you up, your mum and dad. They may not mean to, but they do. They fill you with the faults they had And add some extra, just for you. (Philip Larkin, This Be the Verse') 

A bit into the chapter we arrive at a moment where Morse is strolling around Bath with his new love interest, Janet, and the following conversation takes place:

It was late morning, as they were walking arm-in-arm down to the city centre, following the signs to the Roman Baths, that she asked him the question:  'Shall I just keep calling you "Morse"?'. 'I'd prefer that, yes.'  'Whatever you say, sir!'  "You sound like Lewis. He always calls me "sir".' 'What do you call him?'  '"Lewis".' 'Does he know your Christian name?'  'No.'  'How come you got lumbered with it?'  Morse was silent awhile before answering:'They both had to leave school early, my parents - and they never had much of a chance in life themselves. That's partly the reason, I suppose. They used to keep on to me all the time about trying as hard as I could in life. They wanted me to do that. They expected me to do that. Sort of emotional blackmail, really - when you come to think of it.'  'Did you love them?" Morse nodded. 'Especially my father. He drank and gambled far too much ... but I loved him, yes. He knew nothing really - except two things: he could recite all of Macaulay's Lays of Ancient Rome by heart; and he'd read everything ever written about his greatest hero in life, Captain Cook - "Captain James Cook, 1728 to 1779", as he always used to call him.'  'And your mother?'  'She was a gentle soul. She was a Quaker.' 'It all adds up then, really?' said Janet slowly.  'I suppose so,' said Morse.

This conversation eventually leads to Janet convincing Morse to send Lewis a postcard in which he reveals his first name. The card reads:

"For Philistines like you, Lewis, as well as for classical scholars like me, this city with its baths, and temples must rank as one of the finest in Europe. You ought to bring the missus here some time. Did I ever get the chance to thank you for the few (!) contributions you made to our last case together? If I didn’t, let me thank you now – let me thank you for everything, my dear old friend. Yours aye, Endeavour (Morse)"

Spoiler: It makes Lewis cry.

One last note about Macaulay's Lays of Ancient Rome. The most famous poem from the collection is Horatius. It is quoted twice in Exeunt—first by a don, second and most memorably for me, by Thursday.

"Then out spake brave Horatius, The Captain of the Gate: "To every man upon this earth Death cometh soon or late. And how can man die better Than facing fearful odds, For the ashes of his fathers, And the temples of his Gods."'

[inspofromancientworld]

Lays of Ancient Rome and its Ancient Origins

By Photograph by MichaelMaggs; original artist unknown. - Own photo of original book cover, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=2198606

Thomas Babington Macaulay (1800-1859) 1st Baron Macaulay was a British poet and historian who also served as the Secretary at War and Paymaster General. He was born in Scotland, England, India, then returned to Scotland at the end of his life via Rome.He started the Lays of Ancient Rome, a collection of poems that he started while in India and continued as he went through Rome before publishing them in 1842. He wrote an introduction to each Lay, identifying the myths, legends, and history that he addresses in the poem.

By John Reinhard Weguelin - Scan of Illustration from book "The Lays of Ancient Rome", Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=2711627

The first Lay, Horatius, talks about how Publius Horatius Cocles, Spurius Larcius, and Titus Herminius held the Sublican bridge, which crossed the Tiber at Rome, against Lars Porsena, the King of Clusium, a Etruscan city, who were at war with the Romans. The bridge was the only crossing the Tiber into Rome and Rome itself was poorly defended.

By John Reinhard Weguelin - Scan of Illustration from book "The Lays of Ancient Rome", Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=2711862

The second Lay, The Battle of Lake Regillus, is about the titular battle which takes place after the retreat of King Lars, when Rome was under threat of the Latin League, a confederation of villages around the Latium area near Rome and led by Lucius Tarquinius Supberbus, the deposed king of Rome, and his son and son-in-law. It imitates Homer's style from the Iliad as it describes battles, which only is ended by the descent of Castor and Pollux, the twin gods of sailors and horsemanship, who were later set up as Gemini in the night sky.

By Giovanni Folo after Vincenzo Camuccini - Department of Image Collections, National Gallery of Art Library, Washington, DC•Catalog: https://library.nga.gov/permalink/01NGA_INST/1p5jkvq/alma991742963804896, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=108018319

The third lay, Virginia, tells the story of Virginius' only daughter, Virginia. He was a poor farmer and Appius Claudius, a member of Rome's upper class (the patrician class) and member of the ruling body, the decemvirs, who lusted after Virginia, who is portrayed as 'beautiful and virtuous'. He claims she is a run away slave, knowing the judge is in his purse (pockets weren't quite a thing yet as they appeared in approximately the 13th century). Her father is determined to save her by any means, even death. The result is a change to laws.

The next is the Prophecy of Capys, which tells the story of Romulus and Remus returning to their grandfather, Capys. Capys is a blind man who then has a prophetic vision of Romulus' descendants victories in the Pyrrhic and Punic wars, making them great.

You can read the Lays here.

[aquitainequeen]

XLII

     But hark! the cry is Astur:           And lo! the ranks divide;      And the great Lord of Luna           Comes with his stately stride.      Upon his ample shoulders           Clangs loud the four-fold shield,      And in his hand he shakes the brand           Which none but he can wield.

               XLIII

     He smiled on those bold Romans           A smile serene and high;      He eyed the flinching Tuscans,           And scorn was in his eye.      Quoth he, "The she-wolf's litter           Stand savagely at bay:      But will ye dare to follow,           If Astur clears the way?"

               XLIV

     Then, whirling up his broadsword           With both hands to the height,      He rushed against Horatius,           And smote with all his might.      With shield and blade Horatius           Right deftly turned the blow.      The blow, though turned, came yet too nigh;      It missed his helm, but gashed his thigh:      The Tuscans raised a joyful cry           To see the red blood flow.

               XLV

     He reeled, and on Herminius           He leaned one breathing-space;      Then, like a wild-cat mad with wounds,           Sprang right at Astur's face.      Through teeth, and skull, and helmet           So fierce a thrust he sped,      The good sword stood a hand-breadth out           Behind the Tuscan's head.

LAYS OF ANCIENT ROME By Thomas Babington Macaulay; Horatius

[fictionadventurer]

Potential February Reads

East by Edith Pattou

Brideshead Revisited by Evelyn Waugh

The Beggar Prince by Kate Stradling

The Thrifty Guide to Ancient Rome: A Handbook for Time Travelers by Jonathan Stokes

Julius Caesar by William Shakespeare

The Frindle Files by Andrew Clement

A fantasy romance

[streets-in-paradise]

Why am I writing Gladiator Maximus in such courtly love style?

[navree]

it should be illegal to have to take exams while on your period

[cryobabiess]

girldad!geta pleeease!

Filia Divina

Pairing: Emperor Geta x Wife!reader

Tags: childbirth, pregnancy, miscarriage mentioned, implied infanticide, soft!geta (if you squint), historically accurate practices, NOT BETA READ SO IF YOU SEE SOMETHING WONKY NO YOU DIDN’T, good ole fashioned misogyny

AN: Tollere Liberos is in reference to an ancient Roman tradition where a father decides whether or not to accept a newborn as their child. Rejected children were abandoned via ‘expositus’ (aka dead ass just leaving a baby out in the wilderness). So basically girldad!geta but historically accurate lol. Enjoy!

It had only been an hour since you birthed her—a sweet little creature with curls the color of honey and supple skin like the flesh of a ripe plum. With a mighty wail fit to be heard across an empire, she came into the world. Your goddess, Juno, generously granted her the health and strength you prayed for. You rejoiced, though your joy was not shared.

The midwives cleaned your daughter in grave silence, save for the whispers of the politic-men gathered to witness the birth of Rome’s divine son. They huddled together in the far corner of the chamber as your girl laid against her mother’s chest for the first time.

“It cannot be true—look again!” Geta frantically commands the weary doctor. He paces across the marble floor in a state of distress. A litany of expressions troubles his face; disbelief, panic, betrayal.

“My lord, it is not what was desired, but I assure you—the child is female. You have my greatest sorrows.” The doctor mournfully bows his head, knowing better than to look the short tempered prince in the eye.

Geta was persistent, diligently sewing his seed in your womb since your holy union. You passed two of his children as blood, and he held you as you suffered through the pain. He watched your body grow when his efforts succeeded, massaged your taut skin with olive oil, and fed you bread soaked in sweet wine when you felt ill. He even kneeled at Jupiter’s alter to call for the safe delivery of his first son and the health of his wife—All these precautions only to be cruelly slighted.

“The gods have punished me, yet I’ve done nothing but bend to their will.” Geta holds his head in disbelief, his devastation made evident by a deep scowl.

Senator Gracchus tentatively approaches your distraught husband, resting a sympathetic hand on his shoulder.

“My lord, we must atone for our offenses, whatever they may be. It is a grave misfortune indeed, but your bride—“

Rage ignites across Geta’s face as he pulls away from his constituent’s touch.

“Speak tactfully of your empress if you wish to keep your tongue, Senator.” He seethes through a tight jaw. Gracchus relents, his tone softening considerably. He continues slowly and with caution.

“Two winters have passed since your union, and she has yet to bring forth an heir of Rome. Her body has proved inhospitable. The gods have sent a message, and it would be foolish to turn a cheek—you must heed this omen! ”

Geta takes a moment, carefully considering the senator’s plea for reason. He looks back to you, Obsidian eyes gazing down at the linen sheet that obscures your sleeping child.

“I am a conduit of their will. Tollere Liberos will prevail and the gods will decide through me.” Geta turns to you fully. Your heart becomes heavy in your chest as you search your husband’s face for tenderness, but see nothing but solid stone.

In your dreams, you imagined the day Geta approached his first heir as sweet—that he might kiss your reddened cheeks and proudly claim his child. Never did you think the sight of him would cause you to tighten your grip and cower away. He looms over the bed where you lay exhausted and perspiring—like a holy monument.

“Show me the child.”

“My love, I beg you—“

“Your emperor commands it.” Geta callously interrupts.

You unwrap your daughter in your arms, trembling hands moving as gingerly as possible. She shifts in her sleep, curling her precious limbs toward her delicate body, but does not wake. Geta’s eyes widen at the sight of her.

“So it is true. My faithful wife’s womb has betrayed me.” His gaze softens. Something stirs behind it, but you are not sure what.

“If you wish to return her life, then be merciful and do the same with mine.” Your heart twists and aches, your love for your emperor becoming a knife in your rib.

To your shock, Geta reaches out to his daughter, takes her tiny fist in his palm, and runs a thumb over her blushing knuckles. She wraps her hand around her father’s finger with a mighty yawn.

You have seldom seen your restless husband become so still.

“She bears your resemblance.” Geta’s voice is but a whisper. His gaze doesn’t stray from her. It appears his heart aches the same as yours.

“And a head of golden hair.” You can only offer an exhausted smile.

Geta takes his daughter into his arms for the first time.

“The gods have spoken!” He declares to the small gathering of senators. Your emperor raises his girl above the laurels atop his head. Some look on with horror, and others with pride.

“She will have my name! It is done.”

As your daughter’s first weeks pass, Geta’s tenderness only grows. In the lavender hours of dawn, you wake to find him cradling her in the crook of his arm. He speaks to her softly.

“Poor girl, you have wounded your father’s pride. My, what tragedy.”

You smile at the sound of her gentle crooning as your husband assuages her back to sleep.

“A son would belong to Rome—but you, dear Septima, will belong to me.”

[prettycalla]

|| venenum paradiso ||

Pairing: Geta/Empress!Reader

Summary: Geta has some very traditional views that are not to your tastes. You decide to put him in his place. (Request fill)

Word count: 4k

Tags and warnings: Smut (not explicitly described, but still obvious!), period-typical sexism, bickering, submissive Geta, no use of Y/N. 18+!! Minors, please do not interact!!

(I wrote a little blurb a while ago and decided to make it in a bigger fic. I had to scrap the original idea because I was getting way too into the lore, and let's be real, we're not here for that, we're here for Geta smut. Also read up a Lot on sexuality in Ancient Rome, and wow, did they have Opinions.)

Masterlist || Join the taglist!

Of all the men you have encountered in your life, your husband is perhaps one of the most frustrating at times.

It is not often that you argue, you are patient enough that you are willing to agree to disagree on many matters. But there are occasions when it feels as though you are on the brink of war with him.

He is stubborn, infuriatingly so, and there are times when it takes everything in your power to hold your tongue.

However, even you, diplomatic and gracious as you are, have your limits.

Geta holds certain views that are...traditional, to say the least. You are not of the same mindset.

It had started over a passing remark. A mere flight of fancy that you had had late one night, as you had laid together in bed. Of being brought to release by your husband's mouth. At worst, you assume he will think nothing of it.

How full of surprises he is.

He is rather quick to remark that he does not believe a man of his rank and status should subject himself to something so...unbecoming.

It is not so much his words, but the manner in which he says them. As if his archaic opinion is fact. How your blood boils. Then, an eerie feeling of calm washes over you. You hum in response, teeth clenched behind a tight smile.

Oh, you are most certainly at war now. And you, you will be the victor, you are certain of it.

He does not notice at first, as on the surface, you are treating him no differently than any other day.

Eventually, it starts to click into place. You will not stay long in his embrace, you shy away from his touch, you turn your head with a tight-lipped smile when he tries to kiss you.

“Wife,” he demands one night as you are readying yourself for bed. “You are angry with me. Why?”

You lay down your hairbrush on the table, turning to face him.

“Whatever has led you to that conclusion?” you ask in turn, in an unassuming tone.

“You have been treating me with disdain for the better part of two days now. I tire of it,” he tells you, with all the grace of a spoiled child.

“Surely you are imagining things,” you say airily.

“Do not insult me,” he spits.

You give him a look of feigned surprise. “As if I would ever do such a thing.”

“You will tell me what I have done,” he insists.

You brush past him on the way to bed, slipping under the covers.

“You will figure it out for yourself,” you reply. “Goodnight.”

You turn your back to him, leaving him to stand there and process your words. It is a while before he joins you. You feel his hand hover near you, but you ignore it under the pretence of sleep. Eventually, he moves away, and you cannot help the smile that creeps onto your face as he lets out an irritated sigh.

His mood only worsens from there. When you wake the next morning, he is already dressed for the day ahead.

"Did you sleep well?" you ask with a yawn.

Geta glares at you with tired eyes, but does not allow himself to fall prey to it, turning his attention to more pressing matters.

"I trust you remember that we are to attend a banquet tonight," he tells you. "I will have you by my side, as my loving wife."

You do not miss the warning that lingers in his words.

“Would you have me any other way?” you ask, the very picture of innocence.

He does not reply, instead reaching across the bed to kiss you before he leaves. You conveniently choose that moment to get up, leaving him to stumble and fall onto the bed as he misses you entirely.

The quiet snarl that escapes him is quite the reward, you must admit. Embarrassed, he storms out, leaving you alone to your morning routine. You smile to yourself. Perhaps you should not be enjoying this as much as you are, but he does make it so easy for you.

You do not see Geta again until early evening, as he is kept busy for much of the day with meetings with senators and patricians. When you arrive at the grand hall, he is already seated and deep in conversation. You cannot help but notice how decadently he is dressed, in robes of the richest reds and golds, adorned with the most beautiful jewellery, and golden laurels sit atop his fiery hair. It is far too much, even for an event such as this, and you bite back a smile. Geta only dresses in such a manner when he is upset. And judging by the look he has now levelled on you, he is furious.

He quickly schools his expression into something more fitting of a loving husband as you draw near, taking the fawning and flattery of the surrounding crowd in your stride as always.

"Wife," he murmurs, with a smile that is reminiscent of a shark.

He takes your hand in his, lifting it to his lips to press a kiss to the back of it.

Your attention wanders as he does so. He attempts to pull you towards him, but you do not budge.

"Come, you will sit by me," he says pleasantly.

You shake your head, slipping your hand from his tight grasp.

"Oh, no, I could not possibly interrupt your conversation," you reply, "Please, you must stay with the senator."

Geta opens his mouth to argue, but you have already turned away. Caracalla has been watching the entire scene unfold before him from across the table with rapt attention, and he grins at you.

"Gentlemen, if you will excuse me," you say politely, with an incline of your head.

You take the seat next to Caracalla, who in turn looks to his brother to find him seething. Never one for subtlety, Caracalla giggles loudly, turning his attention to you.

“My dear sister, whatever has your poor husband done now?” he asks, inelegantly swirling the wine around in his cup before taking a drink.

His voice carries far enough across the table for the guests to glance up curiously. Geta looks as though he wishes for nothing more than to throw himself across the table and strangle his brother.

You smile as you pat Caracalla’s arm in a good-natured manner.

“Now, now. Is it not enough for me to sit by you and enjoy your company?” you ask innocently.

His eyes are on you then, his gaze sharp and scrutinising. A wide smile slowly breaks out across his face.

“Of course,” he replies, almost giddily.

He leans in to you, his voice dropping low enough that only you can hear.

“What games you play,” he whispers slyly.

You laugh then, your eyes drifting to where Geta sits. To a mere bystander, he would look the very image of a man deeply engrossed in political conversation, but you know him better than anyone. He is clutching the cup in his hand with such ferocity that his knuckles have lost all colour, and his jaw twitches from clenching so hard.

You are beginning to feel pity for him. But he must learn.

You are rather quickly distracted once again by Caracalla, who is making quite a spectacle of himself by reaching over people who are trying to eat to acquire food for Dondus. She is perched on his shoulders, her little hands clutching at his messy hair to balance herself.

He unceremoniously falls back into his seat, arranging his spoils in front of him. He lifts a grape up and Dondus greedily snatches it from him, pawing at it before she bites into it.

"Would you like to feed her?" he asks, holding out some walnuts.

"Of course," you reply, taking one and holding it out to the little monkey.

Dondus sniffs at it for a moment, not as familiar with your scent, before she takes it from you.

"What a sweet girl you are," you coo at her.

"Isn't she?" Caracalla agrees proudly, as he scratches under her chin.

The evening continues to pass as pleasantly in Caracalla's company. He regales you with stories, making you laugh until there are tears in your eyes. You have almost forgotten about your husband.

Almost.

As if on cue, Geta rises from his seat.

"Excuse me," he announces to the table. "I must withdraw for the evening. Please, stay and enjoy yourselves."

You watch him leave, his agitation evident in how he holds himself.

Caracalla tilts his head closer to you. "Do you think he has suffered enough?" he asks mischievously.

Not quite, you think to yourself.

It is another hour or so before you retire for the night as well. As you had suspected, Geta has returned to your chambers and is very much awake, pacing back and forth across the length of the room, as he has likely been doing since he returned.

"You finally grace me with your presence, Augusta," he says.

Beyond the public's prying eyes, he only ever calls you by your title when he is angry with you.

"I thought you would be asleep by the time I returned," you reply.

You cross the room to your vanity table, sitting down to begin your nightly routine. Geta drags the chair out to stand in front of you, demanding your attention. You look up at him. He is seething. You, by contrast, are quite unaffected.

"You seem to have forgotten your place," he says through gritted teeth.

He will not be ignored.

You tilt your head with a feigned look of confusion. "And where, exactly, is that?" you ask.

