#lucius x f!reader

[stylesispunk]

Blades of Fate

marcus Acacius x f!reader / lucius x f!reader

Summary: Lucius and you are celebrated champions of the arena, each with their own unique force. Marcus Acacius returning from a victorious campaign, attends a grand gladiatorial event where he witnesses your bravery firsthand and something about you captivates him.

w.c: 4,4k

warnings: messy writing, angst, mentions of blood, mentions of violence, and mentions of arranged marriage, tension

a/n: okay, I had two days off from work and I still have post london depression, but I finally wrote something and I had no idea what the plot of this was or is, but I was dying for writing something about this two characters and I out them both here. Okay I have no idea what plot gladiator II will follow so this is the only thing that came to my mind. Perhaps some events or details of the story will not fit with the history events of the Roman empire and gladiators, but still this is just for fun. Reblogs and comments are always appreciated. I hope you like it and have fun reading 💌.

dividers by: @/saradika-graphics

The sun hung high in the Roman sky, casting golden rays over the Colosseum's colossal structure. The massive stone amphitheater, a testament to Roman engineering and grandeur, was alive with the roar of the crowd. Citizens from all walks of life, from the lowly plebeians to the esteemed senators, filled the seats, their cheers and shouts blending into a symphony of anticipation.

The blood of past battles stained the sand in the heart of the arena, a silent witness to the countless lives lost for entertainment. Today, the atmosphere was electric with excitement, for the arena was set to witness a spectacle unlike any other. The gates on either end of the battleground creaked open, and out stepped two of Rome's most revered gladiators.

Lucius, tall and muscular, with a presence that commanded respect, raised his sword to the cheering masses. His sharp and focused eyes scanned the crowd before settling on his partner. You, a gladiatrix of unparalleled skill, moved with a grace that belied the brutality of your fate, matching the rage of your lover. Your lithe form was clad in leather armor, and your hair was braided back to reveal a face marked by determination and a fierce will to survive.

Seeing a woman fight wasn’t something common, but you had won your respect and reputation, and besides Lucius, you had become nothing but stronger, a team, as the two champions you were destined to be.

A hush fell over the Colosseum. The only sound was the distant call of a hawk, circling high above, as if it too were a spectator. Then, with a sudden crash, the gates on the opposite end burst open, and their opponents emerged—a team of seasoned warriors, each one a formidable foe.

The only sound was the distant call of a hawk, circling high above, as if it too were a spectator. Then, with a sudden crash, the gates on the opposite end burst open, and their opponents emerged—a team of seasoned warriors, each one a formidable foe, determined to bring down the beloved gladiators.

The battle began with a clash of steel and a flurry of movement. Lucius and you fought with seamless coordination; your movements synchronized as if you were one entity. Lucius's strength and brute force were complemented perfectly by your agility and precision. The two of you moved through your opponents like a tempest, leaving a trail of fallen adversaries in your wake.

High above, in the VIP stands, General Marcus Acacius watched intently. His stern face, weathered by years of warfare and command, betrayed no emotion. Known for his ruthless efficiency and strategic brilliance, Marcus had seen countless battles, but there was something about these two gladiators that intrigued him. Your skill was undeniable, but it was your unspoken bond, your mutual trust and respect, that caught his attention.

As the last of your opponent’s fell, the crowd erupted in deafening applause. Lucius and you stood victorious, your chests heaving from exertion, but your eyes were sharp and alert. You raised your weapons in salute to the crowd and then, as one, turned your gaze towards Marcus.

From his seat, Marcus leaned forward slightly, a faint smile playing on his lips. "Arrange for a private meeting," he instructed his aide, his voice carrying the weight of command. "I want to see if their skills match their reputation."

The aide nodded and hurried off, while Marcus's gaze remained fixed on the two of you. There was something about you both—a spark that he couldn't quite place. He intended to find out what it was and how it could serve his own purposes.

As you and Lucius exited the arena, you exchanged a smile. Another victory, another day of survival in a world you didn’t choose but were destined to be part of. You reached out, gently touching his arm. “We are a team,” you said, trying to convince yourself that the love you had for him was bigger than the exhaustion you felt.

Lucius looked down at your hand on his arm, then back at you. “Yes, Dulcissima,” he said softly. He closed his eyes; there was a sort of pain evident on his face. “But I want us to be free from all of this," he admitted.

He opened his eyes, searching for yours once more. The anger had faded, replaced by a deep sorrow. "Dulcissima,” the nickname, slipped from his lips once again. “I want us to get married, and I want to make you happy.”

You stared at him in disbelief, the weight of his words sinking in. “Lucius,” you whispered, overwhelmed by the sudden rush of emotions.

Lucius took your hand in his; his grip was firm yet tender. "I’ve been thinking about this for a long time," he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. "Every time we step into that arena, I fear it might be our last. I don’t want to lose you, not without having truly lived with you."

Your heart ached at his words. You had always known the dangers of your life as a gladiatrix, but hearing Lucius speak so openly about his fears brought a new depth to your own anxieties. "I want that too, Lucius," you replied, your voice trembling with emotion. "But how can we ever be free?"

Lucius's eyes darkened with determination. "We’ll find a way. There has to be more to life than this constant struggle. We’ll fight for our freedom together."

Before you could respond, a group of soldiers approached, their stern faces in stark contrast to the celebration that surrounded you. The leader, a tall centurion with a scar running down his cheek, addressed you both. "General Marcus Acacius has requested your presence for a private meeting. Follow us."

You and Lucius exchanged a quick glance, both sensing the gravity of the situation. With a nod, you followed the soldiers through the winding corridors of the Colosseum, your minds racing with thoughts of what the general might want.

The soldiers led you to a grand chamber within the Colosseum, its walls adorned with intricate tapestries and bronze statues of Rome’s greatest heroes. General Marcus Acacius stood near a large table, studying a map spread out before him. As you entered, he looked up, his eyes locking onto yours with keen intensity.

"Welcome," Marcus said, his voice smooth and commanding. "I wanted to speak with you both personally. Your performance in the arena today was nothing short of extraordinary."

"Thank you, General," Lucius replied, his tone respectful but guarded.

Marcus nodded, a slight smile playing on his lips. "And honor Rome you have. But I sense that there’s more to your partnership than just skill and survival. There’s a deeper connection, one that could be of great use."

You felt a chill run down your spine at his words. "What do you mean, General?" you asked cautiously.

Marcus leaned forward, his eyes piercing. "I’m offering you an opportunity—a chance to fight for something greater than yourselves. To serve Rome in a way that could ultimately lead to your freedom."

Lucius’s grip on your hand tightened slightly. "We’re listening," he said, his voice steady.

Marcus gestured to the map on the table. "Rome is expanding, but with that expansion comes the need for strong, capable leaders. I believe the two of you could be valuable assets in securing our borders and maintaining order. Prove yourselves in the upcoming challenge, and I’ll ensure that your skills are recognized. There could be a future for you beyond the arena, one where you have a say in your own destiny." He paused. "However," he continued, a glint of challenge in his eyes, "I propose a new test of their mettle. A special event, where our gladiatrix will face my finest soldiers in a mock battle."

A murmur of excitement rippled through the hall. You felt a surge of determination at the general's words. This was more than a mere challenge; it was an opportunity to prove yourself further in the eyes of Rome and its most powerful figures.

You stepped forward, your voice clear and resolute. "I accept your challenge, General. I will show you and all of Rome what a true gladiator is capable of."

Marcus nodded, a satisfied smile on his lips. "Very well. The event will be held in two days' time. May the gods favor the brave."

Lucius, standing beside you, gave your hand a reassuring squeeze. "We’ve faced worse," he whispered. "You’ll show them all."

Your heart raced at the prospect. Could this be the chance you and Lucius have been longing for? Is there a way to escape the bloodshed and find a life together, free from the chains of the Colosseum?

"We’ll do it," you said firmly, meeting Marcus’s gaze with unwavering resolve. "We’ll prove ourselves."

Marcus’s smile widened; satisfaction was evident in his eyes. "Good. The challenge will take place in two days. Prepare yourselves, and may the gods be with you."