"Wherever I wish it to be," he replies. "If I want you by my side, you will be by my side."

He bends down, hands gripping the arms of the chair tightly as he looms over you. His expression is glowering, his intense eyes made all the more so by the flickering lantern light.

"If I command you, you will obey," he says lowly.

There is a side to Geta that will rear its ugly head when he has been slighted. It craves power and control, and will not rest until both are firmly in its clutches. In the beginning, it was persistent, constant, as he was terrified of allowing you to see him for who he truly is. With time and patience, you were finally able to tame the raging beast, to prove to him that you would not hurt him, that you loved him.

The beast is raging once more, but you are no longer frightened of it. You are more than equipped to put it back in its place.

You merely smile in response. He does not like that. He straightens then, drawing himself up to his full height. His stubborn petulance is almost endearing, if not growing a little tiresome.

“You will kneel for your Emperor,” he commands.

You cross your legs as you look up at him with a serene expression. Even with the advantage of height between the two of you, he looks like a little boy in the midst of a tantrum.

You feel powerful. It is intoxicating.

“If you wish something of me, husband,” you say, “you will ask nicely.”

Geta’s eye twitches at your words, biting the inside of his cheek in irritation.

“I will do no such thing,” he says at last.

“Oh, you will,” you reply, your voice light and airy, as if you are discussing something as mundane as the weather.

You stand up, not bothering to push the chair back, uncaring of the close proximity between the two of you. Your hands slide from the arms of the chair and up along his stomach, his chest - light, teasing - before they fall at your sides once more.

“Because I tire of this discussion, and I am quite certain you have had more than enough of this argument of ours."

You hold his gaze.

“Wouldn’t you agree?” you ask.

Geta laughs, but it is without a trace of humour.

"At last you admit it," he says. "You are angry with me."

You tap your finger to your chin, as if in contemplation.

"What was it that you called me? 'Unbecoming', was it?" you ask.

Geta blanches. Now he remembers, and too late he is.

“Wife-” he starts, but you shake your head to silence him.

“No, I quite understand," you say readily, as if you truly agree with him. "I can only imagine how unbecoming it would be, to have me in such a manner.”

You lean in closer to him, your breath ghosting along his ear. He shivers.

“Beneath you, undressed and unmade, entirely at your mercy and in the throes of pleasure,” you continue.

You let out a pitiful little sigh.

“How…vulgar,” you finish, pulling away from him.

Geta watches you carefully. For once, he is without words. He swallows thickly. His eyes dart to one side for the briefest moment before meeting your gaze once more.

“This is a fool’s errand,” he says through clenched teeth.

It would sound threatening, if the waver in his voice wasn't his undoing.

“Then I am a fool,” you reply simply. “But I am a fool of my convictions.”

You try to brush by him when his hand suddenly lashes out, grabbing your arm. You stop quickly in your tracks, your heart beating at a racing pace. You keep your expression as neutral as you can manage.

“Oh, by all means, you may command me again,” you murmur. “But the victory will not be as sweet, I assure you.”

You have him there. Gently, you pluck at his fingers. To your surprise, he lets go as easily as that. For a moment, you watch each other, as if neither of you can dare to look away. To show weakness. Time seems to slow.

Geta is the first to break.

“What do you want of me?” he asks.

You pretend to think about it for a moment, before fixing him with a determined stare.

“Kneel," you reply simply.

Geta’s eyes widen, his expression a mixture of exasperation and anger.

“How dare-“

“Kneel, or leave me,” you say, as if he had not spoken. “Those are your choices.”

He opens his mouth again, and you wait for the inevitable chastising for daring to suggest that an Emperor commit such a lowly act that was to come.

But it does not.

Without breaking away from your gaze, Geta slowly sinks to his knees in front of you.

Surely the Gods have called you to them earlier than planned. You were insistent on breaking his resolve, but you had no idea that he would actually listen to you.

You must be dreaming. And what a beautiful dream he makes. His dark eyes are fixed on you; small, shallow breaths falling from his trembling lips.

Truly, he is a sight to behold.

Slowly, you reach out a hand, your touch light as you hook your fingers under his chin.

“Good boy,” you murmur, and the shudder that runs through him at your words will surely stay with you until your last mortal breath.

"What would you have me do?" he asks in a whisper.

You do not answer. Instead you run your thumb gently across his chin, back and forth, back and forth. He is trembling under your touch, you realise with a smile to yourself.

"What was it that you would have had me do?" you ask in turn.

You lean in closer to him, your grip on his chin tightening ever so slightly.

"When you came here, and so crassly asked me to kneel for you," you continue. "What was it that you desired of me?"

You drag your fingertips along the column of Geta's throat. He swallows thickly, and you feel the sensation against your skin.

"I…" he begins to say.

His voice cracks, and he falters.

“I wished to have you as you have me now,” he says at last, his voice rough.

“Go on,” you insist. “What was I to do?”

His tongue darts out to wet his lip. Shame burns at his cheeks. How it amuses you to see him like this.

“Is it not enough that you have humiliated me-” he starts, his temper flaring up once more.

You press a finger to his lips, silencing him.

“I have done no such thing,” you reply. “I have held no sword to your throat, no poison to your lips. I am but a woman before a God.”

You move closer still, your lips dangerously close to brushing against his.

“Though I did not know that Gods could be broken so easily,” you whisper with a wide smile.

You feel him lean in and you quickly pull back. He loses his balance and his hands reach out, pressing against your thighs to steady himself. You step out of his range entirely and he falls on all fours with a snarl.

You are enjoying yourself far too much.

“Please, finish your tale,” you say as you sit down once more.

Geta clenches his fists, but does not move.

“I would…I would have had you undressed. On your knees and entirely at my mercy,” he spits.

“Quite the picture you paint,” you muse. “But I wonder…”

You reach forward, your hands plucking the delicate laurels from atop Geta’s head. You gently twirl them back and forth in your grasp, admiring the craftsmanship of each detail.

Geta looks as though he wishes to squeeze the life from you. He does not move.

Without breaking his gaze, you gently place the laurels on yourself.

“I wonder if it would be as pleasurable as you say,” you finish with a mischievous smile.

You crook your finger in a pedantic manner at him, beckoning him closer to you. To your surprise, he obeys, crawling the short distance between the two of you.

You run your hand gently through his hair. His eyes slip closed at your touch. You drag your hand down to the base of his neck, where your grip suddenly tightens and you wrench his head back. A sharp hiss escapes his throat, but he does not move to stop you.

"You will undress," you tell him. "And you will not keep me waiting."

Geta looks at you with wide eyes, as if wondering where you have been hiding this side of yourself. You are wondering that yourself.

You hold his gaze, looking down the length of your nose at him from where you sit. Unblinking, unwavering. Daring him to defy you. The very image of an Empress.

Geta moves to stand, and you shake your head.

"Surely you can manage from where you sit," you say airily. "I have been witness to you doing so in much worse states."

He starts slow, dropping each piece of jewellery to the floor with a loud clatter, in the hopes of irritating you. You, by contrast, are thoroughly enjoying yourself. Finally, he begins to remove his robes, leaving them in a scattered heap on the floor.

He looks up at you again, feigning an air of disinterest. It does not fool you. The flush that runs from his neck to his chest speaks volumes. You lean forward, running your hands from the curve of his hips up across his torso to his chest, your fingertips skirting just shy of the places he desperately wants you to touch.

"How long do you intend to shame me like this?" he demands of you.

His voice is strained, choked even. He has never looked more beautiful to you than he does now.

"My dear husband," you coo, "You act as though this is torture."

Geta glares at you, and you laugh, a soft breath of a sound.

"You will give me what I want," you tell him, leaning back in your chair. "And we will have no more of this silly argument."

He opens his mouth to speak, when his gaze drifts downwards, to where you have begun dragging your stola up along your legs. You part your thighs, unable to hide the smile on your face at the sight of Geta's mouth dropping open.

"Wife," he manages to whisper, his mouth dry.

"Yes?" you ask innocently. "Whatever is the matter, husband?"

Geta has entirely given up on trying to remain angry with you. You know that look on his face all too well. He is a starving man, and you, you are a banquet laid out for him to indulge in.

You hold out your hands to him, and he tentatively takes them, allowing you to pull him closer. You can feel him trembling against you.

"I will show you what to do," you tell him in a patronising tone. "But you are a quick study, I am certain you will not disappoint me."

You place your hands on his face, nails gently scratching at his skin. He shivers, a soft moan involuntarily escaping him.

"Do not keep me waiting," you warn with a roguish smile.

You presume he will drag things out further, continue to argue, dress himself and storm out in a rage - but he surprises you, rough hands pushing at your thighs to give you exactly what you want from him.

A sharp gasp escapes your lips at the feel of his tongue against you. He is frantic, messy, pathetically inexperienced in his movements. But oh, how filthy he feels against you.

You drag your hands through his hair, gripping hard as you press yourself closer to his mouth. He groans then, and the vibration of it has your eyes rolling back.

You have never felt pleasure quite like it. It vexes you that he has kept an experience such as this from you for so long. All because of something as pitiful as his pride.

As you had suspected, Geta is indeed quick to learn, and he finally finds a rhythm that soon leaves you shaking against him. It's so much, too much all at once, and you try to press your legs closed, but his hands hold firm against you, keeping you open and pliant for him. Gods, how you adore him like this. As wanting and hungry as he has left you.

"That's it," you tell him, a tremor in your voice as your nails scratch at his scalp. "Good boy."

Your words elicit another moan from his pretty throat, and the sound of it, his mouth, his tongue, his desperation, has you falling from the precipice you have been so precariously dangling from. Your climax hits you like a shockwave, leaving you trembling and breathless against him. Geta does not stop, not until you release your grip on him.

He slowly sits up, still kneeling between your legs as he looks up at you. He has the audacity to look pleased with himself, but it is you who has truly won. After all, you were finally able to wear your prideful husband down to seeing how ridiculous he has been, even if he will never admit it.

He runs his tongue across his lips in a crude attempt to clean himself up, his dark eyes almost black with desire. You let out a breathless laugh, allowing yourself to slump into your chair.

"Surely you have something to say to me, do you not?" you ask, propping your chin against your hand.

Geta briefly breaks your gaze, a heavy breath escaping him. This is torment for him, and you know it. Knowing how desperate he is for your touch in this very moment, and here you are, demanding that he tell you that you were right.

How you revel in it.

"Wife," he starts.

It is an attempt to warn you, but he is so choked up in his need for you that it falls flat.

"Husband," you reply with a lazy smile.

"What would you have me say?" he says, words all but catching in his throat as you lean forward to take him in hand, touching precisely where he needs you right now.

"Tell me that I was right," you reply, stroking him in the exact manner that has him arching into your touch.

"You were-" he begins, stumbles, "Gods-"

"Say it," you murmur, "And I will give you exactly what you desire."

"Please," he whispers desperately, placing a hand on your cheek. "Wife, I-"

"Say it," you hiss, your touch teetering just on the edge of too much.

"You were right," he gasps, "You were right, I was wrong, just please, please-"

Never have you seen him in such a state. He is mesmerising, his eyes glassy as he aches for release.

And who are you to deny him, when he begs so prettily?

"Such a good boy you are, Geta," you whisper in his ear, and just like that, the sound of his name falling from your lips in such a sultry tone has him falling apart, unravelling in your grasp.

Geta all but collapses into your arms, a trembling mess.

It takes him a moment to return to himself, shaky little breaths escaping him as you hold him. Eventually, he rights himself, looking up at you. All of his rage, his fury, all of it has been washed away. He kneels before you not as a merciless Emperor, but as a mortal, who has been thoroughly put in his place.

You lightly brush your nose against his, and a small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.

"Well?" you ask. "Have you quite learned your lesson?"

Geta attempts to glare at you, but the fight has truly left him. He places his hands on your face, pressing a soft kiss to your mouth.

"Perhaps...I will reconsider my opinion on the matter," he replies, almost shyly.

It is difficult not to feel smug, you must admit.

After all, you have won.

(banners by @ cafekitsune)

[multific]

His Love

Marcus Acacius x Reader

Summary: You were meant to marry him, thinking he is an unkind man, you kept your distance from him, but soon, you learned the truth. 

As the sun cast its golden rays over the bustling streets of ancient Rome, Marcus Acacius, a bold Roman soldier, crossed paths with you, his soon-to-be wife. 

At first, your heart held nothing but hate for this man, seeing him as a brute and unkind soul. 

However, destiny had a different plan in store for both of you.

In an unexpected turn of events, you discovered that he was nothing like your initial judgment had led you to believe. 

Beneath his hardened exterior lay a heart filled with kindness, compassion, and a burning love for you.

You wanted to explore that.

To see where it would lead the two of you. 

And so, you began to spend more time together. 

You ate together and even went on many walks around the city. Seeing him interact with people made you realise just how kind he was.

Watching him smile spread a warmth inside your heart.

Slowly, the walls you had built around your heart began to crumble. 

Marcus's gentle words and thoughtful gestures slowly melted away your worries, allowing love to blossom inside you. 

In the tender moments shared, he revealed his vulnerability and how deeply he had fallen for you.

One evening, Marcus took your hand and whispered to you. 

"My love, I know that our journey together began with animosity, but I promise you, my intentions have always been pure. I am here to protect you, cherish you, and love you with every fibre of my being."

Tears welled up in your eyes at his words. 

"Marcus, I never imagined that behind your cold facade, there would be such a loving heart. I am grateful for the person you have shown me, and I too must confess, I have fallen deeply in love with you."

From that moment forward, your lives intertwined as you embarked on a journey filled with love, trust, and unwavering devotion.

Your wedding was simple. Your family was there, and you had a great time.

But you were just thankful for the journey ahead of you with a husband so loving, kind and handsome. 

In the years that followed, amidst the madness of war and the difficulties of life, Marcus remained your dedicated rock. 

His unwavering support and unwavering love carried you through every storm, reminding you of the depth of his commitment.

Of his Love.

Taglist: 

@castellandiangelo @imagines-by-a-typical-fangirl @manduse @jacalineiscomingforyou 

@mandoloriancookie @deliciousfestsalad @lilliumrorum @asgards-princess-of-mischief 

@fallout-girl219 @dracaryxzs @snowtargaryen 

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

/YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO TRANSLATE, TO STEAL OR TO REUPLOAD ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[milla-frenchy]

Home

3k7 | Marcus Acacius x fem reader | ao3 | masterlist

Summary: Acacius returns from Numidia several months after his departure, and comes back to his wife

Warnings: 18+ mdni. fluff, smut, established relationship, Acacius and reader are married and deeply in love, Acacius is devoted to his wife (he’s soft, protective, caring and slightly possessive), oral (m/f), oil massages, size kink, piv, creampie. No age specified

a/n:  this fic is just soft and sweet and I hope it will bring comfort to those who need it. This is my love letter to Acacius, basically, after watching Gladiator 2 (no spoilers towards the movie). I love this character so much. I did some research but I'm not an expert on ancient Rome at all.

Thank you @aurorawritestoescape for always holding my hand and for beta-ing, @joelmillerisapunk for cheering me up, @iamasaddie for being a sunshine- 🫶💓 dividers @saradika-graphics 🙏

You felt his presence before he even spoke. 

You knew he was here, because all your worries, all the tension in your body, dissipated instantly. All the weight accumulated during those last months was removed from your shoulders, allowing your body to relax and open up.

"My lady..," you heard. 

You stood up and faced him, turning away from the fish pond. You murmured his name then hurried towards him to snuggle against his broad, protective chest, where nothing bad could reach you. His arms surrounded you, as his lips kissed your forehead and your hands slid along his waist to his back. The warmth radiated from him, warming your entire being, body and soul.

"You are here, my love," you whispered, feeling tears well up in your eyes. You had been holding them back for so long. Too long. Because you didn't want to seem weak, and because you didn't want to let your brain swallow you up in its darkness.

But now Acacius was here, and you could allow your fragility to consume you for a moment,  to be your true self, letting your emotions overwhelm you. Because you knew that he would want to absorb them for you, to protect you. To be your man.

"I'm finally here. I missed you, you have no idea. You were always in my thoughts, my beloved.”

You hugged each other tighter, and you buried your face in his chest, rubbing against him, like a cat that marks its territory with its scent. 

"I missed you too, Acacius," you replied, finally raising your face to his, staring into those soft brown eyes that you missed so much. The eyes of your husband who had returned from Numidia. Returned victorious, as always, but the worry never left you when he was gone. The intrusive thoughts that made you fear that he wouldn’t come back to you, that he had perished. Or worse, taken prisoner. The highest representative of the Roman Empire on the battlefield, the general of Rome, gods only knew what they would do to him.

Caressing his cheek with your thumb, you chased away those dark thoughts to let yourself enjoy the present. Your husband, your love was there. You brushed his wrinkles, as you took the time to admire his slightly grayer curls, before running your fingers through them.

"You are even more beautiful than when I left," he said in a low, calm voice. You smiled when you heard him, moved by his love for you that was radiating from him. Love that had never wavered during your marriage. He always came back to you, as soon as he had dealt with the burdens placed upon him by the emperors he hated.

"Let me feed you, my love," you said. "And bathe you."

You walked toward the caldarium, his arm around your shoulder, yours around his waist, your body pressed against his. You were holding each other close as you were walking, it had been so long since he left for Africa nova.

“I cleaned myself before I went to the coliseum. You don’t have to, you know?”

“I know. But I love to do it, even if it’s only symbolic.”

He smiled warmly and saw you melt under his stare, then pressed a kiss on your temple to forget the fast beating of his own heart.

You undressed him slowly, layer by layer. Taking the time to place your hands on his chest before you would remove the last fabric, to feel his torso rise under your fingers. To process the fact that he was really back with you. He watched you roam his chest, shoulders, arms along his body, face lowered towards you. Smiling, patient. Soothed. 

Once you managed to stop staring at his skin, his muscles, the way his body reacted to your touch, you tilted your head up to meet his eyes. You both smiled, happy and relieved to finally find each other again. You always marveled at his softness, that side of him only you knew. 

Your fingers ran along his skin, and you frowned at each new wound you felt under your digits.

“You have so many new scars,” you said with a trembling voice. “I thank the gods for bringing you back to me.” 

“Thank the soldiers, my love, they kept me alive,” he replied, brushing your cheek with his thumb. He had great respect for his men, treated them well, and had their complete trust. Tears appeared in your eyes again, and he gently took your chin between his fingers to lift your face up to him.

“I’m here now,” he said, his voice still low and calm. He knew you needed to be reassured, that meeting again always made his next departures more difficult, for both of you. He knew you were already anticipating them.

“I know,” you stammered. “I know. I just missed you a lot.” You tried to push aside the worries that were already trying to infiltrate your mind.

“I know, and I’m sorry about that, I wish I never had to leave. But I have great news: I won't have to go for now. I told the emperors that I wanted to rest and spend time with my wife. Darius will lead the next battle, he's ready.”

“This is such great news, Acacius!” you said, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, and nestling your face in his neck. “I'm so relieved.”

He held you against him, before cupping your cheeks in his hands and resting his forehead against yours.

You moved slightly aside to pull off the last layer of clothing, freeing his half-hard cock. You thought about it so often when he was away as your fingers were buried inside you.