As the banquet continued, you couldn’t shake the feeling that this challenge was more than just a test of skill. It was a pivotal moment, one that could alter the course of your life and your bond with Lucius. And in the shadows, the ever-watchful eyes of Marcus Acacius followed your every move, already plotting the next step in his intricate game.

The next two days were a blur of intense preparation. You and Lucius trained tirelessly, refining your techniques and strategizing for the upcoming mock battle. The anticipation in the air was palpable, both among the gladiators and the spectators who eagerly awaited the spectacle.

On the morning of the event, the Colosseum was packed with spectators, their cheers echoing through the grand structure. The atmosphere was electric, charged with the excitement of the unknown. This was no ordinary battle; it was a test that would determine your fate and perhaps even reshape your destiny.

Marcus stood on a platform overlooking the arena, his presence commanding respect. He raised his hand, signaling for silence. "Today, we witness a display of courage, skill, and determination," he announced, his voice carrying across the Colosseum. "Our gladiatrix will face my finest soldiers in a test of strength and strategy. Let the battle begin!"

The gates creaked open, and you stepped into the arena, your heart pounding with a mix of nerves and adrenaline. Across from you stood Marcus’s elite soldiers, their expressions hard and focused. You glanced at Lucius, who stood at the edge of the arena, his eyes locked onto yours with unwavering support.

"Together," you whispered to yourself, drawing strength from the bond you shared with Lucius.

The clash of steel rang out as the battle commenced, a whirlwind of movement and noise. You moved with a grace and ferocity that left your opponents reeling; your every strike was precise and powerful. Despite the odds, you fought with everything you had, driven by the desire for freedom and a future with Lucius.

As the battle raged on, you felt a surge of energy, pushing yourself beyond your limits. You danced around your opponents, using your agility and speed to outmaneuver them. The crowd's cheers grew louder with each successful strike, their excitement fueling your resolve.

Finally, as the last soldier fell, a hush descended over the arena. You stood victorious, your chest heaving, your body bruised and battered but unbroken. The crowd erupted in applause; their cheers were a testament to your triumph.

Marcus descended from the platform, his eyes filled with admiration and something else—something deeper. "You have proven yourself today," he said, his voice carrying a note of respect. "Your skills and determination are unmatched. You are a true warrior."

You nodded, the weight of his words sinking in. "Thank you, General," you replied, your voice steady despite the exhaustion.

Lucius rushed to your side, his eyes filled with pride and relief. "You did it," he whispered, pulling you into a tight embrace. "I knew you would."

As you stood there, basking in the glow of victory, Marcus stepped closer, his gaze intense. "There is more to this than just a test of skill," he said quietly. "I see potential in you—a potential that could change the course of our future."

You looked at him, curiosity and apprehension swirling within you. "What do you mean?"

Marcus smiled a hint of mystery in his eyes. "All in due time. For now, rest and recover. We will speak again soon."

In the days that followed, you and Lucius were treated with newfound respect and admiration. The other gladiators looked up to you, and the soldiers who had once seen you as mere entertainment now saw you as formidable warriors. Yet, despite the praise and the promise of a brighter future, a sense of unease lingered in the air.

One evening, as you were returning to your quarters after another grueling day of training, a sudden commotion caught your attention. The sound of clashing steel and muffled shouts echoed through the corridors. You hurried towards the source of the disturbance, your heart pounding with a sense of impending danger.

As you rounded a corner, you were met with a chilling sight. Lucius was engaged in a fierce battle with a group of unknown assailants. His movements were swift and deadly, but he was outnumbered. Without a second thought, you drew your weapon and rushed to his aid, your determination burning brighter than ever.

Despite your best efforts, the sheer number of attackers overwhelmed you. You fought valiantly, but the odds were stacked against you. A sharp pain exploded in your side as one of the assailants landed a brutal blow, and you fell to your knees, your vision blurring.

Lucius's voice echoed in your ears, filled with desperation. "No! Leave her alone!" But his cries were in vain. The attackers overpowered him, and as darkness closed in, you felt yourself being dragged away.

When you awoke, you found yourself in a dimly lit cell, your hands bound with a rough rope. The cold stone walls pressed in around you, and the air was thick with the scent of dampness and decay. You struggled against your restraints, but they held firm.

Footsteps echoed down the corridor, growing louder with each passing second. The door to your cell creaked open, and Marcus stepped inside, his expression unreadable.

"You’re awake," he said quietly, his voice carrying a note of regret.

"Why?" you demanded, your voice hoarse. "Why did you do this?"

Marcus sighed, his eyes dark with emotion. "It wasn’t supposed to be like this," he said, stepping closer. "But there are forces at play here that even I cannot control. I had to act quickly to protect you."

"Protect me?" You spat, your anger flaring. "By taking me hostage?"

He knelt beside you, his gaze earnest. "Yes," he said softly. "There are those who see you as a threat and who would stop at nothing to eliminate you. I couldn’t let that happen. This was the only way to keep you safe."

You stared at him, your mind racing. "And what about Lucius? What have you done to him?"

Marcus’s expression tightened. "He’s unharmed for now. But there are conditions. You must stay here, cooperate with me, and in return, he will be spared."

Your heart ached with the weight of his words. The future you had envisioned with Lucius seemed to slip further away with each passing moment. "What do you want from me?" you asked, your voice trembling.

"I want you to trust me," Marcus said, his tone sincere. "I know it's a lot to ask, but I need you to believe that I’m doing this for the greater good. Together, we can change the course of history."

You looked into his eyes, searching for any sign of deceit. Instead, you found only a deep, unyielding resolve. Despite your anger and fear, a part of you wanted to believe him and trust that he had your best interests at heart.

"I’ll cooperate," you said finally, your voice steady. "But if anything happens to Lucius, I swear I will make you pay."

Marcus nodded, a flicker of relief crossing his features. "You have my word," he said. "Lucius will be safe.

The next evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm glow over the cell, Marcus arrived with a tray of food. He set it down on a small table and took a seat across from you. "How are you feeling?" he asked, his voice gentle.

You shrugged, picking at the food. "As well as one can feel in captivity," you replied, a hint of bitterness in your tone.

Marcus sighed. "I understand your frustration," he said. "But believe me, this is the only way to ensure your safety."

You looked up at him, your eyes searching for his. "And what about Lucius? How long do you intend to keep us apart?"

"Until it’s safe," he answered, his gaze unwavering. "There are those who would see you both dead. I need to neutralize that threat before I can reunite you."

You frowned, the weight of his words sinking in. "And how do I know I can trust you?"

“Because I wouldn’t hurt you,” he said, leaning forward towards you, his expression earnest. "I have given you my word. I will do everything in my power to protect you.”

“And Lucius,” you said.

“I don’t care about Lucius.” He confessed, “But if you ask me to protect him, I will.”

You recoiled slightly at Marcus's confession, his words echoing in your mind. "You don’t care about Lucius?" You repeated it, disbelief coloring your tone.

Marcus hesitated, his gaze dropping for a moment before meeting yours again. "Not in the same way I care about you," he admitted quietly. "But I understand how important he is to you. If protecting him means protecting you, then I will do it."

You took a deep breath, trying to process the storm of emotions swirling within you. Marcus’s honesty was unexpected, and it stirred something in you, something you could decipher.

"I appreciate your honesty," you said finally, your voice steady despite the turmoil in your heart. "But my loyalty lies with Lucius. He’s... he’s a part of me."

Marcus nodded slowly, his expression somber. "I understand," he said softly.

You looked your gaze with his; an electric feeling passed through the both of you, but you ignored it, not wanting to commit treason towards Lucius.

“I don’t like this life, you know?” Marcus began, his voice carrying the weight of the weariness of years and sincerity. He leaned forward slightly, his gaze searching yours as if seeking understanding.

You nodded slowly, feeling a surge of empathy for the man before you, the man who seemed to be different from his strong exterior. "I can imagine," you replied softly. "The burden of command, the weight of decisions that affect so many lives..."