You covered him in oil and massaged his shoulders to relieve his physical tension. Then his chest, arms, palms and belly, taking your time. Gently, your fingers worked his skin, finding their favorite spots and his. Lingering there.

Finally, you faced him and took his shaft in hand, before jerking him off gently under the pretext of applying the oil, but you both felt the need grow.

You then asked him to sit in the warm water, and got undressed. The expression in his eyes changed from softness to eagerness and desire while he was watching you. 

Fully hard, he stood up when you approached the bath, holding out his hand to accompany you down the steps.

“Sit on me,” he murmured in your ear, his beard brushing your skin. You straddled him, placing your hands on his cheeks before playing with his curls. You leaned down and finally kissed him, tasting his warm, soft, luscious lips. You both moaned and it made you smile, as you felt yourself mesmerized by him being finally there, with you. 

He caressed your lips with his tongue, then slid it between them. Your tongues found each other, for the first time in months, and you felt dizzy, savoring him again. His hands roamed your back, squeezed your skin sometimes, while your kiss was only growing more feral and needy. Unable to wait any longer, you grabbed his cock and nestled it at your entrance, making him growl from the depth of his chest.

“Slowly,” he stammered. “No foreplay… don’t hurt yourself.”

“Can’t promise it,” you smiled. It was almost a lie, both of you knew it, you couldn’t take him slowly, your need to feel him being too strong. You sank onto his shaft with your arms resting on his broad shoulders, and you had to bite him slightly when the fat head of his cock began spreading you wide open, until you welcomed him fully, leaving both of you breathless for a second.

“That wasn’t exactly slow,” he laughed once he caught his breath, his hand against the back of your neck as you peppered his collarbone with kisses, your cunt full of him.

“Couldn’t wait,” you breathed and kept kissing him, slowly moving up and down his shaft, mixing your moans with his, your forehead against his. Your breaths mingled, similar in their urgency.

“I missed you. I missed you,” you repeated, while one of his hands was caressing your back, the other resting on your hip to accompany your movements, but sometimes pushing you slightly more down his cock.

“Me too, my love. Finally feeling you like that, wrapped around my cock, is almost unreal after all that time. But I won’t last, I’m sorry,” he said in a breathless voice. “It’s been too long since I felt the warmth of your cunt. Only my hand could give me a release when thoughts about you invaded my mind.”

“Now I’m here. Use me. Come,” you added, rubbing yourself against his lower stomach, knowing you would come soon too.

He held you tight in his arms, setting his pace, fast, powerful, to the point that the water overflowed from the bath with every move. He chased his orgasm, growling in your ear, his body surrounding yours, and you let him use you willingly until his grunts turned into moans and he froze, coming inside you. You pulsed on his shaft just after, milking his cock, feeling him shudder inside you.

You let him catch his breath and his wits before facing him, your hands on his cheeks, and covered his lips, cheeks, forehead with kisses. Already thinking about the moment you would go to your bedroom, and finally take the time to rediscover each other.

Washed, you had dinner, and you told him what happened during his absence. Life in Rome, the dream of Marcus Aurelius long forgotten. The emperors were hated by the subjects, and the cruel games were still allowed.

His worry was growing as he was listening to you. Each time he left, he was afraid a revolt would take place and he wouldn’t be there to protect you. 

He asked you the question that had been burning his lips since his return, but that he was holding back, afraid of your answer.

“Did… did anyone hurt you while I was away?” he asked, eyes lowered to the ground, your hands in his. Then finally forcing himself to look at you and hear your answer.

“No, Acacius,” you answered quickly, eager to remove that weight from his shoulders and his heart. “Nothing happened to me, don’t worry.” You knew that he would lose his mind if someone hurt you, just like those who had hurt you would lose their heads. 

He kissed your hands when he heard you, keeping them between his, brushing them with his thumbs.

“I couldn't stand it if that happened,” he added, voice shaking.

“I know, my love. But the guards protect me. The ones you chose, and trust completely. I am safe.”

He nodded, even though both of you knew he would never be calm during his absences.

Once fed, he told you about the new conquests. You felt the weariness on his shoulders and in his eyes. His anger. The emperors were making him lose patience, every day a little more.

“Enough about this,” he said finally. “I don't want my return to be full of sadness and bitterness. I saw how tense your body is, I will help you relax with some oil, like you did to me.”

“Acacius… you need to rest after these last few months. Not to take care of me,” you replied softly.

“I am your husband,” he said gently but firmly, moving closer to you until he took your hand in his and kissed it. “Your man. There’s nothing else that I want to do more.” You looked at him and smiled.

Once in the bedroom, he asked you to undress and lie down naked on your stomach. He poured some oil in his hands, and rubbed them together. He didn't take his eyes off you until you were on the bed. "You're so beautiful," he said. “I’m gonna take care of you. I missed it.”

He started by massaging your neck, with perfect pressure. Hands flat, he pressed his thumbs against each tense spot, helping to release the tension step by step. You felt your muscles relax at his touch, from your neck to your shoulders. Once satisfied with the way your body responded to his movements, he coated his hands with oil again, then he took care of your lower back. Your pelvis had been stuck for weeks, and you knew that he would do wonders, as always. That the next day, when you woke up, it would be free of its tensions.

“Do you feel better?” he asked, kissing your shoulder, his moustache brushing your skin.

“Better than ever. Thank you, my love.”

“Perfect. Turn around now, please." You rolled onto your back, and you saw his eyes linger on your breasts for a few seconds, nipples hard after his hands on you.

“Well, General?” you chuckled.

“Mmm. I was staring, wasn’t I? I missed them too,” he confessed, blushing slightly, which was cute, coming from him.

He massaged your arms then your thighs, one by one, down to your ankles and feet, careful not to touch your breasts or even look at them, as if that would end the session prematurely. You didn't take your eyes off him, watching his eyebrows furrowed in concentration, his tongue brushing his lip, his teeth nibbling on it.

Finally, you saw his gaze fixed on your pussy, something he had also avoided until then. The candlelight certainly didn’t allow him to see, but he probably knew you were flowing down to the bed. His hand slid from your ankle to your thigh, then brushed your folds before slipping between them, making you whine, as you heard the grunt of approval when his finger got lost in your wetness.

He took a deep breath and said “I’m too eager to taste you, now. But tomorrow I will touch, lick, worship your whole body. I want to kiss you, from your forehead to your toes. Take back what’s mine.”

“I’m yours, always, Acacius. Whether you are here or not.”

“I know, my sweet girl, I know. As I’m yours. Ad vitam aeternam. (forever)”

He got undressed and you loved that he took his time doing it, with a soft smile on his lips. You loved knowing that he would be there with you for several weeks. Every day and every night. 

You were never tired of looking at him. His body was a gift from the gods. His strong neck, with veins bulging every time he thrust into you. His broad shoulders, his belly slightly softer as the years passed. His large hands, next to which yours seemed tiny. 

His cock.

So massive that on your wedding night you had been so afraid that you had thought of running away. But he had assured you that he would be gentle and go slowly, that he would take care of you. After another hesitation you had chosen to trust him, his tone, his gaze, and two nights later it had seemed that you had been physically made for each other.

But more than his body, his personality, his loyalty, the way he cared about you, made him a loving, reliable, protective husband. You thanked the gods every day for making him yours.

Once naked, he knelt on the bed between your thighs, gently spreading them, finally revealing your pussy. Again, he took a deep breath. His thumb ran over your wet folds.

“You’re drooling for me.”

He lay down, bringing his face closer to your pussy and breathing it in. “Gods, I missed it.”

His tongue traced a stripe between your folds, up to your clit, making you whine. He looked up at you, adding “now, you’re gonna feed me.”

He dove between your thighs, eyes closed, your folds spread by his thumbs, burying his tongue in your core. Feasting, like he did each time he came back, but not only. From the wedding night, and all the others that followed, he had shown you how much he loved eating you out, pulling orgasm after orgasm, sometimes two in a row because he didn’t want to or couldn't stop.

“Acacius,” you whimpered while his nose was rubbing perfectly against your clit. As he had learned during all those years the way your body responded to him.

Back arched, hands lost in his curls, you moved in harmony with his mouth and his tongue, reaching for him, rolling your hips towards him. He pulled back for a few seconds to look at you, and smiled when you cried for his loss. His beard and mustache glistened with your slick and his pupils were dilated as if he had consumed opium to heal a wound. He leaned towards you again, pushing one thick finger between your folds and then sucking your clit. He quickly added a second digit when he heard your needy moans, and licked at your clit. Your hands moved from his curls to your breasts, then to the sheets, your fists clenching on them.

“I’m gonna come, I’m gonna come,” you whimpered, pelvis tilted towards him as far as possible, as if he wasn't already so close to you. The pleasure that was growing in your core finally exploded, hands and thighs holding his head against your cunt, not wanting him to stop. Docile, he kept licking and pumping you with his fingers, until you stopped clenching on them and released him.

He straightened up, crawling between your thighs, taking one nipple in his mouth, sucking on it like his life depended on it before moving on to the other, leaving them glistening with his saliva. Finally, lying between your thighs, he kissed you, his mouth and lips tasting like you.

“I want to taste you too, please,” you begged.

“Of course, my sweet girl. You don’t have to ask. I’m all yours.”

You kissed him before he rolled onto his back, and you straddled him. Covering his cheeks, lips, neck with kisses, then moving down to his torso, hands roaming over his skin. You took one of his nipples in your mouth, sucking, nibbling, licking, then the other, without taking your eyes off him. Admiring his beautiful face. You continued to move down, kissing his belly and hips, your breasts brushing his hard, oozing cock. You took his shaft in hand, and licked his balls, eyes still fixed on him, to see him drop his head back on the bed. “Gods..,” you heard him breathe. 

You smiled and left his balls to suck on his tip, lingering on it, giving you some time to get used to its width, to savor him in your mouth again. His precum flowed in your throat. He had been gone for so long that you were afraid you had forgotten the taste, but it was so familiar again now. Your head bobbing on his shaft, you wanted to make him feel good, wetness dripping from your cunt, moaning on his shaft, and you closed your eyes until you heard him growl louder. Then opened them to see his head raised towards you. One of his hands was placed on the back of your neck.

“You like it, General?” you asked playfully, then licked his shaft tongue flat.

“It’s divine.”

You crawled towards him, arousal dripping from your core after sucking him, you kissed his body again and then his lips, before murmuring “take me.”

His eyes darkened and in one movement he laid you down on the bed, under him. Pressing his cock to your entrance, this time he didn't wait, hands tight on your hips, he pushed his whole lenght into your cunt. His massive cock, so hard that you lost your breath. He never took his eyes off you, dark gaze lowered towards you, soft eyes forgotten in favor of a feral stare. He was possessive, claiming your body as he claimed cities during battles, like his body and mind needed it. Like you needed it too.

You tried to keep your eyes open, to look at him, leaning towards you, eyebrows furrowed, veins throbbing. But the relentless rhythm of his shaft spreading your walls made you forget where you were, leaving you moaning and repeating his name. You clung to his shoulders, telling him how much you loved to feel him again, how much you needed it. 

“Always taking me so well”, he growled, and you hummed with approval.

He slid his hand to the back of your neck, holding you close, his nose against your ear. He breathed you in, focused on your moans, eager to have all his senses filled with you, after months of being surrounded by dirt, screams and blood. 

He was home now, you were his home.

“Acacius,” you whined, his crotch rubbing perfectly where you needed it. 

“Come for me. Soak me.”

“Oh gods… Acacius… Acacius,” you whimpered, your orgasm rushing over you, making you pulse on his shaft, your clit throbbing against his skin.

“Just like that, squeezing me so hard… you were made for me,” he murmured, his breathing now ragged as his own pleasure rose.

“I’m… oh gods,” he said, just before cumming inside you, long spurts of cum painting your walls in white. You held him tighter against you, as he moaned in your ear. Your general of Rome, now the most vulnerable man in your arms.

His jolts finally stopped and he straightened up slightly, careful not to crush you under his weight. He covered your skin with kisses, from your neck to your lips, before rolling onto his side and welcoming you against his chest, arms wrapped around your bare body. Both of you waited for your breathings to calm down.

“I cherish it, you know,” you said, curled up against his chest.

“What do you cherish?” he asked, caressing your skin with his large, loving hands.

“Having you like this, in these moments. It always seems unreal to me, your softness and protectiveness towards me, knowing that you lead battles for Rome. Everyone who fought near you evokes your cold blood.”

He hugged you closer and kissed your forehead, brushing it for a moment with his moustache.

“I love you. I’m only myself when I’m home, with you.”

Thank you for reading 🙏

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[too-antigonish]

My Strange but Unified Theory of Exeunt

Last week I talked about the poem Horatio in a post about Morse and fathers and @astridcontramundum asked what I thought it meant in the context of Exeunt. Hopefully she won't be sorry she asked because here's my (as usual) long answer:

Horatio is quoted from twice in Exeunt. The first time, Prof. Fortescue is lecturing to his students at a tutorial and gives us the most famous lines:  

Then out spake brave Horatius, The Captain of the Gate:  "To every man upon this earth death cometh soon or late. And how can man die better Than facing fearful odds For the ashes of his fathers And the temples of his gods?"

The second time occurs just before Thursday’s has his “turn” in the same spot where Morse will many years later experience his own collapse. He says: ”’How well Horatius kept the bridge in the brave days of old.’ We'd a padre big on that out in the desert. Drumhead service just before Alamein. ‘And how can man die better than facing fearful odds?’ Always stuck with me.”

I think they used those lines to plainly tease the idea that Thursday was going to die. Prior to Exeunt airing, almost everyone thought Thursday would have to die in order to explain Morse’s never mentioning him again in the future. When Fortescue says those lines in the beginning, I think we’re supposed to think that someone—probably Thursday—is going to die heroically. Then Thursday repeats some of the poem—connecting it to his WWII service—just before he has his “spell” and it seems like more foreshadowing. 

The thing about the poem though, that most people *don’t* know, is that the big surprise at the end is that Horatio *doesn’t* die. It just looks like he will: Even when his companions have abandoned the bridge because it is on the verge of collapse, Horatius remains. He stays until bridge finally does fail, and then plunges into the river below with the full weight of his armor. It is certain death and both sides stand stunned into silence by his final sacrifice.

But then, both sides find themselves even more surprised when they see the crest of his helmet beginning to rise from the water and he slowly emerges, striding towards the Roman bank. He not only survives, but arrives home to a hero’s welcome and a long life.

All of the usual narrative pieces are in place for us to expect Thursday to make the ultimate sacrifice—to die. For me, Thursday—like Horatio—does sacrifice everything, but the poem was actually foreshadowing his survival, not his death. And for Thursday, his survival is in many ways a far more difficult sacrifice than death would have been. It would have been easier for him in so many ways if he had died in defense of Sam or even fighting Lott. Instead he has to live with the ambiguous and messy aftermath.

Morse could also be Horatio in the sense that he goes to Blenheim Vale facing a high probability of death. What were the chances that the bikers would “come through” for him? That Morse went expecting to be double-crossed and killed by Lott seems much more likely to me. But I do think that Morse, like Horatio, would reason that, “If you’re going to go, then there’s no better way than defending the things that are most important to you,” and so he goes anyway.

He survives too—but unlike Horatio, his heroism will always remain a secret *and* with his realization about Thursday’s guilt and Lott’s revelation about Tomahawk’s identity, it brings perhaps more sorrow than it does victory. And, I would argue that his survival is only temporary or perhaps partial.

The gunshot scene has many possible interpretations, but at its core, my (forever unprovable) theory is that it balances out the survival foreshadowed by Horatio. Horatio was all about the audience assuming that Thursday had to die. But along with that went the assumption that of course Endeavour had to live. This is a prequel after all.

But the gunshot scene said a big, loud, “No. We can kill off Endeavour if we want to and we will.” You can go back and forth until the cows come home about whether or not the scene was simply him contemplating death, actually going through with it, or absolutely, purely symbolic and imaginative. However, I don’t think you can honestly argue that the scene doesn’t somehow connect the concepts of  “Endeavour Morse,” “gun,” and “death” to each other. Somehow those concepts have to be included in any interpretation.

So this leads to my weird theory about Exeunt, which is that Russ Lewis heard everyone saying, “Well I don’t know what’s going to happen in the end, but of course we all know that Morse is going to live—so no suspense there. And Thursday, well, he has to die. I mean it’s the only way to explain why we never hear about him later.” And to this, Russ Lewis thought, “Ha! I’m going to do exactly the opposite. Thursday lives and Morse dies!” 

Am I right? I will never know. Do I have more thoughts on Exeunt? You really, really don't want to know just how many.

[verstappenf1lecccc]

All the Miles Between Us

Fernando Alonso x Wife!Reader -

A Life in Five Decades

hi babes this is my favourite work I’ve done I am absolutely sorry for the heartbreak hehe!!!

Youth (Ages 22–30)

Barcelona, 2005

You were scribbling notes in a corner of the paddock, trying to finish your article on tire degradation, when a shadow fell over your notebook.

“Do tires always get that much attention?” a Spanish accent teased.

You looked up, annoyed. “Only when the car’s too fast to blame anything else.”

Fernando grinned, lowering his sunglasses. “Ah. So you’re one of those journalists.”

“I’m not a journalist,” you replied. “Just an intern. So don’t waste your charm on me.”

“Too late,” he said, already leaning against the railing like he had all day. “What’s your name?”

“Why?”

“Because I’m going to need something to call you when I win on Sunday.”

You rolled your eyes but smirked. “We’ll see.”

He did win that Sunday. And when he stood on the top step of the podium, champagne in hand, he winked right at your press box.

The next morning, there was a single flower taped to your locker.

It was worth it. – Fernando

⸻

Paris, 2006

It wasn’t fast. You kept it slow. Careful.

You didn’t want to be another name in a long list of weekend flings. And to his credit, Fernando never once treated you like one.

He wrote to you. Real letters. Called when he could, texted when he couldn’t. You still remember one from Istanbul:

Today the car felt like shit but your voice felt like home. I miss you more than I miss sleep. Love you already, I think. Don’t tell me I said that.

⸻

Oviedo, 2007 – The First Fight

The first time you shouted at him was in the kitchen of his family’s house.

“You never stop,” you snapped, slamming a drawer shut. “You don’t eat, you don’t rest, and when you’re not on track you’re still thinking about it!”

“It’s my job!” he fired back. “It’s what I was born to do!”

“And what about us?” Your voice cracked. “Were you born to destroy this, too?”

Silence. Long and awful.

Then, softly, “Do you think I don’t love you?”

“I think you love racing more.”

He walked out that night.

Came back the next morning with a bruised heart and a bouquet of gardenias.

He knelt at your door. “I didn’t sleep. I can’t sleep if we’re not okay.”

You let him in. You always would.

⸻

The Proposal – Oviedo, 2009

It was winter. Snow dusted the rooftops. You’d spent the day trying to assemble Ikea furniture while he read instructions out loud in a horrible British accent.

“I swear I’ll propose before I figure this out,” he grumbled, upside down under a bookshelf.

“God help us both,” you muttered, laughing.