Marcus sighed heavily, his shoulders slumping slightly. "It’s not just that," he admitted, his voice tinged with vulnerability. "I’ve seen too much bloodshed, too much senseless violence. In these gladiatorial games, they glorify death while the people cheer on."

His words resonated deeply with you, stirring up memories of battles fought and lives lost in the name of entertainment. "I never wanted to be a fighter," you confessed quietly. "I wanted... I wanted a life of peace, of freedom."

Marcus’s gaze softened, a flicker of understanding passing between you. "Yet here we are,” he murmured. “Bound by duty, by the expectations of others.”

You nodded, the weight of shared experience forging a fragile bond between you.

"I’ve spent my life in service to Rome, sacrificing countless lives for its glory. But lately, I find myself questioning the cost."

You nodded slowly, sensing the weight of his words. "I understand," you said quietly. "I’ve felt that way too, at times. I never wanted to be what I am now—to live and die by the sword. But I grew up with Lucius, and we shared the same resentment and anger at the hand life dealt me."

Marcus’s gaze softened, a flicker of understanding passing between you. "We’re more alike than you realize," he murmured. ”

"I never imagined my life would turn out like this," you admitted, a pang of vulnerability in your voice. "But every battle, every victory—it’s shaped who I am."

Marcus reached across the table, his hand resting gently on yours. "You’re stronger than you know," he said earnestly. "And you deserve more than the chains of the Colosseum."

You met his gaze, seeing a depth of compassion and empathy that surprised you. "What about that?" you asked softly. "What do I deserve?"

“To be caressed and protected,” he replied, not taking his eyes from yours.

His words stirred something deep within you—a yearning for tenderness and safety amidst the chaos of your existence. "And you?" you pressed gently, your heart racing with uncertainty and anticipation.

Marcus’s expression softened further, a flicker of vulnerability crossing his features. "To find redemption," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "To make amends for the lives I’ve sacrificed.”

You nodded slowly, the weight of his confession settling between you. "We both seek something more," you said softly, reaching to cover his hand with yours. "Perhaps we can find it."

The touch of your hands and the electricity were enough to make you guilty of sin.

"One of my men has uncovered a plot against you," Marcus confessed while holding your hand. "There are those who believe you and Lucius pose a threat to the stability of Rome. They’re planning an attack."

You drew in a sharp breath, the weight of his words settling heavily in your chest. "Who would want to harm us?" you asked, your voice tinged with concern and disbelief.

Marcus shook his head grimly. "Enemies within the Senate, rivals who see you as a symbol of defiance," he explained. "They fear the influence you hold over the people, over the rebels.”

You glanced at him, a mixture of fear and gratitude swirling within you. "What do I do?" you asked quietly, realizing the gravity of the situation.

Marcus’s gaze hardened, a flicker of determination crossing his features.

"What do you propose?" you asked, a sense of foreboding creeping over you.

Marcus took a deep breath, meeting your gaze with resolve. "An arranged marriage," he said quietly. "Between you and me."

You stared at him, stunned. "What?”

"Think about it," Marcus said, shifting closer. "As my wife, you would have the protection of my name and my position. It would make it much harder for our enemies to harm you. And it would give us the legitimacy and power we need to navigate the political landscape of Rome."

"But what about Lucius?" you demanded, your heart aching at the thought of betraying him.

"I would ensure his safety," Marcus promised. "He would be free, and you could see him. But we must present a united front to the world. This is the only way."

You turned away, struggling with your emotions. The thought of marrying Marcus, despite your growing bond, felt like a betrayal to Lucius. Yet, the logic of Marcus’s proposal was undeniable.

"Please, think about it," Marcus said softly, his voice filled with sincerity.

You spent the night wrestling with conflicting emotions, torn between loyalty to Lucius and the pragmatism of Marcus's proposal. As dawn broke, you found yourself standing before Marcus once more, a decision forming in your mind.

"I've thought about it," you began slowly, meeting Marcus's intense gaze with determination. "I... I agree."

Marcus's expression softened with relief, yet he remained composed. "Are you sure?" he asked, his voice laced with concern for your well-being.

You nodded, steeling yourself against the ache in your heart. "Yes. It's the best way to protect both of us, and Lucius too. We need to do this."

A weight seemed to lift from Marcus's shoulders, replaced by a renewed sense of purpose. "Thank you," he murmured, stepping closer to take your hands in his. "You won't regret this. I'll make sure to be the best husband.”

As Marcus took your hands in his, a sense of finality settled over you. The decision was made, driven by a combination of necessity and the undeniable connection you felt with him. Despite the pang of guilt for Lucius, you knew this was a path you had chosen for the safety and future stability it promised.

"I need you to know that my heart belongs to Lucius," you replied softly, meeting Marcus's earnest gaze. "But I’ll believe you’ll prove me right."

A faint smile touched Marcus's lips; relief and determination shone in his eyes. "We'll face this together," he said, his voice steady with conviction. "I'll ensure that you're protected and that we navigate these turbulent times with strength and unity."

Marcus nodded solemnly, his gaze unwavering as he listened to your heartfelt confession. "I understand," he replied softly, his voice tinged with both acceptance and a hint of sadness. "I will do everything in my power to earn your trust and respect."

You felt a surge of gratitude towards Marcus, appreciating his understanding despite the complex emotions involved. "Thank you," you murmured, squeezing his hands gently. "For being so understanding."

A sense of mutual respect and determination filled the space between you, a silent agreement to face the challenges ahead. Marcus's commitment to protect you and navigate the political intricacies of Rome gave you a measure of reassurance in the midst of uncertainty.

"We'll announce our intentions and make preparations," Marcus continued, his voice regaining its usual resolve. "Our marriage will be more than just a shield; it will be a symbol of unity and strength."

As you nodded in agreement, a sense of resolve settled within you. Despite your heart belonging to Lucius, you knew that this alliance with Marcus was necessary.

When Marcus left your side, you looked up at the sky, promising heaven and God that Lucius would be your only love, just as the weight of your decision settled in your chest—a blend of duty and sacrifice for a greater cause—for your freedom. Despite the practicality of your alliance with Marcus, your heart still yearned for Lucius, a truth you held onto in the quiet moments.

Unbeknownst to you, Marcus observed you from a distance, his gaze fixed on you with a newfound sense of purpose. As he watched you under the vast Roman sky, a resolve hardened within him. He had made a commitment to protect you, but now he harbored a deeper ambition—to win your heart.

[ay0nha]

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

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

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

WORD COUNT: 2.4K

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Time?” Lucius looked to you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Able or willing?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 “You have my word.”

[andy-15-07]

An heir of Rome

PAIRING: Lucius Verus Aurelius x f!reader

WORD COUNT: 1485

Paul Mescal Masterlist

The grand marble halls of the Palatine Hill glowed golden under the setting Roman sun. Empress Y/N gazed out over the sprawling Forum, her silk stola cascading around her like water, the fine fabric embroidered with golden laurels befitting her station. A servant entered quietly, bowing low.

“Your Imperial Majesty,” the servant said softly, head bowed, “the Emperor awaits you in the gardens.”

Y/N smiled faintly, already knowing what this would mean. Lucius Verus Aurelius, her husband and the newly crowned ruler of the Roman Empire, often found peace among the blooming flora of their private sanctuary, far removed from the relentless politics of the Senate and the demands of the people. She dismissed the servant with a wave and made her way to him.

She found Lucius standing beneath an olive tree, his golden-brown curls illuminated by the dying light of day. He wore his imperial toga loosely, the purple of royalty draped casually over his powerful shoulders. He turned at the sound of her footsteps, his face breaking into a rare, unguarded smile reserved only for her.

“Y/N,” he said warmly, closing the distance between them. His hands found hers, calloused from years of training with the sword, yet gentle as they enveloped her smaller ones. “You’ve been hiding from me today.”

“I’ve been thoughtful,” she replied, her tone teasing but her gaze searching his. “Your Senate meetings are as tedious for me to hear about as they are for you to attend.”

Lucius chuckled, the sound deep and rich. “You’ve no idea. If I could abandon them all and spend my days here with you, I would.”