That night, you were in pajamas, wine in hand, fire crackling in the hearth. He looked over at you, completely unguarded.

“You want to marry me?” he asked suddenly, softly.

You blinked. “Is that a serious question?”

He got up, walked over, and slipped his grandmother’s gold chain into your palm. “This is all I have on me. But I swear I’ll give you everything else. Please. Say yes.”

You were already crying when you whispered, “Always, Fernando.”

⸻

The Wedding – Asturias, 2010

The ceremony was on a hill, the wind catching your veil like it had a life of its own. Fernando looked at you like he’d never seen the sun before.

Your vows were whispered but felt louder than any engine.

“I promise to never let you go to sleep angry,” you said.

“And I promise to make you laugh when you least want to,” he added.

You both cried during the first dance. He held your waist like you were made of something ancient and holy.

“You’re too good for me,” he murmured.

“No. I’m just the one who stayed.”

That night, you lay tangled in white sheets, his fingers tracing the lines on your collarbone.

“I’ll spend every day proving I deserve this,” he whispered. “Even the hard ones.”

⸻

The Miscarriage – Rome, 2011

You were nine weeks in. You hadn’t told him yet. You were going to surprise him in person bought a tiny onesie that said papa’s lucky charm and everything.

Then the cramps started. The blood came. And you knew.

You didn’t cry at first. Just stared at the ceiling while the world turned inside out.

When he called from the hotel, you said, “You should come home.”

He knew.

He arrived the next morning, eyes red from the flight, his jacket still smelling like rain.

You collapsed in his arms.

“I didn’t know how to tell you,” you sobbed. “And now it’s just gone.”

Fernando sank to his knees in front of you, pressing his forehead to your stomach.

“I already loved them,” he whispered. “Even if I never got to meet them.”

That night, he built a fire and held you close, rubbing your back while you shook with silent grief.

“We’ll try again,” he whispered. “When you’re ready. And even if it never happens, we’ll still have us. Always.”

You cried yourself to sleep with your hand over his heart.

⸻

Monaco Crash – 2013

You were watching live, laughing at a silly commentator’s remark when his car veered, slammed the barrier.

Your scream startled everyone in the room.

The headset fell from your ears. Your body moved before your brain could.

You were at the medical center before they could stop you, face pale and hands trembling.

He saw you through the glass, smiled weakly. “You’re more dramatic than the crash, mi vida.”

You shoved the curtain aside, tears in your eyes. “I thought you were dead, Fernando!”

He pulled you close, wincing. “Takes more than a wall to take me away from you.”

“Don’t joke,” you choked out.

“I’m not. I saw your face when they pulled me out… and all I thought was, ‘thank God, I’m still hers.’”

⸻

Final Moments of Youth – Austria, 2015

You were on a hiking trail, breathless from the altitude and the laughter. He had his arm around your shoulders, cheeks flushed.

“I think this is it,” he said, stopping to stare at the valley below.

“What?”

“The moment I stop chasing speed. I’m tired and for the first time, I think I want a slower life.”

You looked up at him, heart softening.

“You sure?”

He nodded. “I’ve been fast long enough. I want to learn how to be still with you.”

You kissed him. He kissed you back like he was anchoring himself to the ground.

⸻

The Middle Years (Ages 30–50)

⸻

Oviedo, 2016 — Slow Living Begins

Your house on the hill became a sanctuary. No roaring engines. No flights every weekend. Just wildflowers and books stacked in uneven towers.

Fernando gardened badly. You teased him relentlessly about the crooked tomato vines and his “tragically overwatered basil.”

“You’re just jealous my plants love me more,” he said with dirt on his cheeks, offering you a squashed-looking tomato like it was a diamond.

“You’re lucky you’re pretty,” you smirked.

He grinned. “So you do think I’m pretty.”

You rolled your eyes. “I married you, didn’t I?”

Evenings became your favorite time. You’d sit on the porch with mugs of tea, listening to the wind and letting your legs touch under the table.

“You know,” he said one night, his voice low, “this is the happiest I’ve ever been. No trophies. No pressure. Just you.”

You rested your head on his shoulder. “Then you finally understand what I’ve been trying to give you all these years.”

⸻

Barcelona, 2017 — The First Baby

The second time you got pregnant, you were terrified.

Fernando kissed your stomach every night like a prayer. “You’re not alone this time,” he whispered.

He went with you to every appointment. Held your hand when you cried during the heartbeat scan.

At twenty-three weeks, you woke him up at 3 a.m. in a panic.

“I had a dream the baby didn’t make it,” you whispered, voice shaking. “I felt so empty, Nando, I couldn’t breathe-”

He sat up immediately, pulling you into his lap.

“Feel this?” he said, placing your hand over your belly. “That’s life, cariño. And this…” He pressed your palm to his chest. “That’s love. I swear on both we’re going to be okay.”

Your daughter, Lucía, was born on a foggy autumn morning in October.

He cried so hard when he first held her you thought he might drop her.

“She’s got your nose,” he sobbed.

“And your stubborn brow,” you said, brushing her downy hair. “We’re doomed.”

⸻

Marbella, 2020 — The Second Baby & Pandemic Isolation

Your second child, Mateo, came during the quiet panic of the pandemic.

You gave birth wearing a mask. Fernando wasn’t allowed in the room for the first hour.

When he finally held him, he whispered, “You came into chaos and still brought peace.”

Those months were strange. Locked indoors with two small children, restless hands, and headlines full of dread.

One day you snapped, tears streaking your face after three straight nights without sleep.

“I don’t even know who I am anymore!” you yelled, cradling a crying Mateo while Lucía smeared crayon across the walls.

Fernando took the baby gently, whispered, “You’re the strongest person I know.”

“I’m falling apart.”

“So fall,” he said. “I’ll catch you.”

⸻

Oviedo, 2022 — The Cancer Scare

You found the lump in the shower. Firm. Small. But undeniably there.

You didn’t tell Fernando for a week. He was already overwhelmed his mother’s health was declining, the world still uncertain.

When you finally sat him down, you said it fast “I found something in my breast. I have a scan tomorrow.”

The way the color drained from his face nearly broke you.

He reached for you instantly, thumb trembling as he stroked your cheek. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“I didn’t want you to panic until I knew.”

“But you were already panicking,” he said softly. “Weren’t you?”

You nodded.

He pulled you into his chest and held you for so long you lost track of time. The night felt like a never-ending breath you couldn’t release.

At the hospital, his grip never left yours. The waiting room. The ultrasound. The biopsy. Each click of the machine felt like thunder.

When the doctor finally said it was benign a fibroadenoma, not cancer Fernando laughed and cried at the same time. His head bowed in relief, tears soaking into your shirt.

That night, he held your scarred breast in his hands and kissed it.

“This body… it’s given me everything,” he whispered. “You. Our children. Our life. I’ll never take a single piece of it for granted again.”

You wept into the crook of his neck. The way he looked at you never changed. Not through aging. Not through scars. Not through fear.

Only deeper. Only fuller. Only more.

⸻

Asturias, 2023 — Losing Your Father

He died suddenly. A heart attack in his sleep.

Fernando drove you six hours overnight so you could say goodbye at dawn.

At the funeral, you didn’t speak for three days.

He cooked for you, sat beside you without pushing, held your hand even when you wouldn’t meet his eyes.

On the third night, you finally spoke.

“I didn’t even say ‘I love you’ the last time we spoke. I told him I was too busy to call.”

Fernando pulled you close, your grief soaking into his shirt.

“You were busy. Loving me. Raising our kids. Being the person he was so proud of.”

You sobbed into his chest, the pain blooming like wildfire.

He stayed up with you all night, listening to stories about your dad. Never said a word. Just listened.

⸻

Oviedo, 2028 — The Anniversary

Lucía was fourteen. Mateo was eleven. Your house was loud with hormones and burnt toast.

You’d forgotten it was your anniversary until you came home and found the entire garden lit with string lights, your favorite dinner steaming on the table.

Fernando stood in a button-up shirt that didn’t match his pants, holding a wrinkled card.

“I panicked. The kids helped. Lucía picked the flowers. Mateo made dessert so eat at your own risk.”

You laughed until you cried.

Over dinner, you held his hand and whispered, “You’re still my favorite thing in the world.”

He kissed your knuckles. “I’ve had so many lives… but the only one I ever wanted was the one where I’m yours.”

⸻

The End (Ages 50–70)

⸻

Oviedo, 2040 — The Quiet Years

The house grew quieter with each passing year. Lucía left for university first,political science, all fire and fight like her father. Mateo followed soon after, gentler, more like you, always calling just to hear your voice.

You and Fernando got used to cooking for two. Walking the same forest path behind the house each morning. Picking out tomatoes at the market like it was a grand adventure. Reading in bed with your feet tangled together under the blanket.

“This is the good part,” you whispered one morning, watching the sun spill golden over his lined face. “No rush. No races. Just you.”

Fernando chuckled. “I liked winning. But this—” He reached to brush your hair back. “This is better.”

⸻

Barcelona, 2046 — The Diagnosis

It started with fatigue.

You thought it was just age. Then the headaches came. The weight loss. The vision blurs.

They found the tumor in June. Glioblastoma. Terminal.

You were fifty-nine.

You waited until you knew for sure before you told Fernando. You practiced the words in the mirror a hundred times. Still, nothing prepared you for the way he crumpled in the hospital hallway, clutching the edge of a plastic chair like it might save him.

“No,” he said. “No, no, no don’t say it. We still have time. We always have time.”

You held his face and made him look at you. “We have time to love, Nando. But not forever. And that’s okay.”

“It’s not,” he sobbed, voice breaking. “It’s not okay.”

You kissed him. “We were never promised forever. But we earned every second.”

⸻

Oviedo, 2047 — Preparing for Goodbye

The house changed again.

He moved the bed to the sunroom so you could see the trees sway while you rested. He played your favorite records on quiet mornings Piano Concerto No. 2, Springsteen, Fleetwood Mac. You talked about everything and nothing.

You asked him to write to you again. Like he did when you were twenty.

He filled six notebooks.

“I never knew how much I still had to say to you,” he whispered one day, holding your hand like it was made of porcelain. “Even now.”

You cried together, often. But you also laughed about how bad his cooking still was, how Lucía inherited your temper, how Mateo cried at commercials.

You made him promise something, one night when the pain was bad.

“When it’s time… I want one last dance,” you said, voice raw but soft. “Just you and me. Like before.”

“Of course,” he whispered, pressing his lips to your knuckles. “Name the song, mi amor.”

You smiled. “Infinity Jaymes Young.”

His voice caught. “That’s our song.”

“It always was.”

⸻

October, 2048 — The Final Dance

You knew it was time. The doctors said days, maybe a week. You didn’t want machines. You just wanted your family.

Lucía and Mateo flew in. They curled beside you in bed like they were little again. Fernando never left your side. Not once.

On a soft October evening, with the windows open and golden light pouring in, he helped you out of bed. Your body trembled. He held you up.

And then he played the song.

“Baby this love I’ll never let it die…”

You danced.

Slow. Barely moving. His arms around you. Your head on his shoulder. Your breath shallow.

“You gave me the best life,” you whispered against his neck. “I wouldn’t trade a second.”

He cried freely, holding you tighter. “I’m not ready. I’ll never be ready.”

You smiled, even through the tears. “I’ll wait for you. Wherever the next place is, I’ll be there.”

“Promise?”

You kissed his lips. “I promise.”

⸻

A Week Later

You passed away in your sleep, in the home you built together.

Fernando stayed beside you until the sun rose. He kissed your forehead and whispered the last words you ever said to him: “I’ll wait for you.”

⸻

Years Later — After You Were Gone

He kept your books on the shelf.

Still made tea for two, sometimes forgetting.

Still wrote you letters even when there was no one to read them.

Your children came often. Brought your grandkids. Told stories you’d once told them.

Lucía once asked him, “Do you still miss her, after all these years?”

He smiled, eyes soft with memory. “Every day. But I know she’s just ahead of me. Not gone. Just waiting.”

⸻

The Reunion

There’s a dream Fernando has often.

He’s young again. You’re waiting for him beneath a streetlamp in Florence, wearing the dress you wore the night you told him you loved him for the first time.

Music floats in from an open café window. He reaches for your hand.

“Dance with me?” he asks.

You smile.

“Always.”

And you do.

Dancing with him forever

[irrelevantwriter]

His Wife, Her Power

Pairing: Emperor Geta (Gladiator 2) x Female Reader/You

Warnings: NSFW, Ancient Rome type shit, vaginal fingering, unprotected vaginal sex, mentions of bodily fluids, power couple tings

Word Count: 3242

Summary: Part 2. The Emperor of Rome learns just who he chose to be his queen.

A/N: Part two is upon us. And its gonna get nasty. Again, I took major liberties with Ancient Rome. Let’s pretend okay. There also might be a part three 👀 Feedback is that good shit.💗

*Read Part One here

*Masterlist

***********************

You released a breath, feeling the last of your hair being freed from the confines of their pins. Your maiden brushed through your hair gently, nearly lulling you to sleep. Lavender emanated from your skin, making the temptation of slumber all the more intense.

“Your highness, the Emperor has called for you,” she whispered, setting the ivory comb aside. 

You nodded, a kind smile aimed her way. “Thank you. I’ll be along shortly,” you gently dismissed, not wanting to be followed. 

She understood. 

You took a moment to gather yourself in the solitude of your own chambers. You thought back on the day and the events that led you here. It’d started as any other and now you were possibly facing a fate much worse than death. 

Geta had been infuriated at you. He did not wish to eat dinner with you nor bathe with you. You hadn’t seen him since he’d threatened a night of merciless tyranny. 

Your husband, while sadistic at times, was simply a man. He did not want for much when it came to a wife. But you…you yearned for so much more. More than him crawling atop you. More than the uncoordinated coitus you’d grown accustomed to. And despite your husband’s misgivings, you did love him. You did lust for him. 

But he had barely scratched the surface of just what kind of woman he’d married. 

A knock from outside your door let you know a guard was waiting to escort you. You glanced down at your attire, pleased with the color choice. A robe of red and gold, similar to that of your husband’s, adorned your frame. It concealed what lay underneath. A sheer stola, the shade similar to the deepest scarlet rose you’d ever seen. One that lay in the gardens just beyond your chambers. 

Your sandals padded softly along the marble floors, soft echoes following you. A guard was placed at your front and back. At first glance, it looked to be for your protection. But something told you otherwise.

The journey to your husband’s quarters was long. Unnecessarily so. Once you’d made it to the entrance of his chambers, the guard at your front knocked on the door. It opened, revealing the Emperor’s own maiden. She smiled, eyes downcast and not meeting your own as she greeted you.

“Your highness, the Emperor is waiting.” 

She stepped aside, letting you through. You thanked her, holding your robe together as she left, the door closing in a muted thud. 

Soft light glowed throughout the room from several candles. A tray of fruits and meats sat near goblets of wine. By the looks of it, your husband had already helped himself. 

“You seem nervous.”

His voice startled you. He made himself known when he stepped out of the darkness of the night, sheer curtains blowing in the gentle breeze of his balcony. 

He wore a robe that nearly matched yours though his was much more intricate and regal. 

“If I appear nervous it is only because I wish to please my emperor,” you said with a bow of your head. 

Geta scoffed. 

“Placations will not get you far here, my love.”

He reached for you, beckoning your forward. You took his hand, letting him lead you. He bypassed the food and poured you a hearty glass of wine, maroon droplets sloshing over the side as he did so. 

“Here. You’ll need it.”

You took the drink, bringing it to your lips. You sipped, the pungent taste of grapes making you feel warm already. 

“My, my…someone is in a hurry,” Geta teased, his own glass poised in the air as if to make a toast. 

You belatedly realized he’d meant to toast with you. Humiliation crept its way up your spine. 

“I’m sorry, Augustus,” you softly offered, licking the excess wine off your lips. 

“It’s alright. I’d say that’s the least of your discretions, wouldn’t you?” 

He smiled and you couldn’t tell if he was speaking in jest or just waiting for the right moment to strike. 

You watched as he took a long pull from his glass, swallowing nearly all of its contents. A wayward drop made its journey down the hill of his Adam’s apple and over his exposed chest. Your stare was unabashed. He took notice. 

He looked at you for a long moment and it nearly made you uncomfortable. You took another sip from your wine, feeling that fuzzy sensation start to move through your limbs. 

“You, my wife,” he started, placing his cup on the table, “are truly a stunning sight. Do you know that?”

You smiled, eyes aimed down at the rare emotion in your husband’s voice. 

“You don’t believe me?” 

You placed your glass down, shaking your head. “Of course I do, Augustus.”

“You know all of Rome has you in their hearts. Their Emperor as well. A slave to you. And you dare to seem coy when I remark upon your beauty?”

He was teasing you. 

“A true lady of Rome knows of her beauty. But she never lets others know. That is her strength,” you replied, meeting the slow burn beginning to take shape in his eyes.

Geta smiled. A hint of pride in his face at your words. 

“Ah, there she is. What did you call yourself earlier?” He mimed as if he was thinking, a ringless hand lifted to his chin. “Oh yes! A jungle cat. My jungle cat.” 

His features shifted then. His shoulders squared. His chin up and pointed down at you. An Emperor coming to life. 

“You were quite the spectacle today, wife. A rarity even for you,” he remarked as he slowly started to circle you. 

“Forgive me, husband. I was speaking out of turn. That is my error.”

You flinched when his hand weaved itself into your loosened tresses. He played with the ends, his chest nearly touching your back. 

“While I appreciate the gesture, I much prefer your talk of freedom and sorcery.”

He moved to stand in front of you again, any traces of anger or irritation erased. 

“I thought of your words for the remainder of the day. And I have to admit,” he paused, eyes lasciviously roaming across your figure. “I am intrigued.” 

You felt your nipples pebble beneath your clothing at the way he was taking you in. He looked starved. A wild animal ready to pounce. It made the heartbeat centered in your chest travel downwards. It stopped between your legs. 

“I am not a sorceress,” you attested, squaring your own shoulders when he laughed. 

“Some say you are. Displayed by the way the people adore you. The way your Emperor does.”

He stepped closer, hands reaching for the opening of your robe that lay at your breasts. 

“I only love who I have a duty to love. There is no crime in that.”

Geta cupped your cheek, tutting down at you. “Of course not, my love. But I want to see what lies beyond that duty.” 

He pushed your robe off your shoulders, revealing your barely hidden form beneath it. The fabric fell to your feet, leaving your arms naked. A breeze kicked up, making your nipples even more prominent against the sheer fabric. 

Geta took you in slowly, the flames of his gaze heating the chill of the night. 

“I want you to give yourself to me. Freely. It is your turn to take, my love. You have my explicit permission.”

A thunderous wave accompanied the heartbeat between your thighs at your husband’s words. His hands made a home at your hips. His lips, at your allowance, pressed gently into yours. And it was you, drunk on the power wielded over to you, that opened your mouth to welcome him in. 

Your tongues danced together as one, the taste of wine evident. He grasped at the fabric concealing you and grunted against your lips. You pushed his own robe from his shoulders, baring him to your eager eyes. He was no Roman soldier, but he was built sturdy as any god carved from marble. 

“Let me touch you,” he pleaded, the words sounding like a symphony to your ears. You nodded, allowing him to undo the knot at your shoulder. 

Your own hands reached for the knot at his waist, the only piece of clothing he wore to cover his modesty. You’d never initiated such a thing. Geta buried himself into your neck at the action. 

Within seconds, you were both bare. His hands tangled in your hair while yours tugged at his. He tasted the column of your neck, moaning when he tasted something sweet. Honey. 

“I wish to show you something,” you breathed, pulling him from your chest. 

He nodded, eyes unfocused as he tried hard to listen to your words.

You led him to his own bed, releasing him so that you could lay back. You were on display for him. Curves highlighted by candlelight. Your hair was fanned around you, creating a halo. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think your husband was worshipping a goddess at her altar. He looked like a man lost in the desert, gazing upon you as if all hope was centered between your thighs. 

For him, it was.

You took him in. Unruly curls, wild eyes, and a cock as hard as the stone columns you resided in. He panted as if he’d run a mile to get to you. Sweat glistening off his pale skin. He was his own sight to behold. 

“Do you know, my Emperor, that I cast a hand upon myself at night? Without you?”

Geta’s eyes hurriedly found yours at your words, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. 

To demonstrate your point, you caressed yourself, soft stomach tightening as you traced delicate shapes into the flesh. He followed your movements, entranced. 

“Not possible,” he mumbled. 

“Why not?”

“It is a man’s duty for pleasure. Not a woman’s.”

You giggled at his ineptitude. 

“Oh, on the contrary…,” you cooed, your hand slowly making its way down your body. You passed over the curls nestled at the apex of your thighs and instead dipped a shallow finger beyond your folds. A soft gasp fell from your lips, your eyes closing briefly. An ocean of need sat beyond your walls. Wet and waiting. 

“You have aroused yourself?” He asked, somehow looking amazed and stupefied at the same time. 

You saw his cock twitch. 

“At times, yes,” you answered with a gasp, your finger catching the hidden source of pleasure just above your folds. 

“And you seek pleasure on your own? Without me?” 

He was not displeased as you’d anticipated. He was curious, hand reaching for himself. You watched as he squeezed the base, surely staving off the same unquenchable need you felt. 

“I do,” you admitted, finally plunging a finger into your depths. Your palm brushed the outside of your folds as you did, sending lighting bolts of ecstasy through your veins. 

“I want to see,” Geta demanded, one hand still holding himself. 

You acquiesced and spread your legs, letting his eyes feast upon you properly. One hand worked another finger in while the other cupped your breast, gently tugging at your nipple. 

You moaned at the feeling, nearly forgetting your husband was witness to such a wanton display. 

“Do you wish to touch me?” 

Geta nodded, swallowing as he joined you on the bed. You reached for his hand, putting a digit to your lips and lathering it in saliva. He watched in rapt fascination as you led him to your core. His hands were hardly calloused, but still rougher and bigger than your own. One of his fingers felt like two of yours, the stretch utterly blissful. 

“You’ve drenched your thighs,” he observed, taking a moment to see just how wet you were. You let him do as he wished, giving yourself over to his touch. 

He teased your entrance, using your arousal to coat himself. When he used his fingers to spread you, you trapped his hands between your thighs, the emptiness you felt too overpowering. 

“Please touch me, Augustus. Fill me,” you begged, your voice sounding foreign to your own ears. 

He dutifully did as you requested, slipping two fingers inside. You arched your back, inching closer to his charitable touch. 

“You are mesmerizing,” he rasped, feeling your inner walls tighten around him. 

“Curl your fingers. Inside.” You gripped the bedding beneath you as he slowly pushed in and out, taking your instruction. Stars filled your vision as he did so. 

You were on the cusp of coming undone and without thinking, you joined his hand, manipulating his thumb so that he brushed against your delicate bundle of nerves. On the fourth pass, your body tightened and bursts of white light appeared behind your eyes. That feeling that you’d never found with him, but always with yourself had descended upon you. And just like every occasion before, you soared. 

Your chest heaved as you floated back down, Geta’s touch still strong against you. You whimpered and gently pushed him away, the sensitivity too much. You watched as he looked at his hand, coated in you. He rubbed two fingers together, the digits never meeting. There was too much of you for him to feel his own touch. 

“That is what a woman giving herself to you looks like, my husband,” you said with a satisfied smile, nodding to his hand. 

Geta looked down at you, searing your skin. His cock was still hard and now dripping with its own need. He used his hand, the one coated in your essence, and began soothing his own ache. His bicep tightened, his stomach taut as he peered down at you, sprawled out and lust drunk. 

“I have never met another like you,” he panted, eyes rolling when he paid special attention to the head. “You may not be a sorceress, my dear…but magic is what surely lays beyond your depths.”

You smiled up at him, seeing his chest flush red. You leaned up on your elbows, reaching a hand out to stop him. He did so reluctantly.

“Kiss me.”

He met you in the middle, arms holding himself up as his cock brushed your stomach. He kissed you hungrily and with desperation, hissing when your hand encircled him. His forehead came to rest against yours, completely overtaken by your touch.

“If you want to believe it is a spell between my thighs that has you prisoner, then so be it,” you whispered against his lips. 

He grunted when you stopped, the delay of gratification beginning to frustrate him. Before he could complain, you pushed against his chest, signaling that you wanted him beneath you. He’d never had you in this position and you could see him questioning such a request. 

“Let me show you, my love. Let me show you what having me means.”

Without another word, he did as you asked. 

He sat propped against feathered pillows as you straddled him. His eyes immediately went to your breasts. He feasted on them, pawing and nibbling every inch of honeyed skin. You held him to you, feeling his hips brushing up to meet yours. When he grazed your opening, you both moaned. 

You reached between your bodies and steadied him, forcing him to meet your gaze. You placed him at your entrance, sensuously lathering him in you. And as slowly as you could manage, you began to ease him inside. His arms instantly encircled you, fingers digging into the flesh at your hips. You did the same, hugging him to you as you became one. It was not the first time, but it would feel that way for many reasons.

“Gods, that feels…divine,” he exhaled, his lips brushing the tops of your breasts. 

“Like this…it feels like you're in the very depths of my soul,” you confessed, shifting your hips ever so slightly. The movement caused you both to draw in a breath. “Only you’ve been here, my love.”

Geta hummed in approval, thrusting his hips upwards. You gasped, your own hips beginning to find a rhythm atop him. 

“Are you certain? You speak of this pleasure as if you’ve had it with another.”

You threw your head back when a particularly sharp thrust made you see stars. Geta gripped your hair, forcing you to meet his gaze. 

“I haven’t,” you assured him, burrowing into his neck. “It’s only been you. You are the only one to see me this way. Explore me so deeply.” He made it a point to seat himself deeper at your words, making you lose your breath. You sought out his lips in return. “You are the only one to fill me with seed.”

He kissed you. It was bruising and matched the speed of his hips below you. You held on tight, feeling him draw pleasure from you unlike anything you’d ever felt before. 

His hands held your hips, keeping you in your place above him. He watched you fall apart with every rock of his hips. When he could see tears mount in your eyes, he felt for the spot you’d shown him just above where he was sheathed in you. 

His fingers fumbled, unfamiliar with how to touch you. But the moment you tightened and gasped around him, he knew he’d found it. 

Your nails dug into his back, his own hands claiming their place on your backside. Euphoria mounted at the highest hill and you could feel yourself getting ready to fall down it. Moisture collected in your eyes, the feeling of it all too much. 

“You are mine. You belong to me. To Rome. And you are mine to tame,” Geta growled, pulling your chin down so that you faced him. 

“Yes, yes…I’m yours. All yours,” you deliriously agreed. 

He nipped at your lips, hips still fucking up into you. “Such a good wife.”

Ironically, his words were your undoing. You began to fall, careening through the heavens as your entire body tensed with ecstasy. You couldn’t make out what was real and what was not as wave after wave dragged you under. The only thing you could be sure of was your husband’s voice as he fell alongside you. Together. 

A warmth spread through you as your mind returned to your body. You were utterly satiated, barely able to keep yourself upright. Geta did so, leaning into you as the last of his seed painted your walls. You welcomed it, opening your hips up further to take all that he had to give. 

Like a good wife.

When enough time passed and the breeze of the night made itself known again, you shifted your hips, meaning to retreat. Geta stopped you. 

“Stay. Like this. Just for a little bit,” he commanded. 

You did as he said, not in a rush to part from him. 

This was out of the norm for you both, but it was welcomed. You caressed the muscles in his back. He let his hands dip along your waist and hips. Sweat and your releases bound you together as the candles melted down. 

“You do not know of the power you possess, my love,” Geta softly confessed, his lips placing barely there kisses along your neck. 

You met his eyes, staring down at the cooling depths of mahogany. You cupped his cheek, feeling the beginning roughness of an unshaven face. 

“I do, my Emperor. A true lady of Rome knows she holds all the power.” 

Part Three

[rxqueenotd]

PART VII

In the Roman world, damnatio memoriae was used to describe a range of actions taken against former leaders and their reputations. These actions included: defacing visual depictions, removing heads from public statues, chiseling names off inscriptions, and destroying coins.

summary: reader, who goes by Prima, was raised by a powerful Roman consul, under the reign of Imperator Septimius Severus. When it comes time for his eldest son, Caracalla, to marry again, a chain of events is set off, changing the course of Prima's life and the lives around her.

warnings: mentions of death, cremation, animal sacrifice, sexual themes, mentions of menstruation, Ancient Rome as a warning itself, see previous tags.

notes: are you guys still with me? I feel like this fic has taken a serious turn since the first few chapters and I need to check in. We good? I love your comments and thoughts. Thanks to @trashmouth-richie for being my beta and brotha.

They burned him as the sun began to fall—when the light turned gold and shadows stretched long across the Field of Mars.

You wore black, no trim or embroidery. No crown, no imperial mantle. A single bronze pin fastened the cloak at your shoulder. Your hair, unbound, fell down your back, and the only piece of jewelry you wore was a necklace from Julia Domna’s collection, a gift from Septimius himself.

You stood apart, just behind the temple steps, the air thick with oil and ash, the scent of it curling into your throat like a hand. The pyre rose above the crowd, layered in cedar and wrapped in purple, gold, and blood—the appropriate splendor for a god who had ruled with iron in his veins. His armor rested atop the body. His standard behind him. Two eagles were caged beside the pyre, silent.

When the hour came, it was the sons who approached the pyre. Together.

Geta reached first, laying the coin between the folds of linen near the mouth—his hand steady, his face unreadable. He bowed his head once. Not out of respect. Out of finality. There was no crack in his composure, no flicker of pain for the crowd to see. Only silence, held tightly in his jaw.

Caracalla stood beside him, torch in hand, the flame crackling low and blue. Another was handed to Geta. The moment was brief, unscripted, the air taut between them.

They lit the pyre together.

One from the left. One from the right.

The fire caught immediately, racing through the cedar and oil-soaked silk, roaring into the early dusk. The priests behind them began their chants. The crowd pressed closer, held back only by the Praetorian line.

Caracalla turned first, handing the torch off, and walked to where you stood. He said nothing. He stood beside you—not ahead, not behind—and let his shoulder rest against yours, his jaw clenched, his face unreadable. You didn’t look at him. But when his hand reached out beneath his robes, fingers finding yours where they rested at your side, you let him hold it.

No one saw.

When the pyre bloomed, the first crackle of it was swallowed by silence. The flames leapt higher than the temple roof. The smoke curled black against the sky.

Caracalla did not blink.

He watched his father burn with a stillness so complete it made the senators uneasy. No tears. No words. No gesture of farewell. Only the tightening of his grip around your hand and the sharpness of his jaw as the fire grew.

You said nothing.

Your veil shifted slightly in the wind, the scent of burning flesh brushing against your cheek. You did not turn from the smoke.

Geta stood unmoving, his arms folded across his chest, eyes fixed forward. He did not blink when the armor collapsed inward. He did not bow when the eagle rose. He stayed rigid, statuesque.

When the eagles were released—one into the smoke, the other a second later to chase it—the people roared. The priests chanted. The augurs lifted their hands toward the sky as if they might catch whatever was left of him in their fingers.

And still, Caracalla did not let go.

By the second day, the ashes had cooled. The marble urn had been sealed. The emperor had joined the gods.

____________________________________________________________________________

The Curia was quieter than usual, as if the walls themselves had gone still after the funeral.

You stood above, behind the patterned screen near the high arch where only shadows reached. You weren’t there to be seen. You were there to listen, and to be remembered later, by those who thought back on this moment and realized they should have paid more attention.

Caracalla entered last.

He wasn’t in mourning black anymore. The color had left him as quickly as it came. He wore a dark crimson cloak over a new tunic, the wool heavy across his shoulders, the hem weighted with fine gold thread. He had come dressed to be watched.

The senators stood when he did.

But he didn’t wait for the usual formalities. No invocation. No blessing. No opening words from a priest or steward.

“I leave for Germania within the week,” he said.

It came sharp and clean, like a spear thrown into silence.

“The Chatti have crossed further south. Patrols have vanished near the Rhine. A trader caravan was found with no heads. I’ve read every report from Mogontiacum to Argentoratum and none of them end with peace.”

He walked slowly as he spoke, letting the weight of his words build the room around him. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

“The legions need command. Not from men who sit and talk in halls like this, imploring no direct action. They need to see Rome in the flesh. They need to know their emperor still bleeds.”

He reached the center of the chamber and turned to face them fully, the hem of his cloak swaying slightly behind him.

“When I return,” he said, “there will be no more questions. No more divided loyalties. No more wondering which son was meant to lead. There will be no space left for guessing. Rome cannot belong to two men. And I will not let her.”

He didn’t speak Geta’s name. But he didn’t need to. Not when every man in the room had just imagined the same ending.

____________________________________________________________________________

He came to you at dusk.

The light outside had already begun to fade, soft and silver, the kind that didn’t cast shadows so much as it softened them. You stood near the window, one hand resting lightly against the marble, your other arm tucked close to your ribs.

The door opened without warning.

He didn’t knock. He never did.

You didn’t turn at first. You heard the sound of his sandals against the stone, then nothing. When you finally looked, he was standing just inside the threshold, his hand still resting on the frame behind him.

He was still wearing the clothes from the Senate. The red cloak had come unpinned and hung lopsided over one shoulder, the edge of it trailing low near his calf. The tunic beneath it was creased now, his hair slightly damp where it curled at the back of his neck. He hadn’t stopped to change. Hadn’t stopped to eat. He watched you like a man who had already run through the conversation a dozen different ways in his head and hadn’t liked any of them.

For a moment, he said nothing.

“You haven’t bled.”

Not a question. Just something pulled straight from the center of him, from deep in his gut. Not the way he had asked before, this was easier. More delicate.

You didn’t pretend not to understand.

“No,” you said. Your voice didn’t waver.

He stepped closer. Slowly. Like you might vanish if he came too fast.

“Not since Baiae?”

You gave one small shake of your head. “Not since before.”

His eyes dropped to your waist.

You felt the weight of it, the way he studied the line of your body—not with hunger, not with desire, but with calculation. With need.

“I don’t feel any different,” you said, before he could speak again. “No changes. No signs.”

His hands twitched at his sides but didn’t lift.

“It would explain everything,” he said, quieter now. “Why you look at me like that. Why you’re quiet. You’re carrying my heir.”

Your spine straightened at that.

You turned fully, your hand dropping from the window.

“How I look at you?” you asked. Your voice didn’t rise, but something under it changed. “What are you talking about?”

He blinked once.

“I look at you no differently than I ever have,” you said, and now you took a step toward him. “And I’m quiet because I have nothing to say.”

Something flickered behind his eyes, something almost wounded, but he swallowed it down before it could show on his face.

“You’re different,” he said. “You’ve been different since we returned.”

You tilted your head. “Your father is dead. Do you expect me to laugh in the halls?”

He didn’t answer that.

Instead, he took one more step forward and lifted a hand, like he might reach for your arm, then let it fall again before he touched you.

“If it’s true…” he said, almost to himself. “If there’s a child…”

His voice dropped further, more thought than speech.

“It changes everything.”

You didn’t flinch.

“It doesn’t change me.”

He looked at you then—not like an emperor, not like a husband, not even like a man—but like someone trying to see through the fog of something he didn’t understand. And couldn’t control.

“I need to be sure,” he said. “I can’t go north not knowing. I need to know what the gods have seen.”

And then, before you could say another word, he turned and left.

Not to rage. Not to curse. Not to demand.

But to find the augurs.

To ask men who watched birds and smoke to tell him what you wouldn’t. To search for omens where no truth lived. Because deep down, even he didn’t trust what was real. Only what could be interpreted.

____________________________________________________________________________

The augurs came just as the sun had set.

Not to the palace, but to the eastern field outside the city wall, where the air was quiet and the sky could be seen without interruption. A square had been marked in the earth ahead of time. Ropes stretched at the edges. Incense was already burning to keep the smell of blood from hanging too long once the sacrifice began.

Caracalla arrived alone, on foot. He didn’t speak to anyone.

The god named aloud was Jupiter. But other gods were called, too—Mars, for battle. Janus, for a clear path. Silvanus, in case the signs came from the ground instead of the sky. They didn’t say those names loudly. But they were there.

The bull chosen was young, black, without flaw. Its eyes were steady. Its hooves were clean. When Caracalla laid his hand between its eyes, it didn’t pull away.

The priest gave the signal.

The cut was fast, but not clean. The animal dropped slowly. It groaned once before its legs gave out and the blood hit the dirt. That sound made the priest’s face tighten.

He said nothing.

The entrails were pulled carefully from the body. The liver had a dark mark on the left side. The heart looked swollen. The priest leaned closer to study it, then stepped back without giving a word.

A second man, the augur, stepped forward and raised his curved staff. He didn’t speak right away. He tilted his head to the sky.

A young boy opened a wicker cage and released three birds. One flew straight west. One circled above the square, then vanished. The third flew east, dropped low, then rose again and went north.

When the augur finally spoke, he didn’t rush.

“There is strength,” he said. “But also pressure. Something unknown. Something beneath the surface.”

Caracalla didn’t move.

“It’s not a curse,” the augur added. “But it’s not clean.”

He looked at the sky again before saying more. “One bird flew east. One flew north. The third didn’t fly far enough to be counted.”

Caracalla’s voice came low and even.

“What did they see?”

The augur didn’t meet his eyes.

“A lion stands in the shadow of Mars. There is no cub. Not yet.”

____________________________________________________________________________

He didn’t go back to his chambers after leaving the augurs.

He walked the long inner corridor instead, the one past the council rooms and the wall where the carved map of the empire still showed provinces they hadn’t held in years. The guards at the arch stood aside without needing a signal. They had seen that look on his face before—the one that meant he didn’t want anyone following. He turned into the corridor that led to his study, the one just off the inner courtyard, not far from the formal receiving hall, close enough to power that it stayed warm with movement, but private enough that no one entered without reason.

The door was half-shut when he reached it.

He paused—not because he expected anything strange, but because the light coming from under the door was softer than usual. No clerks. No rustling. Just the low glow of oil behind carved cedar and the faint sound of something moving quietly inside.

When he stepped inside, the first thing he saw was you.