“You’d miss the thrill of the arena,” she countered, raising a brow. “And the glory of Rome.”

His expression softened. “Rome is nothing without you by my side, Y/N. I meant every word I said when we wed. You are my equal in all things.”

Her heart swelled at his words, though a shadow of uncertainty flickered within her. What she had to tell him now would change their lives forever.

“Lucius,” she began, her voice trembling slightly, “there’s something I must tell you.”

His brow furrowed, concern flashing in his amber eyes. “What is it, my love?”

She took his hand and placed it over her abdomen, her voice barely above a whisper. “I am with child.”

For a moment, time seemed to stand still. Lucius stared at her, uncomprehending, before the realization dawned. His eyes widened, and a joyous laugh escaped his lips.

“By the gods!” he exclaimed, lifting her effortlessly into his arms and spinning her around. “An heir! Y/N, you’ve given me the greatest gift of all.”

His exuberance was contagious, and she found herself laughing as well, her worries momentarily forgotten. He set her down gently but kept his hands on her waist, his expression turning serious.

“Are you well? Have you seen the physicians? You must take no risks. Tell me what you need, and it shall be done.”

“I am well,” she assured him, touched by his concern. “And I have already consulted with the palace medics. They say all is as it should be.”

He cupped her face in his hands, his gaze fierce and tender. “You must promise me, Y/N. No more long walks in the heat, no late nights with the advisors. I will not have anything threaten you or our child.”

“I promise,” she said softly, placing a hand over his. “But you must promise me something in return.”

“Anything.”

“You will not let the weight of Rome crush you, Lucius. You are a warrior, but even warriors need rest.”

He smiled, leaning down to press a lingering kiss to her forehead. “As long as I have you, I will never falter.”

---

Months passed, and as Y/N’s belly swelled, Lucius grew more protective. He personally oversaw her safety, ensuring no harm could come to her. Their nights were filled with quiet moments of intimacy, his hands resting on her abdomen as they spoke of the future.

Finally, the day arrived. The palace was thrown into a flurry of activity as Y/N went into labor. Lucius refused to leave her side, despite the protests of the midwives.

“Stay with me,” Y/N whispered, her face pale but determined.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he assured her, his voice steady despite the fear gripping his heart.

Hours passed, each moment stretching into eternity. Y/N’s cries of pain tore at Lucius, but he held her hand, whispering words of encouragement and love.

At last, a sharp cry filled the room, and the midwife held up a squirming, red-faced infant.

“It’s a girl,” she announced, her voice reverent.

Lucius stared in awe as the child was placed in Y/N’s arms. Her tiny features were delicate, yet she cried with the force of a storm, filling the room with her presence.

Lucius knelt beside Y/N, tears streaming down his face as he touched the soft cheek of his daughter.

“She’s perfect,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “Our daughter. Our future Empress.”

Y/N smiled weakly, her exhaustion evident, but her joy radiant. “She will rule Rome one day, Lucius. And she will do so with strength and wisdom.”

Lucius pressed a kiss to Y/N’s forehead, his heart overflowing. “She will be the greatest ruler Rome has ever known. Just like her mother.”

He held his daughter in his arms, marveling at her tiny fingers curling around his. “You have my heart already, little one,” he murmured. “I will protect you and your mother with my life.”

The room was quiet now, save for the soft cooing of their newborn daughter nestled against Y/N’s chest. The midwives had retreated to give the imperial family a moment of privacy, leaving Lucius, Y/N, and their child surrounded by the glow of flickering oil lamps.

Lucius knelt beside the bed, his fingers brushing against the baby’s cheek in awe. Her tiny features were a perfect blend of them both—Y/N’s delicate nose and soft lips, framed by the faintest wisp of golden-brown hair, like his own.

“She’s so small,” Lucius whispered, his voice filled with reverence. “And yet, she already feels like the strongest part of me.”

Y/N smiled through her exhaustion, cradling the baby close. “She’s already taken your heart, hasn’t she?”

“Completely,” Lucius admitted, his amber eyes gleaming with unshed tears. He leaned forward, his lips brushing the top of his daughter’s head with infinite tenderness. “I’ve never known love like this, Y/N. Not until you, and now her.”

He straightened, his expression shifting to one of solemnity as he looked between his wife and child. “She deserves a name worthy of her destiny. She will not just be our daughter; she will be a symbol of hope for Rome, a future Empress who will rule with wisdom and grace.”

Y/N tilted her head, her tired eyes soft with curiosity. “Have you chosen a name, my love?”

Lucius nodded, a small smile breaking through his seriousness. “Aurelia. For the golden light she brings into our lives and the strength she will carry as our heir. Aurelia Verina.”

“Aurelia,” Y/N repeated, her voice barely above a whisper as she looked down at their daughter. “It’s perfect, Lucius.”

Their daughter stirred in her arms, her tiny fingers curling instinctively around Y/N’s thumb. Lucius watched the interaction with awe before gently taking one of the baby’s hands in his own, marveling at her fragility.

“She will be loved, cherished,” he vowed, his voice steady despite the emotion behind it. “And she will know the strength of her mother’s heart.”

Y/N reached for Lucius’ hand, entwining their fingers as they gazed down at Aurelia together. “And she will know the courage of her father,” Y/N added softly. “With us, she will never lack for love.”

Lucius settled onto the edge of the bed beside Y/N, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. For a moment, the weight of Rome seemed distant, unimportant compared to the warmth of his wife and daughter in his arms.

Aurelia shifted again, letting out a small cry. Y/N chuckled, adjusting the blanket around the baby. “She already has your spirit, Lucius. Fierce and demanding attention.”

Lucius laughed, a deep, genuine sound that filled the room. “If she has your patience, she’ll balance it well. Together, she’ll be unstoppable.”

As the baby quieted, Lucius leaned his head against Y/N’s, his lips brushing her temple. “This is everything I’ve ever dreamed of, Y/N. A family. A future.”

“And Rome will be stronger for it,” Y/N murmured, resting her head against his shoulder.

For the first time in what felt like years, Lucius allowed himself to relax, to be not just Emperor, but a husband and father. As Aurelia drifted into sleep, Y/N leaned into Lucius’ embrace, and the three of them shared a quiet moment of peace, wrapped in love and the promise of tomorrow.

In the stillness, Lucius whispered to his daughter, “Sleep well, Aurelia. You are the light of our lives and the hope of Rome. I will protect you with every breath I have.”

And with that, Lucius tightened his hold on his family, feeling an unshakable sense of purpose. Rome’s future was no longer an abstraction—it was here, in his arms. And he would ensure it would flourish.

[foli-vora]

vulcanalia lucius verus x f!reader x marcus acacius

a/n: yeah i honestly don't know what this is - i got dragged in by beautiful gif sets and horny thoughts and peer pressure (thanks @juletheghoul). just a little thing to get them out of my system before work. this was co-written with my vagina. enjoy. word count: 627 warnings: SMUT 18+ ONLY: rough unprotected p in v, exhibitionism, creampie, cum eating, a smidgen of a breeding kink somewhere in there, mention of f rec oral, an absolute mess of a drabble tbh

They can hear your cries, you’re sure of it. You lack the strength to do anything about it, lack the concern or embarrassment. Behind the fire biting at your flesh and the threat of ecstasy lingering just within reach, you feel the force from which they’re torn from you. You hold no hope against such power, such fury.

He’s unyielding.

Bruising hands, bloodied from victory, fingers dug deep into the flesh of your hips to ensure your body escapes none of his thrusts. You’re gladly at the gladiator’s full mercy, knees burning and arms shaking, left with nothing but to skate your hands over crumpled linens in search of stability and endure.

Lucius runs a roughened hand across your shoulder, thick calloused fingers winding around your throat and pulling until you’re curling back into his touch, rising back into the heat of his sweat slicked chest and displaying your victory of taking him so well—a showcase to the other man present in the room, lounging against plush cushions and illuminated by warm candlelight.

The General.

He had taken his fill of you already, always the first to claim you upon arrival. His own personal reward, his right. Though he used a softer touch than that of the gladiator, it was to never be mistaken for weakness. Strength, control, lingers behind the hands he uses to strip you, to pin your thighs open at his mercy and to beckon your pleasure forward with an expert touch.

Unlike the gladiator, he prefers to feel the hot press of your chest against his own as he fills you again and again, thick cock rutting so deeply into your weeping cunt you swear you feel him hit places unknown to you.

Caged between the arms that carry the weight of the entire army, you’re left with nowhere to hide. He sees all, eyes roaming your face as you meet your end over and over, relentless in his pursuit of more until tears begin to spring in your eyes and his name is nothing but a broken plea on your lips.

Only when he decides you’ve had enough does he allow himself to fill you, hips so tight up against your own as his cock twitches and pulses within you, flooding your cunt with spend until he feels it begin to seep out from around him. Perhaps one day you’d sire a child, his child. The triumph of his efforts, the success of truly claiming you before the gladiator.

Lucius feels the remnants of the General as he fucks into you, the silky smooth feel of it hot where it mingles with your own pleasure coating his cock and wetting his thighs. The taste of you both still lingers on his tongue, still sits heavy and wet within his facial hair from how he devoured you once Marcus was through with you, his mouth eager and open against your cunt as you cried and rocked against his face until finding starlight.

More.

With your back pressed against his chest, he allows his hands to roam down until he feels where his cock stretches you, running teasingly over the swollen nerve that causes you to jolt in his arms before swiping through the mess and soaking his fingers. You know what he wants, and your lips part before he can even make the demand of it.

You taste it all—the victory of battle, ecstasy that could rival the Heavens. Lucius chases it, fingers hard around your chin as he twists you to meet his mouth. He steals what he can, tongue hot and demanding against yours until he’s breaking away with a low groan, ocean eyes soon finding the ever watchful ones across the room.

“Care for a sample of your work, General?”

[theetherealbloom]

IF THERE'S NOTHING LEFT - CH.3

Chapter Three: Where Passion Meets Insane, Where Pleasure Kisses Pain

Summary: You, a skilled healer, are brought to Rome by Senator Gracchus under the pretense of treating gladiators and Roman elites. You work with General Marcus Acacius to fight against the cruel reign of the twin emperors. Through danger and shared hope, your connection becomes a source of strength as you both dream of freeing Rome.

Paring: General Marcus Acacius x F!Reader

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI, ANGST, Fluff, SMUT, HEAVY SMUT, Age-Gap(ish), Ancient Rome, Canon-Typical Violence, Gladiators, Blood, Gore, Romance, Politics, Alternate Universe, Eventual SMUT, Slavery, Sexism, Misogyny, Guilt, PTSD, Rebellion, Empires, (Very Light) Strangers-to-Enemies-to-Friends-to-Lovers, Crowds, Shouting, Animals, Duels, Loose Historical Fiction, Kissing, Loss of Virginity, Virgin Reader, PWP,

Word Count: 6.6k

A/N: I was like… HRMMMM, do I write more canon plot or… and then I realized what was gonna happen in the next few chapters LMAO so here’s a little smut breather and very little plot. HAPPY HOLIDAYS TO YA’LL!! Hope you are all safe and warm!

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

Song: “Slut!” (Taylor’s Version) (From the Vault) By Taylor Swift

gif by @pedrohub

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LUCILLA'S VILLA – NIGHTFALL

The taste of his kiss lingered on your lips, intoxicating and relentless, as if Marcus had poured every unspoken thought, every repressed feeling into the way his mouth moved against yours. His words echoed in your mind—I’d burn the world to ash just to feel the heat of you. It sent a shiver coursing down your spine, igniting something deep within, something you couldn’t deny any longer.

His hands, rough from years of battle, cupped your face as if you were something delicate. But there was no gentleness in the way he kissed you now, no hesitation in the way he pressed his body against yours, backing you against the cool stone wall. The chill of the marble was a stark contrast to the feverish heat building between you, and it stole your breath, made your head spin.

“Tell me to stop,” Marcus murmured against your lips, though his hands betrayed him, sliding down your sides, mapping every curve with reverence. His voice was raw, his breath heavy. “Tell me, and I will.”

But you didn’t want him to stop. The storm of emotions you’d been carrying—the fear, the anger, the longing—crashed over you, and for once, you let yourself drown. You pulled him closer, your fingers twisting in the fabric of his tunic, desperate to feel the solidness of him beneath your touch.

“I don’t want you to stop,” you whispered, the admission barely audible but heavy with meaning.

Marcus groaned, a low, guttural sound that reverberated through your chest, and his restraint seemed to snap. His lips found yours again, more demanding this time, his teeth grazing your lower lip before he soothed it with his tongue. Your knees threatened to buckle under the weight of it all, but his strong arm slipped around your waist, holding you steady, keeping you pressed firmly against him.

His free hand moved to the tie of your tunic, his fingers working deftly to loosen the knot. The fabric slipped from your shoulders, pooling at your feet in a whisper of silk. The cool night air kissed your bare skin, but it was nothing compared to the warmth of Marcus’s touch as his hands roamed, calloused yet gentle, reverent as they traced the curve of your spine, the dip of your waist.

“You’re beautiful,” he breathed, his voice rough with awe. His forehead pressed against yours, his dark eyes searching your face as if memorizing every detail. “You don’t even realize, do you?”

You opened your mouth to respond, but the words were stolen by his lips, trailing a searing path down your jaw, your neck, the hollow of your throat. Each kiss was deliberate, lingering, as if he was savoring the taste of you, the feel of you. You gasped as his teeth grazed your collarbone, a sharp contrast to the softness of his tongue that followed, soothing the sting.

“Marcus…” you whispered his name, a prayer and a plea, your fingers threading through his hair, tugging just enough to make him look up at you. His gaze burned, dark and smoldering, filled with a hunger that made your breath catch.

“Say it again,” he urged, his voice a gravelly whisper. “Say my name.”

“Marcus,” you repeated, your voice trembling, and the way his name fell from your lips seemed to unravel him completely.

He lifted you effortlessly, his hands firm on your thighs as he carried you across the room. The faint flicker of the lantern cast shadows on the walls, dancing in time with the pounding of your heart. He laid you down on the soft cushions of the divan, his body covering yours in an instant, his weight grounding you, anchoring you to this moment.

The room was cloaked in the soft glow of lantern light, their flickering flames painting golden shadows over the marble walls and silk-draped furniture. Outside, the distant chirping of cicadas filled the balmy Roman night, but inside, the air was heavy, dense with an unspoken need that had simmered for too long.  

Marcus knelt before you, his strong hands resting on your knees, thumbs brushing your skin with a reverence that made you shiver. His armor had been shed, and in its absence, he was entirely human—scarred, broad-shouldered, and devastatingly vulnerable in the dim light. His dark eyes, which had once commanded armies, now looked up at you with quiet devotion.  

"Do not hide from me," he murmured as you instinctively tried to press your legs together. His voice, roughened by years of shouting orders in battle, softened into something low and coaxing, almost tender. With a deliberate motion, his hands slid higher, spreading your thighs once more. “Where do you think you’re going? There is nothing about you I do not wish to see. Nothing that is not worthy of my adoration.”  

Heat bloomed in your cheeks, a mixture of embarrassment and anticipation, as his words wrapped around you like a silk thread. “Marcus, I—” you started, but he silenced you with a kiss to the inside of your knee, then another, trailing higher with each one.  

“Don’t be shy,” he said, his lips ghosting over the sensitive skin of your thigh. “Not with me. Never with me.”  

Each kiss he pressed to your skin was deliberate, each touch of his hands a quiet plea for you to trust him. “Do you know how many nights I have lain awake, tormented by the thought of you?” he murmured, his voice thick with longing. “I have fought battles, stared death in the face, but nothing has ever made my heart quake as you do. You are more than perfect—you are divine.”  

Your breath hitched as his lips traveled closer to your center. His hands slid beneath you, lifting you slightly as he positioned himself, his gaze locked onto yours, unyielding in its intensity. “I’ve been wanting to taste you,” he admitted, his voice husky and low, like a prayer whispered in a temple. “To know the sweetness of you, like honeyed figs kissed by the sun.”  