You were seated beneath the narrow window, not at his desk, not where you would have had to explain yourself, but in the corner—on the stone bench against the wall, knees drawn slightly beneath your stola, a tablet balanced on your lap. Your fingers moved over the wax with quiet precision. You weren’t writing quickly, but you weren’t wasting time either. You looked like someone trying to get something down before it vanished.

You didn’t notice him at first.

The door closed behind him with a soft sound, not loud enough to startle but enough to break the rhythm. Your eyes lifted immediately. You didn’t stand. You didn’t hide the tablet with panic. You moved like someone who had already rehearsed this moment in your head and knew exactly how long it would take to tuck the stylus away, fold the cloth over your knees, and slide the writing beneath your arm as if it were nothing at all.

He didn’t speak.

He looked at you, and then at the small lamp beside you, and then back again.

“I didn’t think you came here,” he said finally.

“I don’t,” you said, standing slowly. “I needed quiet.”

He nodded once, stepped deeper into the room, and let the space settle around him. He didn’t sit. He didn’t ask what you were writing. His gaze lingered on the place where your hand had moved, but he didn’t press it.

“I saw the augurs,” he said.

You didn’t respond. You didn’t have to. You waited.

“They burned the bull,” he continued, slower now, the words coming like someone still deciding whether they were worth saying out loud. “The signs were mixed. The liver wasn’t clean, the heart swollen. The birds flew in different directions.”

Still, you said nothing.

“They told me there is strength in my house,” he said. “But something hidden. Something coming. A lion under Mars. No cub.”

He looked at you then.

“I asked if it was a curse. They said no.”

You didn’t look away. You didn’t ask what he believed. You didn’t ask what he wanted.

He took a breath.

“I think I needed them to tell me something I could hold on to.”

You didn’t speak.

And still, somehow, he knew you understood.

____________________________________________________________________________

You didn’t expect him to follow you.

When you left his study, you assumed it was over—that he’d said what needed saying and would return to whatever preparations still demanded his attention. The army would move soon. There were generals to summon. Roads to clear. Scribes to instruct. You thought you’d walk the long way back to your chambers, maybe have Cassia bring something light, eat alone.

But he followed.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t try to walk beside you. He stayed a step behind, quiet, not looming, just there.

You didn’t stop him.

When you reached the door to your rooms, you paused—not to wait, just to see if he would keep walking. But he didn’t. And when you stepped inside, he followed again.

The table had already been set.

Cassia had left without comment after lighting the lamps—two plates, a covered dish of barley and roasted dates, figs, cheese, a bowl of wine watered just enough to dull the edge. The bread was still warm. The steam hadn’t settled yet.

You turned slightly, watching him as he moved further into the room. He didn’t ask if he was welcome. He didn’t announce he would stay. He simply removed his cloak, folded it once, and laid it across the back of the nearest chair.

Then he sat.

No command. No tension. Just a man choosing, for reasons he didn’t explain, to stay where you were.

You sat across from him. The meal was quiet. Not cold. Not strained. Just quiet.

He ate slowly, chewing each bite like he was paying attention for once. The only sound was the soft movement of fingers against bread, the clink of pottery, the occasional shift of his hand as he reached for another fig.

You didn’t speak until halfway through, and even then it was only, “The cheese is better than last week.”

He looked up, not sharply, but like he hadn’t expected anything out of your mouth that wasn’t measured. His eyes flicked to the plate, then to yours.

“It’s from my mother’s estate,” he said. Then, after a pause—“Outside Lugdunum.”

The words sat there for a moment. You remembered what they’d said at the funeral—how the urn would be placed beside hers. How he hadn’t spoken her name since.

“She died before the Rhine campaigns,” he added, quieter now,as if you didn’t already know. “But they still send the parcels. Out of habit, maybe. Or memory.”

He didn’t seem to realize he’d told you something real.

You didn’t answer.

He didn’t raise his cup. He didn’t pour wine to the gods. No offering. He only took another sip and reached for more bread.

It wasn’t prayer. It wasn’t thanks. It was just dinner. And it was quiet. And strangely, it was enough.

____________________________________________________________________________

When the meal was done, you stood without a word.

You reached for the cloth folded neatly over the edge of the table, wiped your hands slowly, then moved toward the door that led into the adjoining room, your fingers already loosening the tie at your waist. You didn’t turn to look at him. You didn’t need to. You could feel his eyes on you from the moment your chair scraped back.

“I’m going to the balneum,” you said. “The day’s been long.”

You made it halfway across the room before he rose.

He didn’t speak immediately. Just followed—quiet, careful, like he wasn’t sure if the moment would stay intact if he moved too suddenly.

When you paused near the curtain, you felt him behind you.

“You don’t have to,” he said.

You turned slightly. “Don’t have to what?”

“Wash,” he said, his voice lower now, more certain. “I want you just as you are.”

The silence after that wasn’t empty. It was thick.

You looked at him fully then, letting the moment stretch. Not challenging. Just seeing if he meant it. He didn’t look away.

“If I am already with child,” you said, your voice even, “then there is no need for us to have sex.”

“I don’t need a reason,” he answered. “I can want you all the same.”

You watched him. The space between you wasn’t wide, but it held everything that hadn’t been said across weeks—his want, your silence, the nights you didn’t speak, the moments you could’ve touched but didn’t.

You turned to face him, slowly, without speaking, without lowering your gaze. You didn’t move with invitation or hesitation. You just stood there, your hand resting lightly against the curtain, your breath steady, your eyes holding his like you had made a decision you weren’t going to say out loud.

He stepped forward.

Not in a rush, not like a man trying to claim something, but like someone who had waited long enough and didn’t want to ask again. His hand found the edge of the belt at your waist, the one you’d started to undo before the words stopped you, and he touched it gently, like he was still giving you a chance to leave.

You didn’t.

His fingers worked the knot slowly, carefully, as if the fabric might tear if he moved too fast, and when it slipped free and loosened against your hips, he let the silence stretch. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. You watched his hands instead of his eyes, the way he slid the stola from your shoulder first, then down the length of your arm, one side at a time, the linen dragging soft across your skin as it dropped lower.

You didn’t help him. You didn’t move to cover yourself either.

The fabric hit the floor in a slow hush and stayed there, forgotten. He stepped back only a little, his eyes moving over you like he was seeing you for the first time. And you let him look. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t hide. You only stood still, bare in the lamplight, the curve of your back catching the glow, your hair still pinned from earlier, your lips parted just slightly like you might speak but hadn’t decided yet.

He didn’t reach for you. Not right away.

He just stood there, looking at you like the moment might break, and maybe he didn’t want it to.

And still, you didn’t move. You let him stand in it. You let him want. You let him wait.

____________________________________________________________________________

You didn’t speak when he stepped toward you again.

You didn’t look away when his hand lifted to your cheek, his fingers brushing the edge of your jaw before moving lower, tracing the shape of your throat like he needed to remember it. He didn’t ask anything. He didn’t command. He only touched you like it had been a long time since he’d done it without anger behind it.

When he kissed you, it wasn’t fast or hard. It was slow, almost hesitant, like he was asking something and didn’t want the answer out loud.

He led you back toward the bed with one hand resting low at your spine, steady but unhurried. The way he looked at you made it feel like you’d never been here before, like he was seeing something he hadn’t earned.

You let him lay you down.

He didn’t undress all at once. He moved like he had time. He knelt between your legs and pulled your thigh over his shoulder, his hands slow on your skin, his mouth brushing just above your knee before moving lower, lower, until the tension in your breath gave you away.

He tasted you without speaking, without warning, his mouth soft but focused, like this was the only thing that made sense anymore.

You tried not to move. You tried not to let it show. But when his tongue dragged in that slow, deliberate way, again and again, your hips lifted before you could stop them, and he held you there, steady in his grip, mouth never leaving you.

You didn’t moan.

When you came the first time, it was in silence, your back arched, your fingers tight in the linen beneath you, your lip caught between your teeth. He didn’t stop. He didn’t lift his head. He only kept going, slower now, like he wanted to draw out the shape of it, learn the rhythm of what broke you open.

The second time was worse. Or better. You weren’t sure.

Your thighs trembled, your hand came up to your mouth like you could stop the sound that threatened to slip, and that was when he lifted his head, just for a moment, and brought his fingers to your lips.

They were wet. He touched your mouth gently, and when you wouldn’t open it, wouldn’t meet his eyes, he pressed one finger against your lips until they parted. You let him in. He watched the way your mouth closed around him, slow and soft, your tongue catching the taste he’d left there. He didn’t move at first—just watched. And then he crawled up, leaning over you, hands planted on either side of your ribs, his body warm and close, and kissed you deep—like he’d waited weeks to do it right, like the taste of you was the only thing he wanted to carry with him to Germania.

His body pressed down against yours, not with weight but with warmth, his chest brushing yours as he shifted, the length of him hard between your legs but not demanding. His breath was steady, his mouth dragging across your jaw, then your neck, slow enough to leave heat behind but not enough to mark you.

When he entered you, he did it without a word.

No thrust. No snap of movement.

Just a slow press, thick and full, dragging through the slick he’d pulled from you with his mouth and fingers, his hands sliding beneath your thighs to lift you higher, to angle you deeper, to make sure every inch of him found a place inside you that hadn’t been touched properly in weeks.

Your legs folded over his shoulders, your knees brushing his jaw as he moved, slow and steady, each roll of his hips deep enough to make your breath catch in the back of your throat. He wasn’t trying to break you. He wasn’t trying to prove anything.

He was just there. Moving with you.

Touching the inside of your thighs with one hand, stroking up and down like he wanted to memorize the shape of you. His other hand rested at your calf, thumb tracing lazy circles as he fucked you deep and slow, the weight of his gaze locked on your mouth like he was waiting for the sound you still refused to give.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to.

The room was too warm now. The lamplight shimmered along the curve of your stomach, your breasts, the sweat gathering low on his spine. Your hands found his back, your nails not clawing but holding, your legs trembling against his shoulders, your breath a little shorter now, a little tighter.

And still he didn’t rush. He moved like a man who had all night. Like there was nowhere else he wanted to be.

____________________________________________________________________________

When it was done, he pulled out slowly and said nothing.

You reached for the sheet without thinking, dragging it up over your stomach as you rolled your shoulders against the mattress, your legs still parted slightly, your chest rising and falling in quiet, steady waves. The heat between your thighs hadn’t faded. The ache in your hips was still there, pulsing gently, but it didn’t hurt.

You didn’t look at him. Not at first.

He lay beside you on his back, not close enough to touch, not far enough to forget. His breath was slower now, deep and even, one arm resting behind his head, the other across his chest, his eyes fixed on the ceiling like he was waiting for it to speak.

You kept your body still, your arms folded lightly beneath the sheet, the sweat drying at your collarbone.

But you turned your head. Not fast. Not fully. Just enough to see him.

And he turned too.

Your eyes met in the quiet. No words passed between you. There was no smile. No question. Just that look.

The one that lasted longer than it should have. The one that said nothing.

And still—meant everything.

____________________________________________________________________________

Over the next passing days, Rome began to change.

It didn’t happen all at once. The noise didn’t crash through the gates or arrive with fanfare. It crept in slowly, through the sound of sandals in the dark, the clink of armor being fastened at dawn, the low voices that carried between pillars before the sun reached the courtyard stones. Banners were unfurled over the barracks—freshly dyed in red and gold, crisp from disuse—and soldiers took to the training fields earlier each morning, their drills echoing faintly across the Palatine before the rest of the city opened its eyes.

Letters moved like smoke through the halls, tucked beneath arms, sealed with the emperor’s mark in warm wax that hadn’t yet hardened. Supplies were tallied twice. New horses brought in. Provisions arranged and then rearranged by stewards who kept their hands busy so they wouldn’t ask what would be waiting for them on the other side of winter. And still, the palace didn’t sleep. Not truly. Not fully.

You heard the change before you saw it.

Doors opening when they shouldn’t. Generals whispering over maps spread too wide to read at a glance. Messengers appearing in the corridors before vanishing again with parchment tucked into their belts. Servants moved faster than they used to. Fewer of them met your eye. And even those who once dared to speak softly in your presence now fell silent the moment you crossed the threshold of any room.

The air shifted in ways you couldn’t name but couldn’t ignore, and though Caracalla never asked for your help, never brought you into his councils, never asked your opinion on who should ride ahead or who should remain in Rome, you still knew what he kept close.

___________________________________________________________________________

Two days passed, and then the morning came.

The sky was still pale when you heard the sound of metal below the colonnade—helmets being fastened, bridles pulled tight, sandals striking stone in rhythm with the first calls from the training yard. Rome was awake before the sun, but not for worship. Not for ceremony. Today it moved with purpose. Today it prepared to send off its emperor.

You had not seen him the night before.

No message. No knock at your door.

When you stepped into the light, he was already below, standing near the base, not yet mounted, speaking to one of the handlers as they adjusted the reins. His horse stood waiting, the armor glinting in the morning light, motionless beneath the weight of preparation.

You were not two steps past the marble arch before a servant stepped forward.

He was young, clutching a satchel to his chest, his face twisted with uncertainty, but his voice didn’t falter when he called up to you.

“Domina,” he asked, “should I prepare the herbs again? The ones you’ve been giving him. For the journey.”

The question wasn’t sarcastic or filled with malice. But it carried, and it carried far.

Cassia turned her head immediately. Two younger girls standing behind the pillar leaned forward just enough to hear your answer.

You didn’t pause.

“They’re for his virility,” you said, smooth and unbothered, not too loud, not too soft. Just enough.

Cassia blinked once, then nodded, satisfied, stepping back into her place.

But the others—the younger ones, eyes too wide and mouths too quick—exchanged a glance. A small one. But you saw it. The kind of look that travels farther than it should.

And by the time you reached the top of the steps, Caracalla had already turned from his officers and begun walking toward you.

“I’ll send word from Mediolanum,” he said. “If the snow holds, we’ll reach the border before the month ends.”

You nodded. That was all.

He didn’t touch you. He didn’t offer his hand. There was no blessing. No farewell.

For a moment, it looked like he might say something more.

But instead, he turned, walked back down without pause, and took the reins from the handler with one hand. He mounted in a single movement, the leather shifting beneath him, his posture straight, his face unreadable.

Papinian stepped forward from the formation and spoke low.

“Domine, the soldiers are gathered. They expect words before the gate.”

Caracalla gave a single nod.

He turned his horse toward the open square where the legions stood assembled. The sound of armor shifting filled the air. Shields gleamed in the morning light. Banners moved faintly in the wind. These were not fresh recruits. These were men who had bled for Rome. And now they were about to follow Rome into another winter, another war.

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

“When we reach Germania, we do not ask for peace,” he said, his voice cutting clean through the quiet. “We take it. We show them the empire doesn’t hesitate. We show them that men who stand with Rome—stand with me—do not return in shame.”

He looked across the rows, his gaze steady.

“Some of you have fought in the north before. Some of you have buried friends there. That ground knows your blood. Let it know your victory.”

A pause. His jaw clenched.

“This is not about land. This is about fear. And I want them to be afraid.”

The words lingered only a moment before the roar of the legion rose up behind them, loud and heavy and full of the kind of noise that covered every doubt. You didn’t flinch. You only let your gaze follow the weight of his voice down through the open square, past the banners and armor and movement that blurred against the edges of your sight.

And then, without needing to turn your head, without hearing a name or the shift of a sandal on stone, you felt someone come to stand beside you. There was no sound to it. Just the weight of presence at your side. You didn’t look. You didn’t need to. You knew it was Geta.

He didn’t speak. He stood there, hands still at his sides, his posture easy but not relaxed, the way it always was when he knew people were watching and wanted to give them nothing they could use.

And down below, just as the archway opened wide and the crowd shifted to clear the path, Caracalla pulled the reins and turned his head. He didn’t look toward the banners. He didn’t look toward the senators. He looked directly up the marble steps.

Not at you. But to his brother.

His gaze locked there, sharp and still, and whatever passed between them didn’t break the silence, but you felt it all the same.

And then he turned forward again, cloak snapping behind him in the wind, the sound of hooves striking the ground in rhythm with the gate as it opened wide.

Taglist:

@alwaysahiccupandastrid

@justnobodynothingmore

@miamariposita

@niungguang

Dividers: @ghoulbloggerrr

[cuppajoel]

Rating: E 18+ only MDNI | Pairing: modern-day! Marcus Acacius x fem!reader Word count: 1.8k CW: modern day!Marcus Acacius, light brat-tamer vibes but not really, mostly just smut, v fingering (hey! Bring back fingering!!), one (1) p slap, p pronouns, Marcus likes roleplaying?, slight anal play, Marcus spits on ittt, grinding, he calls her my lady, legal age gap, no physical description of reader apart from she has a vagina and some pubic hair?

Summary: You start being a brat about how Marcus is old and he shows you why you should respect your elders.

a/n: hey! This is the first one shot from my “Where my Lore Started” series. This is an age gap fic based on the relationship between Monica and Richard from the TV show Friends. (See here & here for my inspo) If you’d like to take part in this wee prompt/ challenge pls do and tag me so I can see where your lore started!

graphics: @saradika-graphics

tysm to @iknowisoundcrazy for beta-ing this. This is my first fic back after like 5 months and I am real nervous to start posting again and you were so kind and encouraging! <3

Read on A03 | Fic challenge | Main Masterlist

“How’d you get this one?” you trail your finger back and forth across his collarbone, your head resting on his chest, the thump thump thump of his heartbeat soothing your relaxed body. 

He exhales softly, lifting his head slightly to get a better look at the healed, raised skin. “Ummm…” His chest rumbles. You can tell he’s nearly sleeping but wants to answer your questions, just because you are the one asking them. “That one was when I broke my collarbone after jumping off the peer… the water was more shallow than first expected.” He kisses your head, his worn hand trailing up and down your arm. 

“Ouch…” you chuckle on an exhale, nuzzling your face into the patch of greying hair across his chest. You let your fingers trail circles around his bare upper half, noting which spots are more sensitive and which make him twitch. “You go peer diving a lot? I guess there wasn’t much else to do in Ancient Rome…” you shift, glancing up to his face with a smirk of defiance, and begin to brace for the consequence of your teasing comment. 

His eyes are still closed, the greying curls crossing over themselves around his ears. A steady, soft chuckle rumbles in his chest. “Let me tell you something about Ancient Rome…” he starts muttering into your hair, the hand that was soothing your arm stopping on your hip, his grip pulsing. “You see in Ancient Rome, people at my old age would be seen as knowledgeable… respected…” Marcus rolls off his back, flipping you both so that his weight and size hovers over your own. 

“I would probably be in a position of power…” He grabs your wrist and lays it above you, pinning it to the pillow. “A position of authority- a politician… a general, maybe.” He grabs the other wrist, repeating his actions and holding them together in one of his giant hands with ease. You watch as his breath becomes heavier, his pupils dilating so that his brown eyes somehow seem darker. Your breathing deepens, chest heaving up and down. You clear your throat, unable to wipe the smile off your face.

“And yooooou…” he draws back, his eyes raking down your naked form, stopping at your now stiff nipples, down to his hardening cock which rests against your stomach, and then back up to your face. “…you would be my lady, waiting for me to get home each night…” He pumps his hips slowly, the sensitive pink crown of his dick dragging across your belly button. 