“Are you sure?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.  

His answering smile was tender, his lips brushing against the crease of your thigh as he spoke. “More certain than I have ever been of anything. Let me worship you, my love.”  

And then his mouth was on you, and the world around you ceased to exist. His tongue moved with slow precision, tasting, teasing, as if savoring every moment. The first deliberate stroke sent a shiver through you, your hands flying to his hair, tangling in the dark curls.  

“Marcus,” you gasped, his name tumbling from your lips like a plea.  

“Speak my name again,” he murmured against you, his lips curling into a smile before he kissed you there once more, his tongue delving deeper. The sounds he made—low hums of satisfaction, quiet groans of need—mixed with the sinful wetness of his mouth on you, creating a symphony that left you trembling.  

“You taste of the gods’ own nectar,” he said between strokes, his voice rough yet reverent. “Do you feel how your body responds to me? Do you see how beautiful you are in this moment?”  

Your legs wrapped around his broad shoulders, pulling him closer, holding him in place as your hips moved of their own accord, chasing the pleasure he so expertly provided. His strong hands gripped your thighs, his thumbs pressing into your flesh as he guided your movements, his tongue unrelenting in its worship.  

“Is this okay?” he asked, his voice muffled but insistent, his eyes flicking up to meet yours.  

“Don’t stop,” you begged, your voice cracking with desperation.  

“You are magnificent,” he praised, his lips glistening as he spoke. “Every part of you—every sound, every tremble, every gasp. You are shaped by the gods themselves, and I am but a humble man, unworthy of such a gift.”  

His words were your undoing. The wave of pleasure built steadily, cresting higher and higher until it finally broke, crashing over you with an intensity that left you gasping for air. Your back arched, your cries echoing through the villa, shameless and unrestrained.  

When you came down, Marcus was still between your thighs, pressing gentle kisses to your skin as if soothing you, his hands rubbing slow circles over your hips. He rose then, his broad form towering over you as he began to untie the fastenings of his tunic. The fabric fell away, revealing his body in its entirety—sculpted muscle, battle-worn scars, and a thick, throbbing length that left your breath hitching anew.  

Your gaze faltered, nerves creeping in despite the intimacy you had just shared. “General—” you began, your voice trembling.  

Marcus knelt beside you, his hand cupping your cheek as his eyes softened. “What is it, my love?”  

“I…” You hesitated, the words catching in your throat. “I’ve never… I’m a virgin. My maidenhood—it’s still intact. I’ve never been with anyone before.”  

A flicker of something passed over his face—surprise, perhaps, followed swiftly by understanding. He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “My Carissima,” he murmured, his voice filled with quiet reverence. “You honor me with your trust. I will not hurt you, I swear it. If this is too much, if you wish for me to stop—”  

“No,” you interrupted, shaking your head. “I want this. I want you. I just… I don’t know what to do.”  

He smiled then, a small, reassuring smile that melted your fears. “You need only let me guide you,” he said, his lips brushing against yours. “Let me show you how deeply I cherish you.”  

Positioning himself between your thighs, Marcus moved with painstaking care. His hand guided himself to your entrance, his other hand cradling your hip as he pushed forward slowly, inch by agonizing inch. The stretch was intense, the fullness overwhelming, but his murmured reassurances kept you grounded.  

“You’re mine to touch,” he groaned, his voice rough with restraint as he stilled, giving you time to adjust. “And no one else’s. My Carissima, my heart, my everything.”  

When you nodded, he began to move, his thrusts slow and deliberate at first, building a rhythm that sent sparks of pleasure racing through you. The intensity of it all—the closeness, the way his body fit against yours—was almost too much to bear.  

“You feel like heaven,” he rasped, his lips brushing against your temple as his pace quickened. “The gods themselves could not have fashioned a more perfect being.”  

“Marcus,” you moaned, your nails digging into his back as the pleasure built once more. “You’re… so good. You feel so good.”  

“And you,” he said, his voice cracking with emotion as he thrust deeper, “are mine. Forever.”  

As your release swept over you, his followed, his body trembling as he spilled into you, his lips finding yours in a kiss that was both desperate and tender. He held you close, his forehead resting against yours as the world faded away, leaving only the two of you tangled together in the quiet aftermath of your love.  

"You are everything to me," he whispered, his voice a soft rumble. "And I will spend the rest of my life proving it."  

The air in your quarters was warm and hushed, the faint sounds of the countryside drifting through the open window. The two of you lay tangled together on the soft linen sheets, your head resting on Marcus’s chest, the rise and fall of his breathing a steady rhythm beneath your ear. His arms wrapped securely around you, one hand stroking lazy patterns along your back while the other cradled your hand against his heart.  

It felt as though the world had paused just for the two of you. Yet, even in the quiet, questions tugged at the edges of your mind. You shifted slightly, tilting your head up to look at him.  

“Marcus?” you murmured, your voice soft.  

His dark eyes, softened by the glow of the nearby lantern, met yours immediately. “Yes, Carissima?”  

You hesitated, unsure of how to frame the thoughts swirling in your mind. “Earlier,” you began, your voice barely above a whisper. “When you said… when you spoke of marrying me. Did you mean it?”  

His brows furrowed, a flicker of concern crossing his face. “Of course I meant it,” he said, his voice steady and filled with conviction. “Do you think me a man who speaks empty words?”  

You shook your head quickly, biting your lip. “No, it’s not that. I just… it’s hard to believe.”  

Marcus shifted, propping himself up slightly on his elbow so he could better look at you. The hand on your back moved to gently cup your cheek, his thumb brushing tenderly over your skin. “And why is it so hard to believe, my love?”  

“Because you’re… you. A celebrated general, a man of honor and renown. You’ve seen the world, led armies, stood before emperors. And I’m just…”  

“You are not just anything,” he interrupted firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You are extraordinary. You are kind, brave, intelligent, and more beautiful than even the gods could have imagined. The stars themselves dim in comparison to you.”  

Your cheeks flushed at his words, your fingers toying nervously with the edge of the blanket. “You make me sound like a goddess.”  

“To me, you are,” he said simply.  

You couldn’t help but laugh softly, the sound lightening the weight in your chest. “Marcus, you could charm the toga off anyone.”  

He grinned, his hand sliding down to rest against the curve of your waist. “And yet, it is only you I wish to charm.”  

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress your smile. “Do you always speak so eloquently, or is this a skill you’ve honed just for me?”  

“Only for you,” he admitted with a teasing smirk. “Though it seems my words are not enough to convince you.” His expression turned serious again, his gaze locking with yours. “Let me make it clear: I meant every word I said. I do not take such vows lightly. If you would have me, I would make you my wife, not just in words but in every sense. I would bind my life to yours, as surely as the gods bind the heavens and earth.”  

Your heart swelled, his declaration filling you with a warmth you couldn’t describe. “You really mean it?”  

Marcus leaned down, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead. “I swear it,” he said softly. “I am a man of honor. And I will honor you for the rest of my days, if you’ll let me.”  

You reached up to trace the line of his jaw, your fingers brushing over the faint stubble there. “You’re serious,” you said, more to yourself than to him.  

“Deadly serious,” he confirmed, his lips quirking into a small smile.  

For a moment, you just stared at him, overwhelmed by the sincerity in his eyes. “You’d really want to marry me?”  

“By Jupiter, woman,” he said with a laugh, his head tilting back in amusement. “How many times must I say it before you believe me?”  

“Well, you’ve had a long career of convincing people to follow you into battle,” you teased, unable to help yourself. “Maybe you’re just good at persuasion.”  

Marcus grinned, his fingers tracing circles along your hip. “It seems I’ll need to work harder to persuade you of my love. Perhaps I should start planning the wedding now. Lucilla will help, I’m sure. She’ll insist on flowers—too many, knowing her taste.”  

“Marcus!” you exclaimed, laughing as you lightly smacked his chest.  