”And when I get home…” he releases your wrists, dragging his blunt fingernails down your forearms, down each of your shoulders and palms you heavy breasts in his hands. He stops there for a moment, feeling the weight of them before pushing them together, fitting his head snuggly between them. “You would have ached for me. You would’ve felt so empty without my mouth and cock… and I would be famished after a hard day saving the empire.”

He flattens his tongue, dragging it slowly across your right nipple before sucking and then tugging with his teeth, only to switch and repeat the action on your left. You open yourself up, pushing your breasts further into him, causing him to exhale with a chuckle. 

Using his teeth he forges a path down your sternum to the softness of your stomach, his fingertips continuing to caress your ribs, hips and pelvis, leaving goosebumps in their wake. “So being the kind and considerate person that you are…” he presses a kiss to the curls of hair on the mound of your pussy. “…my lady would feed me…” 

He draws his cheeks together, gathering the saliva in his mouth before spitting directly on your clit, using his middle finger to spread it around in deep, deliberate circles. Your body tenses, all feeling and concentration now pulled to your swollen bud. Your breathing deepens, as you stretch your arms further above your head, savouring this feeling.

“Marc-“

He stops, moving his fingers away from the spot where you need him the most, causing your brows to knit and a pathetic whine to fall from you. You crane your neck forward to meet his arrogant expression. You stick out your bottom lip, hoping to appeal to his charitable side. “Nuh, uh, uh, my lady… I’m the general. Let me hear you say it.” 

“Please, baby…”

Smack. A tight, sudden, sting rings through your wet cunt, sending waves of warmth through your legs and hips as Marcus smacks your pussy.

“Who am I?” He demands with a deep rasp in his voice.  He cocks his head to the side, his eyes twinkling sadistically, as he tries, and fails, to hide a chuckle. Asshole.

“General, please…” you exhale, raising your hips to try and meet his mouth which hovers just above you. 

“Please, what, my lady? Hmmm?” He wears a shit-eatting grin. “You need to tell me what you need. You need to feed your general. I’m starving.” He places the pad of his thumb on your now pulsing clit, not moving it, just placing an even pressure. His fore and middle fingers circling your entrance but not entering. They hover and torture. 

You open your eyes and shift, placing your hands on the bed behind you and pushing yourself up onto your elbows. You steady your gaze to meet the eyes of the man who’s enjoying this way too much. “General, I need you to eat me like I’m your last meal, please…” 

Without a word, Marcus begins moving the pad of his thumb, side to side like a joysick. He spreads his spit all around your clit as he groups his first three fingers together and pushes them inside you. You moan from your chest, your elbows buckling from under you, your head and neck crashing into the plush pillows below.

Marcus’ thrusts are steady, not fast and not slow- almost painfully regular but they’re deep; every time he enters, he curls his fingers to reach that spot inside of you that makes your bellybutton tingle. Still holding your gaze, Marcus lowers himself so that his face hovers above your aching core. “Ohhhh she’s so pretty.” He places a wet, opened-mouthed kiss on your clit, suckling it into his mouth. 

As he pulls away, he pulls at your clit with his mouth, swirling his tongue in short, lazy circles. You plant your feet on the bed, pushing off to lift your hips, trying to follow his mouth. 

With his free hand, Marcus grips you hip, pushing you back down to the bed. The three fingers inside of you still, him flexing them slightly which brings a deep, hot burn, making your stomach flip. With a whine, you stop wriggling, knowing you’ll get what you need if you follow your general’s rules. 

With deliberate slowness, Marcus withdraws his fingers from you, the sounds created signalling how unbelievably wet you are for this man. One at a time he sucks your wetness from his digits, eye-contact unwavering. 

He hums, eyes fluttering and smile growing before scooching himself down the bed. He lays flat on his stomach, adjusting your legs so that they hook over his shoulders, and drags you by your hips closer to his mouth. “You get so fucking wet for me, my lady… you’ve made such a mess already.”  His hot breath coats you, right where you need his mouth, causing you to writhe. 

Marcus flattens his tongue and licks up one side of your outer pussy and down the other side. Using the grip of your hips as leverage, he pushes his face further into you. His nose brushes your clit as his tongue circles the opening of your cunt. He holds it tense, pushing and pulling it in and out of you. 

You try gripping onto the sheets by your sides to keep grounded. Don’t cum yet, don’t cum yet. It’s so good that you can feel yourself clenching around his tongue. Shifting, Marcus holds your clit in between his lips and licks using the tip of his tongue. You gasp, your hands releasing the sheets and grabbing two handfuls of his hair, pushing against him more as your orgasm comes to its peak. As you clench, you roll your hips against his face. He again finds your fluttering opening, enjoying the fruits of his labour.

The earth feels like it’s stopped and like it’s moving too fast at the same time. You lift your neck to see the artist at work just as he lifts his gaze too. He gives you a wink and you feel him smile against you before returning to his feast. “Shit Marc- general…” His eyes lock to yours, dark and still full of amusement. “I don’t know if I can keep going…” you thread your fingers through his hair, pulling so that you might have a moment to recover. 

His brows furrow as he gives a simple shake of his head. “I’m still hungry… one more at least my lady.” He returns licking and sucking at your clit and you tug harshly on his locks to which he quickens his pace.

Looking past him to his tight, round, ass you can see his narrow hips shifting up and down as he grinds his cock against the bed. You feel his thick, grouped fingers push slowly into you again. They’re quick and move at the same speed as his hips. 

Marcus shifts, one of your legs falling from his broad shoulders as he uses the strength of his full arm to fuck his fingers into you. 

“Yes, General Marcus…” you almost laugh, the heel of the foot around his shoulder digging into his back.  This seems to inspire the general. Using his pinky finger, he slowly strokes the tight muscle of your asshole, causing you only to keen further into him. 

Faster and faster, Marcus thrusts his fingers deep into you whilst lightly teasing your ass. You can feel his thrusts on the mattress below you, his rhythm becoming more choppy. As if you weren’t already floating, he again sucks your throbbing clit into his mouth and your ears begin to ring. Your hips raise and you push your man further into your pussy as you fall further and further into bliss. 

Marcus continues to suck as you come down from your high. Then shifting, he straddles one of your legs as he strokes his swollen, weeping shaft slowly as he cums all over your spent pussy. He wets his lower lips with his tongue when he comes, savouring your taste as he brings himself to the brink.

You shift up onto your elbows once again, looking down at the mess he’s made. You now wear your own shit-eating grin that rivals the one staring back at you. You cock your head to the side and shrug softly. “Not bad for an old guy…” you let yourself fall backwards again, ready for another lesson in respecting authority.

[misguidedasgardian]

AMOR VINCIT OMNIA VII.

VII. Incantore

MASTERLIST

Summary: If you casted a spell on him, let it be, he likes it. 

Warnings: Use of she/her pronouns, reader has hair, Ancient Rome AU accuracies and inaccuracies, arranged marriages, age difference (Marcus is late forties reader is 20), cursing, we are shorter than Marcus, reader is touch starved, depression, angst, pinning, thoughts about "customary" roles of a woman in a patriarchal society (don't even know how to describe it haha), Marcus gets an erection :(, MIGHT MISS SOME WARNINGS

Notes: Ufff another chapter of which i had scenes written before the prologue! uuhhh that makes this one of my favorite chapters! hehehe this was actually going to be named “snake’s nest” but I decided to turn it into “Enchantment” or in my mothertongue…. “El embrujo”, which is a song by a chilean artist I love 😂 (MORE POST CHAPTER) 

Looking back now, it all made sense

The conversations between them, the looks they shared, the complicity. 

What you couldn’t wrap your mind around… was…

Why?

Was your mother oblivious to the fact that he loved her? you really doubted it, she was one of the smartest people you ever met. She was cunning and she always seemed to be planning ahead, and she couldn't tell her alleged best friend was looking at her like he could kiss the floor she was about to walk in?

The next thing you were asking yourself was… where did you come into play? Why did Marcus want to marry you? Is it true that they were lovers like the entirety of Rome seems to believe? Then again… why?

You seemed to have lost track of time, you even dozed for a little while, but you were shaking awake by Diana, if she wasn’t smiling, you’d be scared because of the way she awakened you from your slumber 

“What’s happening?”, you whined, rubbing your eyes

“The dominus is awake, domina”, she said with an excited smile, “he asked for you”. That truly surprised you. You stood up from the bed, you were still groggy, but you took a long gulp of the water you kept in your bedside table, and then you took a long breath.

You didn’t even think about what you heard him mumble in his fever, not now, if you brought those memories and the thoughts that came after back, you were not going to be able to face him right now. 

With practiced stoicism you walked back to his rooms, you realised this was the third time you had been here, they stood like the rest of the Villa when you came here, impersonal, plain, lifeless, except, he was there now, laying on his bed, smiling at you when you walked in.

You entered the space as you would enemy territory, not sure what to expect. but he signaled for you to come near, next to him, you did, you even sat at the very space you were yesterday. 

As you gazed upon him you were surprised to see the same man you had married six months ago, only paler, and hairier, he had this sickness clinging to his skin but other than that, he was the same man. but his hair and beard had grown a bit, by what his man told you, he had been feeling poorly soon after he reached Terraco, maybe he didn’t have the time to groom himself. 

“Wife”, he called, with a weak smile, “you stand as an apparition in front of me”, he seemed honest, but he sounded the same when he whined your mother’s name in a whisper of love. 

“I’m glad you are recovering your health, husband”, you offered, feeling your chest tightening.

“All thanks to you, the medicus told me”, he said, you wanted to cry, he seemed so honest, he grabbed your wrist, caressing the skin there, awaking goosebumps with his touch, “you brought me back with your caring hands”, he said.

Three months ago, you would have done anything for your husband to give that look that seemed too similar to adoration, but now it made your stomach turn.

“It was my duty”, you said with a soft smile

“You know… all those nights in Hispania, the only thing I thought about was you”, he confessed, you felt like someone squeezed your heart, “the thought of returning to you”

“Acacius…”, it felt like a plea for mercy

“I thought you called me Marcus”, he said with a dreamy smile. “The next time, I will bring you with me”, he assured you. “I won’t leave you here, I give you my word”, he promised, 

And you couldn’t understand his sudden change of attitude, not after his feverish confession. Was it all it was? the fever speaking on his behalf? it didn’t seem like it, it seemed like it was a very heartfelt confession, yet, there he was, looking at you like you were a divine being. 

“It’s alright”, you assured him, was he truly sick? Was he still feverish? Was he dying?

His words made your head spin, as they contradicted completely what he had mumbled in his sleep. It wasn’t odd that people murmured nonsense where they were going through a fever, you had heard it, but this particular phrase… regarding your mother… truly got to you.

Was there any truth to it at all?

“But I’m being truthful”, you mindlessly touched his forehead, to feel the temperature there, he closed his eyes, seemingly enjoying your caress, and you felt a mix of relief and concern. He catched your other hand in his too, with his big warm hands, he caressed the back of your with his thumbs.

You couldn’t believe what was happening.

“I believe you”, you said with a soft smile, you didn’t, not quite, but you were better than to upset a sick man. 

“How was your mother’s wedding?”, he asked, and that made you squeeze his hands, not even conscious about it. You looked into his eyes for any sign, for anything that would tell you he was upset about it. He loved your mother, now you understood why he was so quick to leave Rome…

“It was beautiful”, you said, and you found yourself wanting to hurt him. “She is now in Greece, on a beautiful boat made of gold”, to your complete surprise, he smiled, he seemed content.

“Good”, he croaked, his voice strained by the sickness he had caught, “she deserves a resemblance of peace, of safety”, he mumbled, and he truly seemed relieved.

“She does”, you tried, and smiled at him, softly. “I should fix you something to eat”, you said then, after a strange silence, an uncomfortable silence. But he didn’t let you free yourself from his grasp

“Thulia can bring us something”, he said dismissively 

“Are you feeling well, husband?”, you asked fearfully, he chuckled, and you found yourself liking the sound

“Never better, I swear it”, he said softly.

“I had Diana place offerings in the altar of Salus”, you whispered

“I’m sure she acted through your hands”, he said, you nodded, feeling strange, feeling completely lost for words or actions. His hands felt so warm and so good that you started to feel scared of the contact, of the way he looked at you.

Why? Why was he acting like this?

“You should rest husband”, you said softly

“I have been resting, for days”, he said, still with that silly smile on his face. 

“Acacius”, you began

“Marcus”, he corrected

You wanted to shout at him, to stop, to stop looking at you like that, like you were the most beautiful thing. He didn’t mean it, he only was thankful to you because you took his fever away. This was something… cruel… trying to give you hope. 

As he looked at you, he nodded slowly, he gave your hands a last squeeze and released them

“Thank you, wife”, he said softly, “Now more than ever I’m sure you were sent by the gods”, there was so much you wanted to ask him, to talk about, about Hispania, about what was going to happen now, in the middle of his consulate, was he going back out there? 

Diana entered with a soft smile on her face, bringing a bowl, by the smell you could tell it was soup, with pieces of lamb and vegetables, and Thulia had learned that you enjoyed a handful of oats with it, and she now added it to her delicious soup each time. 

You received the soup with your hands, scooted closer to him, and you started feeding him. 

He moaned with satisfaction at the taste of it, it was a good soup, you liked it.

“It was you”, he said, “the oats”, you nodded with a soft smile, “Delicious”, he said, he kept looking at you with those eyes of his, those beautiful brown eyes, that looked like those of a pup. You tried not to gaze at him too long.

You were feeling so many things you truly did not know how to deal.

You had been so scared for his life, then completely heartbroken for his dazed confession, then relieved that he was fine, and he was looking fine, and now you were trying to hold it together, to not fall for this…act… that he was performing. 

It had to be, right?

He looked so lovestruck, but again, it might as well be gratitude. 

Not love.

He didn’t love you, he loved your mother.

“You are going to recuperate your strength in no time”, you said, as he ate the last of the big bowl of soup. 

“thanks to you”, he insisted.

“Please husband”, you whispered, “you should rest”, you could tell he didn’t want to, but again, you could tell he knew that was a bit childish, so he barely nodded.

“You are going to be here when I wake up?”, he asked

“I will”, you promised him, “to give you some more of that horrible medicine that honestly I think is what made you wake up”, you teased, and you surprised yourself with it. He would have chuckled too, but he dozed off pretty quickly 

Once you made sure he was asleep normally, and breathing fine, you stood up from the side of his bed and you exited the room with the empty bowl in your hands.

Trying to hold the tears 

It was ironic, lately you felt as childish as ever, it was like you were a small child again, the days when you couldn’t hold the tears, you remembered a particular occasion, when you fell the last three steps of the marble stairs of the palace when you were playing with Lucius, and you broke in pitiful sobs. You were becoming a young woman, you were eleven, and yet, you fell down. More than hurt you felt humiliated, and that you’d realise, made you feel worse. Because you cried so much, legionnaires, a pretor who was visiting, and your uncle himself came to your rescue, treating you with reverence and care, as if you were a delicate doll.

That made you cry fat tears with even more sentiment.

This was like that.

You felt humiliation biting at your heels in every turn since you got married.

There was truth in his words, in each of them.

This trip, even though it ended endangering his health, it has served as a true revelation for him. 

From the second that he left you in that harbour that fateful day, he started to feel guilty, terribly guilty, about leaving you like this, you were clearly upset, and he was leaving early because he didn’t want to attend your mother’s wedding. 

Now that he was looking back at that moment, he found himself wanting to have done things in a completely different way. 

For once, he thought he was truly going to die if he witnessed Lucilla’s wedding to another man, but he was surprised to realise  while on the very journey, that he felt more guilty about the way he left you, than the fact she was marrying altogether. 

For seconds, he wished he had stayed, with you, as you had asked him to take you with him, and he had refused, you were right, many generals took their wives, and right again when you pointed out that Terraco was completely under the Roman Rule, the city had been founded by Romans, and it was true you were going to be safe.

So, in a third place, he had wished that he had stayed longer, to witness the wedding, and then, to take you with him after. He felt like you could be there for one another, that you would have soothed his pain, that you would have helped him to process this.

Like he believed before, he was mourning, and one of the things that let him realize this, is the fact that he found himself missing you.

For every mile that he travelled he found himself more and more plagued with thoughts of you… of your beautiful face that he left in the harbour, of the beautiful you looked on your wedding day, of the sweetness of your voice, of the way your eyes shined when you spoke about something you liked…

Then he felt conflicted.

Lucilla had asked him to marry you for him to protect you, not from him to… take advantage of you, not for him to defile you and lust over you.

He felt terribly guilty that day, when catched you in the bath.

He truly felt like the luckiest man on earth, even if for brief seconds. To be married to you, for having a beautiful wife that wanted to take a bath with him, that wanted him. 

You were the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. You were so willing, those first days, so full of hope. But he, using all of his strength earned in battles and wars, all his temple, had to break his heart to break yours.

He couldn’t do that to you.

You were married to him for him to protect you while he and Lucilla returned Rome to what it was supposed to be, not for him to take advantage of you. 

And then, he got so sick that honestly he thought he was going to die.

While they crossed the Mediterranean he honestly thought he was going to die, the ship moved over the tempestuous waves white the sails got windswept. The only thing he thought about, was your face, was the way he was going to leave you alone, meaning, more lonely than he left you already, he was going to leave you unprotected 

And then he woke up, all the way back in Rome, and that it had been you, the only one who was able to bring him back. If it was you instead of the medicus the first face he saw when he came back, he could have sworn he was dead.

But it was real.

You were so beautiful, sitting there on his bed, by his side, nursing him back to health, feeding him, touching his forehead. Caring for him.

How could he have been so blind?

It was you, this whole time.

Lucilla never loved him, not like he used to love her anyways. 

Yes, used to.

The only thing in his mind had been you, this whole time. 

And when he woke up, the sun was barely rising in the horizon. He took a long breath and when the first thing he felt was hunger, he knew, he was completely healed.

It was like magic, you, an enchantress who had bewitched him and healed him with her beautiful magic. 

He rose from the bed, a bit groggy, but hungry and empowered by the thought of looking at your beautiful face. And when he exited his room and walked through the hallway… he was certain of your magical powers.

His house… his villa… had turned into this beautiful and colourful temple.

He remembered your face, the night you had married, how you looked around.

He did not come from wealth, he was not the son of some patrician man, or a senator, he had to raise himself, and this is the house he had bought when he reached a point in his career he couldn’t keep living in the Insula he had grown up in.

So he bought this house from a Senator who had fallen from grace, it had been abandoned for years, and he hadn’t dedicated himself into turning it into a real home, he didn’t know how, he didn’t have the time.

The first time he saw you in contrast with those empty walls his stomach turned.

You looked like a beautiful flower he had plucked from the garden and placed here, in the place that lacked everything beautiful and cozy. 

But at the same time, he knew you could turn this house around to your image and liking. To do whatever you wanted with it. 

And you had… he stopped on his tracks when he found some man he didn’t recognize, barefoot, working in one of the pools, the one in the atrium, that was more decorative than 

When he came close to it he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

The image drawn in the pool….