He caught your hand easily, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “What? It’s only practical. We’ll need to secure a date, find a priest…”  

You shook your head, your laughter bubbling over. “You’re impossible.”  

“And yet, you love me,” he said, his voice filled with warmth and certainty.  

You sighed dramatically, though your smile betrayed you. “I suppose I do.”  

His arms tightened around you, pulling you closer. “Good,” he murmured against your hair. “Because I love you. And I’ll spend every day proving it, until there is not a soul left in Rome who doubts how much you mean to me.”  

The two of you lay in silence for a while, the weight of his words settling over you like a warm embrace. Eventually, your voice broke the quiet.  

“What about the villa?” you asked, a playful glint in your eye.  

“What about it?” he replied, his tone light.  

“I think we woke everyone within a mile,” you said, your cheeks flushing slightly at the memory.  

Marcus laughed, the sound deep and rich. “Let them hear,” he said, his lips brushing against your temple. “Let them know that the gods themselves would envy what we have.”  

You laughed softly, curling closer to him. “You truly are impossible.”  

“And yet,” he said again, his voice low and filled with love, “I am yours. Entirely.”  

You smiled against his chest, your doubts melting away in the warmth of his embrace.

The morning light streamed gently through the open window, casting a golden glow over the room. The scent of olive oil and faint lavender lingered in the air. You stirred slowly, the warmth of the sun on your face a quiet beckon to wakefulness. But what truly brought you back to consciousness was the solid, comforting weight wrapped securely around your waist.  

You fluttered your eyes open, greeted by the sight of Marcus’s bare chest rising and falling steadily as he slept. His strong arm was draped over your side, holding you close to him, as if even in sleep, he couldn’t bear to let you go. The golden rays of dawn played over his tan skin, highlighting the faint lines of battle-worn scars and the softer edges of his relaxed expression.  

A slow smile spread across your lips as you tilted your head slightly to take him in, his dark hair tousled, his face softened by the peace of slumber. For all his strength and stoicism, here, in the quiet sanctuary of the villa, he looked impossibly serene.  

Careful not to disturb him, you shifted slightly—but not enough, it seemed. His grip around you tightened instinctively, and you heard his voice, rough with sleep, murmur against your hair.  

“Where do you think you’re going?”  

A laugh bubbled from you, light and soft as you turned to face him. “I didn’t realize I was trapped,” you teased, raising a brow.  

His eyes opened lazily, a small smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. “You are, Carissima. And I’m afraid I cannot let you escape.”  

“Oh? And what if I must escape to eat? Or bathe?”  

His smirk deepened, and he pressed a kiss to your shoulder, his stubble brushing against your skin in a way that made your breath hitch. “I’ve already anticipated your needs,” he murmured, his lips moving against your skin.  

“Have you now?” you asked, feigning skepticism.  

“I have,” he confirmed, leaning back just enough to meet your gaze. “I’ve asked the servants to prepare a bath for us. And breakfast.”  

Before you could respond, your stomach grumbled loudly, breaking the intimate moment. You froze, wide-eyed, as Marcus let out a deep, rumbling laugh that vibrated through his chest.  

“Ah,” he said, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “It seems your body agrees with me.”  

You groaned, hiding your face against his chest. “How mortifying.”  

“No,” he said, tilting your chin up with gentle fingers so you had no choice but to meet his gaze. “How adorable.”  

You gave him a playful glare. “You’re insufferable.”  

“And yet, you’re smiling,” he pointed out, his thumb brushing over the corner of your lips.  

You rolled your eyes, though the warmth in your chest couldn’t be denied. “Perhaps because you spoil me.”  

Marcus’s expression softened, his hand cupping your cheek. “It is no less than you deserve,” he said, his voice low and earnest.  

Your heart swelled at his words, and before you could stop yourself, you leaned up to kiss him. It started soft, a gentle press of lips that carried the unspoken gratitude and affection you couldn’t quite put into words. But as his hand slid into your hair and his other arm tightened around you, the kiss deepened, a shared warmth spreading between you.  

When you finally pulled back, both of you were breathing a little heavier. His forehead rested against yours, his lips curving into a small smile. “Your smile,” he said quietly, “is brighter than the sun itself. How could I not kiss you?”  

You laughed softly, your fingers tracing idle patterns along his shoulder. “You always know what to say, don’t you?”  

“It’s a skill,” he admitted, his tone light with humor. “One I intend to use often to keep you smiling.”  

Your stomach grumbled again, and you couldn’t help but laugh, burying your face against his chest. “Perhaps we should take advantage of that breakfast you mentioned.”  

“Agreed,” he said with a grin, shifting to sit up and pulling you with him.  

He pressed a quick kiss to your temple as he rose, his hand sliding down to help you to your feet. “Come, Carissima. A bath awaits us, and after, I’ll ensure you’re well-fed. Today, I will spoil you completely.”  

“And tomorrow?” you asked, teasing.  

He leaned down, his lips brushing against yours in a feather-light kiss. “Tomorrow, I’ll do the same. And every day after.”  

Your heart felt impossibly full as you let him lead you toward the promise of warmth and comfort, his hand never letting go of yours.

LUCILLA'S VILLA, COURTYARD — DAY  

The courtyard was bathed in sunlight, the warmth of the morning offset by the gentle breeze rustling through the olive trees. The scent of fresh herbs and blooming flowers mingled with the distant hum of the villa’s daily activity. Marcus held your hand firmly in his as you walked together, his presence as steady as the ground beneath your feet.  

Several servants paused in their tasks to glance your way, their gazes filled with curiosity, but none dared to linger under Marcus’s protective glare. A few exchanged knowing smiles, their approval subtle but apparent.  

You leaned closer to Marcus, your voice low. “They’re looking at us.”  

“They will look,” he replied simply, his tone resolute. “But they will also understand. Let anyone question our bond—I will silence them with ease.”  

You smiled at his fierce protectiveness, but your attention was soon drawn to the sight ahead. In the center of the courtyard sat Lucilla, resplendent in a flowing gown of pale blue, her golden hair catching the sunlight. Across from her was Macrinus, impeccably dressed and deeply engaged in conversation with the former empress.  

You hesitated, your steps slowing. “Did you know they were here?” you murmured to Marcus, keeping your voice just for him.  

His brow furrowed, the faintest hint of annoyance flashing in his dark eyes. “I did not, Carissima.” His gaze lingered on Macrinus, and you could almost hear the unspoken tension in his silence. “I wonder what Lucilla is plotting this time.”  

As you approached, Lucilla’s sharp eyes flicked up to meet yours, her expression poised and welcoming. “Ah,” she said, her voice smooth as honey. “The villa’s esteemed healer and our dear General Acacius.” She gestured gracefully to the table. “Do join us. It is not often we are graced with such esteemed company.”  

Marcus’s jaw tightened ever so slightly, but his grip on your hand remained firm as he guided you to the table. Lucilla’s greeting was pointed, her choice of words deliberate. She seemed to delight in the subtle power play, her eyes gleaming with quiet amusement as she gestured to the seat beside her.  

“Good morning,” you said politely, offering a small smile as you sat. Marcus settled beside you, his movements measured and deliberate, like a lion circling its prey.  

“Good morning,” Macrinus said, inclining his head toward you both. His tone was polite, though his gaze lingered a fraction too long on you before flickering uneasily to Marcus.  

“Macrinus,” Marcus greeted curtly, his voice a low rumble. He did not bother to hide his displeasure at the man’s presence.  

Lucilla sipped delicately from her goblet, her smile as serene as ever. “Macrinus was just sharing his thoughts on the upcoming games and his gladiators. Always such a wealth of information.”  

“Indeed,” Marcus replied, his tone flat, his focus unwavering on the man before him.  

Sensing the brewing tension, you leaned in slightly toward Marcus and murmured, “Play nice.”  

He glanced at you, the corner of his mouth lifting ever so slightly. “For you, Carissima, I will try.”  

Macrinus, perhaps sensing the unspoken battle of wills, rose from his seat and bowed politely. “I should take my leave. My gladiators await.”  