“Stop right there!”, he froze at the rushed words coming from the shoeless man himself. He had stopped him with a flick of his hand. And Marcus was about to give him a piece of his mind, that a simple mosaicist had no business commanding a general of the empire of Rome, but then the crazy looking man was looking at him.

“You have the most patrician face i have ever seen”

“I am the dominus of this house”, he said strongly

“Yes! that you are”, he said, and was smiling like he had just discovered fire, “I couldn’t find what I was lacking in my composition but now it's obvious!” he said, grabbing his graying hairs.

Marcus shook his head and tried to ignore the image of your nakedness, forever embedded in stone, to keep looking at the rest of the house, of the beautiful paintings that now decorated the walls, of the beautiful garden you were growing in the heart of the villa, the tasteful furniture that now decorated every corner, the beautiful colors of fabrics and tapestries that hung as well.

He didn’t even care that his arcs might be empty by now.

His villa, your villa, was now a home… a place where a couple lived. That smelled delicious and looked devine, being a faithful portrait of the delicate and great taste of the domina of the house, of you. 

He was so in awe, he jumped when the doors of the entrance opened widely, to reveal a man who, by the looks of it, had run all the way to his house.

He was breathing heavily, sweating copiously, and when his eyes found him, his greeted him with a signal of his arm. 

“Salve, General Acacius”, he said quickly

“Salve”, by his fancy clothes he knew who might this man work for

“I’m an envoy of the greatest Consus Licinio Craso”, he said solemnly, “and his Wife, Lucilla, she has returned from Greece, and would come to eat super at the news of the General’s arrival”, Marcus barely nodded.

“We’ll expect her at sundown” he said, “please, serve yourself some water and food”, he said, the man nodded in appreciation and got lost on his way to the kitchen.

He found you in his own study, which you had also made beautiful, reading some scrolls he didn’t recognize, so you might have bought them as well. There were rests of breakfasts on the table, and he smiled at the way you were concentrating on reading that scroll, that from where he stood, looked like it was written in Greek. 

When you saw him, you jumped in place

“You shouldn’t be out of bed, Acacius”, you said hastily

“Marcus”, he insisted, but a smile was placed on his face, “I’m feeling much better”, he said quickly. “the house…”, he started. you looked at him in expectation, and maybe a bit of fear, losing the bravado you had gained in his absence

“You don’t…?”

“I love it”, he said quickly, and again… those damn eyes… looking at you… like that… “I’m so glad you make it yours, as you should have…”, he said, his breathing was heavy, his eyes dilated, he must still feel awful, you thought

“Please, go back to bed”, you murmured, taking a stand from his wooden table he used as a desk 

“I feel great”, he said with a soft smile, “I do”, you smiled

“I’m glad”, you offered, “but please…?”, you asked him, you grabbed his bicep, his skin warm under your tact, but not feverish, just… a healthy temperature, he let himself be dragged by you back to his room.

He noticed, a bit sadly, that his room was the only one in the house with no “you” in it. you haven't dared to come inside it while he wasn’t there, the thought made him sad. 

He gingerly let you lead him back into his bed, and he watched in awe as you commanded the house, Diana and Thulia now looked like his most trusted men, ready to fulfill his every command in the battlefield.

In minutes, he had a spread of food around him in his bed, and you had taken your place by his side.

Yes, your place, your rightful place by his side.

As Marcus looked at you help set his breakfast he wanted to be selfish, he found himself not caring about the age difference, about his mission, about how he was supposed to protect you. He cared about you as his wife, as the matron of his house, about… the future he could have with you.

Maybe he was still sick.

He wanted to let go of it all, of all that made him who he was, so he can finally take what he wanted, and not what he should… so he could treat you like his wife, and you could truly be a married couple with everything that entailed…

Everything…

You stuttered your movements because he was watching you so candidly, but you tried to ignore him as best as you could

And that look he gave you.

“Your mother…”, he started, as you had a bowl of food in your lap ready to help him, you stopped in your tracks, not ready for whatever there was to say, “is back”

“How do you…?”

“He sent someone ahead”, he said with a soft smile, “she is coming for dinner”, he said with a soft smile.

And as you looked into those beautiful dark eyes, and the happiness laying within them.

You started to confirm your suspicious 

He looked so hopeful, that he finally was going to see her again.

She looked for him to tell him she was back, not you.

“I’m glad”, you said, you fed him quickie, you didn’t even understood why though, his arms worked just fine, so you gave him the bowl filled with stew, bread, cheeses, left the pitch of water on the side and ran out of his room, leaving him completely alone.

You no longer cared much, he was safe, he was alive, you had helped in that, you had done your duty… you had no more reason to keep tending to him.

He was disheartened, he was not going to lie to himself, to watch you flee the run like you were being chased by something, but… he took comfort in the thought that you were making this villa your home, you were finding your palace in all of this. 

He didn't catch sight of you for the rest of the day. But he decided to take a bath. He was actually in awe of the paintings he found  in the bath room. 

Depictions of couples engaging in lovemaking, of goddesses and more. 

Is this what you… enjoyed?

He found himself… awakened… His manhood was stiff, making him uncomfortable, the thought of you, of your hands on him, of your naked likeness in the mosaic, of the paintings on the walls.

He also felt sick by only thinking of taking care of it in the bath you also used and enjoyed. so he pulled through it. Getting out of the bath and dressed, thinking about everything he could but your nakedness.

You were meant to be his to protect not to lust over….

That was like his new mantra. 

He thought about war then. About what everything meant, of him not being able to complete his mission, about him being back in Rome only three months after he went to Hispania, the legions were still out there. What was he supposed to do? never in his military career found himself in a similar position, he had never fallen sick and jeopardized his campaign.

What was he supposed to do now?

Meanwhile… you were spiraling.

You had gone with Diana and a faithful guard to the market to buy ingredients for the dinner tonight.

You were now resentful, your mother had let Marcus know, not you, that she was back, did that mean something? you were seeing things everywhere, you were becoming paranoid, and right now, you were focused on serving a delicious meal, to prove to both Marcus and your mother that you now where a grown woman. You actually didn’t know, consciously, what you wanted to achieve, but now you were determined.

And when you returned home, you spent the rest of the day making sure the villa was spotless, trying to stay out of Marcus’ way, who had called in his centurion, his most trusted man, who had come with him back to Rome, for a meeting, maybe one that decided if he was to stay here, or go back to Hispania to finish what he started. 

You felt so conflicted, you didn’t like him being here and acting like… like he was acting with you, and yet, the thought of him leaving again made your stomach turn.

And yet, before you knew it, you were receiving your mother in the Atrium, she wrapped her arms around your frame, pulling you close.

She even smells different, like spices and sea breeze, like lavender and the beach. Then she greeted Marcus, with kisses on both cheeks. Like they had done their entire life, nothing out of the ordinary.

Then why did you feel like someone had your stomach inside their fist and was squeezing?

Her skin had darkened, and she honestly looked happy, more happy, her eyes were shining, and she looked like she was glowing, her hair even looked more golden, if that was even possible, maybe it was the contrast of her tanned skin. 

She gazed upon the new walls of your home with wide eyes of admiration, she looked past the image in the pool in the atrium. 

She praised the way you had fixed the triclinium to accommodate you for dinner, and the spread that was there ready for you all to eat.

Marcus had this proud smile on his face, looking at everything with shiny eyes of admiration, including you.

You did not know what it meant, so you took position, laying on the sofas around a table where you had placed the spread of food. 

You wanted to eat, you were hungry, but as you sat there, looking down at your plate, you couldn't, you couldn’t take a single bite, your stomach clenching inside you. The hunger, as you looked up to your mother and Marcus deep in friendly conversation, turned to sickness, you wanted to throw up.

They were catching up, with his trip, of his health and her recent marriage and trip to Greece, you had always wanted to go to Greece, but alas, you never even left Rome. You looked at Marcus and his eyes were trailed on her. And you wanted to hear what your mother had to say… you did, you wanted to hear all about it, and also about Hispania, since you haven’t asked Marcus, because first he was recuperating and then you were ignoring him, so… 

There was indeed something new about this though, from one second to the next he would turn to you, to gaze upon you, to talk in your direction as well, or rather to see if you were spying attention to what was being said. You were staring at him, at the way he looked at you, and then at the way he turned and looked at your own mother.

Oh gods, where you loosing it?

“You haven’t eaten anything dear”, your mother pointed out with a soft smile, that smile that a bit ago would make you feel guilty for even thinking about something that was wrong, and now? You even resented it

“I'm not hungry”, you mumbled

“You haven't eaten anything since breakfast”, Acacius pointed out

More than your husband he sounded like your father 

“Are you unwell?”, asked Lucilla then, concerned washing her beautiful features, as you gazed upon her, you truly understood Acacius, she was one of the most beautiful women you had ever seen, she stood as Juno, mother of Gods, wife of Jupiter himself, and far removed from her… were you.

They constantly told you that you looked like your father, you didn’t know if that was good or bad, but none ever told you that you looked like your mother. 

That could explain many things…

You snapped back to reality when you felt Acacius´ thick hand enveloping yours, making you jump at the sudden touch, at the sudden warmth

“Should I fetch the medicus?”, he asked, as your mother, the concern twisted his face

“No!”, you said quickly, releasing your hand from Acacius' hold, the rash movement was perceived by your mother, who frowned at it, as both your hands above the table were two mice fighting for a piece of bread, who shouldn't be there in the first place. 

Marcus hand closed, grabbing thin air, still where you left it in between you. “I need some fresh air”, you choked out, your nose prickling with upcoming tears, “Could I be excused?”, You stood anyways, Marcus looked up at you and nodded, barely, eyes shiny and parted lips, as you were breaking his heart simply by leaving the triclinium 

You felt like you couldn't breathe, like there wasn’t enough air. So, you went to the garden, the small garden you had built that was barely blooming 

The sound of crickets far away and water of the fountain immediately soothed you; the air was fresh and smelled incredible, even know, the flowers that Thulia had manage to transplant from another garden outside these walls had manage to take in here, so the smell of jasmine meet you there. You plucked a beautiful flower from the plant near the entrance of the garden, and you sat on the sole stone bench by the fountain, the impluvium

You sank your nose in the soft petals, breathing in the delightful smell.

Your mother always had in hand lavenders, to hide the smell of the people of Rome, but you, as you could, always grabbed a couple of jasmine flowers to soothe your senses. 

As you sat there, hidden by the darkness that shielded the garden of the lights of the house around it, you looked back to where you came from, to the triclinium on the other side of the atrium, looming over you, closing you in, the one that was supposed to become your home, your safe haven, the home to your family, and children. Now you felt suffocated by it, like you couldn’t breathe in there, like you had in your back the weight of the entire building. 

You wanted to escape, to run away, you closed your eyes and you imagined the woods surrounding the west side of the city, the ones you could see from Palatine Hill. And once you were there, at least in your mind, you played a small mental game you used to enjoy when you were little. Surviving in the woods

You imagine you could take your horse, little provisions, and then gallop in the woods until you couldn’t see anymore, you wondered if you could make it out there, alone, could you hunt? Keep yourself warm? Could you hunt down wolves and meat for you to eat? You didn’t even know how to use the bow and arrow… but how hard can it be, really?

Could you find clean water and shelter? 

As a small child, the very thought made you tremble and made you be thankful that you didn’t have to, but right now, the darkness, woods and wolves lurking in the dark seemed much more enticing than staying here… Trapped, trapped, used and betrayed. 

You found your reflection in the water and gaze upon it, your face drawn in the water, it seemed a normal face, the same one you had gaze upon since you could remember, and you wondered what was wrong with you. Why didn’t Marcus want you?

You had many prospects that wanted your hand in marriage, and you could have been loved by any of them. Why did you find yourself married to the only man who didn’t want you?

A tear, followed closely by another ran down your cheeks

You wanted to love and be loved, you had so much love to give your chest burned with emotion, gripping your breaths hostage… this isn't fair… 

Tears turned to gasps, gasps turned to cries, and then to sobs, the water had been released and there was no controlling it anymore. 

“I don’t deserve this!”, you finally cracked, hiding your bitter tears behind the palm of your hands.

You felt so angry, so angry you were shaking.

You felt manipulated, you felt betrayed and used… You were feeling so many things that you believed you were going to snap, your body trying to relieve that tension in uncontrollable shakes.

You started to loose control of your own sobs, so much so you had trouble breathing 

“Domina!”, from a second to the next, Thulia was there in front of you, grabbing you softly by your shoulders, “breathe”, she commanded, and you did just that, took a long breath, she left you for a moment and when she came back she had something in her hand, “drink”, you didn’t even thought about it.

It was strong and smelly, but passing something on your throat made you relax a bit, and as the seconds passed, you realized that she had given you something to… calm yourself. 

And it worked, soon you were crying silently as your airways cleared and you could actually breathe freely. 

“Let me escort you to your room”, she said softly. You tried to shake your head, to say you needed to go back to your mother and husband, your mind became cloudy, the fear of them being together strangely present in your now idled mind. 

But you could barely walk as the seconds passed, but she was stronger than she looked, so she grabbed you and took you to your rooms.

Silence reigned at your departure. Both Marcus and Lucilla following you with their gaze as you left the villa

“What is going on?”, she asked, concerned as she looked at her friend

“I’m not sure”, he whispered, “I will make sure the medicus checks on her”, he assured her

“Is she with child?”, she asked with a small smile on her face

“No”, he said so surely, it made her frown. 

“You should check on her’’, she said after a long pause, he was going to say something, but then Thulia came with urgent eyes, looking straight at Marcus

“The domina was feeling unwell”, she said with warning “I have taken her to her rooms”, they both raised from the sofas quickly, “she is asleep”, she said, and it seemed so odd for Marcus, how could you have gotten sleep so quickly?

“What happened?”, he demanded, with his strong voice that made the sweet servant tremble in front of him.

“She was really upset”, she said, “she couldn’t breathe, so I gave her Valeriana to sleep”, she left quickly after that, leaving the both of them in the triclinium, sharing concerned looks. 

“Acacius”, she called, “did I make the right choice?”, it wasn’t a rhetorical question, her voice was tainted with disappointment, and it broke Marcus’ heart, “are you neglecting her?”, he wouldn’t quite use that word, but right now, as those words washed over him like a tidal wave, he came to the hard realization that maybe he had….

Did he?

“I’m so sorry…”, he whispered, “I thought I could… I thought that letting her have her space and her freedom was going to be enough, to keep her content, and to protect her”, he whispered. 

“Oh Acacius”, she sighed, “you might know how to conquer cities, but you know little of conquering women”, she said with a lament

“Lucilla, I am sorry”, he said, “I am here to protect her…”

“You married her”, she remind him, “I did not intent for you to keep her in a shelf”

“Lucilla”, he did not know what to do with this conversation.

“If you are not going to do this right, don’t do this at all”, she said, “we are breaking her heart Acacius”, she whispered sadly.

And now he didn’t know what to say.

You opened your eyes and you were met with your uncle’s deep piercing gaze, looking down upon you, those ghostly blue eyes, darkened by those deep dark circles under his eyes. 

“Uncle Commodus?”, your childish voice sounded so foreign, “what are you doing?”, you asked after you giggled

“I watch you sleep littlest princess”, he said simply

“Why?”, you asked him

“You sleep so peacefully”, he explained, with that sharp voice of his, “tell me something little one…”, you just looked at him expectantly, “do you sleep so well because you are so loved?”

“Ah!”, you awoke, shaken, sitting on the bed. Your chest ached and you felt your heart beating so hard you thought it was going to come out by your mouth.

It felt so real, like the former Emperor had been right there in front of you. 

When you came to your senses you realized you were in your room, the sun barely gazing upon the horizon. 

Marcus was right there, sitting on an uncomfortable wooden chair, he was asleep but as soon as he sensed you had shifted he opened his eyes slowly. 

Your mother was sitting on the other side of your bed. Had she slept here in your villa last night? Where is she and Marcus?... you looked back at him and you felt nauseous

“What happened?”, you asked, you felt groggy

“You were so upset, Thulia gave you something to make you sleep”, explained your mother, caressing your cheek, but unlike the times before, her touch made you uneasy, it didn’t soothe you.

She must have known

How could she not? you could even tell now as you saw the way Marcus looked at her, so, she must have known he loved her. 

She knew and she married you to him anyway, was all of this just some sick game to her? you never thought she could be so cruel, but the proof was there. 

“How are you feeling?”, your face turned to Acacius, he seemed really concerned. You looked at him, and then back at your mother, only the three of you in the room. 

You wanted to cry again

“I’ll leave you both alone”, said your mother with a shy smile, “I should go back home”.

“Actually…”, you said quickly, “I would like to rest, alone”, you begged them, they exchanged concerned looks and Marcus even had the decency to look hurt by your words

“Of course”, he said, rising from the stool by the side of your bed, and they both left the room.

You dozed off a bit after they left, your mind clouded with images of the past, of your uncle, of your brother, of the fear after your grandfather’s passing, the uncertainty. You were older than Lucius, you remember more vividly, your mother’s fear, the way she kept you guarded and in a separate wing at the palace, now you had the perspective of adulthood you understood why…. the attitude your uncle had, regarding your mother… the danger you were all in… 

Why were you dreaming about him now? After all this time?

Marcus himself entered your room slowly, looking at you with his big eyes. 

“I wished to speak to you, wife”, he said softly. You feared what he had to say, but he seemed relaxed, not like he was about to tell you he was divorcing you because he loved your mother and she loved him too and they were going to finally get married and abandon you…

You were spiraling

“Yes Acacius”, you said softly

“Marcus”, he said, frowning

“Marcus”, you offered. you played with your fingers nervously. 

“Wife”, he called, oh he wanted your whole attention, you raised your head to look at him, you still find it odd that he called you that, before he left for Hispania, he used to call you by your name only, “the medicus and I believe, that for my recovering health, it would be best if we retreated to the country”, he said, and that truly surprised you, “As you know, I have a villa at the edge of lake Bracciano, up north the Via Clodia”, he explained softly, and that truly sounded like a dream.

He seemed to relax once he saw your small smile.

Oh so he wasn’t going to run away with your mother, he wanted to take you with him, alone… 

“We should”, you encouraged, “we should go, for your health”

Something strange happened, as for the very first time since he was married to you, he seemed to truly… see you… he gazed upon you, upon your face, with something you would have liked to see on the day you married him. 

But he was… again… playing with you, probably.

But the thought of going to the country truly excited you. You could take Luna, you were certain she was going to be happy in the country, free and with all the grass she could eat… and you too… 

Maybe just maybe… you could hold on into a bit of hope.

PCN: I don't like it when chapters have too many "spacers", but i think this is neccesary, you know? to amrk a "change of scene", I ask for forgiveness for any writting mistakes, I was -as always- excited to post this! JEJEJEE

“El embrujo” it's a cumbia song from an artist I like 😂 the song states that "everyones" saying that this woman put a spell on him, on the singer, because he had have many lovers, but he loves her so much she probably “bewtiched him” and then he goes on and says “so what? if its true, let it be! Enchanted and bewitched by you, so what? I’m happy, do not broke this spell on me” hahahaha, Marcus is now somewhat enchanted and we don’t want anything to do with with! talk about timing!

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