Lucilla stood as well, her expression betraying nothing but grace. “I’ll see you out, Macrinus.” She turned to you and Marcus, her gaze lingering for a beat longer than necessary. “Enjoy the courtyard. I’ll return shortly.”  

The pair departed, leaving you and Marcus alone amidst the tranquility of the courtyard. You exhaled softly, feeling the tension dissipate with their exit.  

“Did I seem too harsh?” Marcus asked after a moment, his voice quieter now, reserved just for you.  

You shook your head, smiling. “Not harsh. Just… protective.”  

“Good,” he said, his tone resolute. “Because protective is precisely what I mean to be.”  

His fingers brushed against yours where they rested on the table, a subtle but deliberate gesture that sent warmth coursing through you.  

“You must really dislike him,” you teased, trying to lighten the mood.  

Marcus huffed a small laugh, leaning closer. “I simply dislike anyone who looks at you longer than they should.”  

“Jealous, General?” you asked, tilting your head to meet his gaze, your smile playful.  

He smirked, the tension from earlier melting away. “I am a man, Carissima. And you are far too radiant for anyone to gaze upon without desire. My jealousy is merely… natural.”  

You laughed, the sound bright and unrestrained, and Marcus leaned in to press a kiss to your temple. “Your happiness,” he murmured, “is all I care for.”  

As you reached for the bowl of ripe fruit in the center of the table, your stomach growled audibly, breaking the tender moment. You froze, cheeks warming, and Marcus chuckled, a deep, rich sound that made your heart flutter.  

“I see your appetite is as fierce as your wit,” he teased, plucking a honeydew slice and offering it to you.  

“You’ll never let me live that down,” you said, accepting the fruit and taking a bite, the sweetness bursting on your tongue.  

“Never,” he agreed, his smile softening as he watched you. “But only because I adore every part of you.”  

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the smile that tugged at your lips. Marcus reached for another slice, his movements unhurried and deliberate, as if there was nowhere else he’d rather be than here, with you.

“Lucilla’s plans will wait,” he said again, his voice softer now, as if solidifying his earlier declaration. “The world can plot and conspire all it likes. Right now, my only concern is you.”  

The table before you was laden with fresh fruits, warm bread, honeyed figs, and steaming bowls of spiced porridge. Marcus sat beside you, closer than necessary, his every movement deliberate and steady, as if he had all the time in the world.  

You reached for a piece of bread, but Marcus intercepted, plucking it from the platter himself. He smeared a generous layer of honey over it and held it to your lips, his expression unwavering.  

“Open,” he commanded softly, his tone leaving little room for argument but still laced with warmth.  

You arched a brow, smirking. “Am I incapable of feeding myself, General?”  

“No,” he replied, his lips curling into the faintest of smiles. “But where is the pleasure in that? Let me serve you for once.”  

You gave in, parting your lips to take a bite. The sweet honey melted on your tongue, and Marcus watched you intently, his gaze darkening as if committing the moment to memory.  

“Perfect,” he murmured, as if to himself.  

You swallowed, tilting your head at him. “You’re staring, Marcus.”  

“Am I?” he asked, unabashed. His tone was rich with amusement, his eyes never leaving yours. “Forgive me, Carissima. I’ve spent a lifetime studying maps and battle strategies. I never imagined something—someone—could captivate me so utterly.”  

Your heart fluttered at his words, and you felt a warmth that had little to do with the sun. You plucked a ripe fig from the table and held it to his lips. “Your turn, General. Or is it only the conqueror who gets to indulge?”  

His smirk widened, but he leaned forward obediently, his lips brushing your fingertips as he took the fruit. The touch was deliberate, lingering, sending a shiver through you. “Bewitching,” he said after swallowing, his voice low and reverent.  

“You keep saying that,” you teased, though your cheeks warmed.  

“And I will say it again,” he replied, turning slightly in his seat to face you fully. “The gods and goddesses must have woven you from starlight and fire, Carissima. How else could you hold a man like me captive with just a glance?”  

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “You, Marcus? A captive? Never.”  

He reached for your hand, his fingers rough but careful as they laced with yours. “Oh, but I am,” he said, his voice dipping into something almost vulnerable. “Do you think me a man who often takes what he desires for himself? My life has been devoted to duty, to others. But you… you are different. For the first time, I am conquering not for Rome, but for myself.”  

Your breath caught as he leaned closer, his other hand brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. “And what will you do once I am conquered?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.  

His lips twitched into a smile, his gaze dropping to your lips. “Cherish you,” he said simply, his voice heavy with promise.  

Before you could respond, he closed the distance, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was as gentle as it was consuming. His hand cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing your skin as if you were something fragile and precious.  

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, and he sighed softly. “You undo me, Carissima. Do you know that?”  

You couldn’t help but smile, your fingers brushing against the rough stubble on his jaw. “And here I thought I was merely feeding you breakfast.”  

He chuckled, the sound deep and rich. “Breakfast, perhaps. But your very presence sustains me in ways I cannot explain.”  

Your stomach growled again, breaking the moment with a comical twist. You covered your face, laughing, and Marcus threw his head back, a genuine, hearty laugh escaping him.  

“I see my attentions have distracted you from more pressing needs,” he teased, reaching for another slice of honey-drizzled bread. “Eat, my love. I’ve already asked the servants to prepare more if this is not enough. You must be well-fed.”  

“You’re relentless,” you said, shaking your head but smiling brightly as you accepted the bread.  

He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your temple, his voice soft. “Only for you. Always for you.”  

As you ate, he continued to feed you bites of fruit and bread, his gaze never straying far from your face. The affection in his every action was undeniable, and you felt your heart swell with a happiness you hadn’t thought possible.  

And as the sunlight warmed the courtyard and the day unfolded, you found yourself thinking that perhaps, just perhaps, the gods had indeed had a hand in your meeting this remarkable man.

LUCILLA'S VILLA — EVENING

The quiet evening air carried the scent of lavender and olive oil from the flickering lamps. You stood in the middle of Lucilla’s villa, the cool stone beneath your bare feet grounding you. Marcus’ hand gripped yours tightly, his calloused fingers steadying both of you as you awaited the news Lucilla had summoned you for. The stillness between you felt heavy, the weight of anticipation palpable.  

Lucilla stepped into the room, her hooded cloak trailing behind her like a shadow. She paused as if collecting herself, then removed her hood, revealing a face etched with worry and something deeper—a mother’s anguish. Her eyes flicked between the two of you before she looked heavenward, her lips moving silently, perhaps in a prayer to the gods for strength.  

When she finally spoke, her voice was steady but thick with emotion. “Lucius is alive.”  

The words struck like a thunderbolt. You inhaled sharply, your hand instinctively tightening around Marcus’. His brow furrowed deeply, the weight of her statement sinking in. “Are you certain?” he asked, his voice low and cautious.  

“I know my son,” Lucilla said firmly, though her eyes shimmered with unshed tears. “I spoke to him tonight.” She stepped closer, her composure faltering as she added, “He may be lost to me for what I’ve done... but he lives.”  

You glanced at Marcus, his jaw tight as he processed her words. His grip on your hand became almost protective, pulling you a step closer. “The third day of games is tomorrow,” he said grimly. “Most fighters won’t survive.”  

Lucilla nodded, her tears now spilling freely. “Acacius, you must help him.”  

Marcus’ expression hardened. “Help him?” he asked, his voice measured.  

“Yes!” Lucilla exclaimed, her desperation breaking through. She looked at him imploringly, her hands trembling as she clutched at the fabric of her cloak. “I failed him then. I know I did. But I cannot fail him now.”  

Marcus stood rigid, his silence heavy with conflict. “The army is in Ostia,” he began, his tone even but his words deliberate. “If we wait a few days—”  

“He could be dead by then!” Lucilla interrupted, her voice cracking with urgency. She stepped closer, her hands reaching out as though trying to physically pull him toward her cause. “Acacius, I would willingly give my life for Rome, but I will not give my son’s.”  

Her words hung in the air like a plea to the gods themselves.  

You finally found your voice, stepping forward just slightly, your free hand reaching out to rest gently on Lucilla’s arm. “What is the plan?” you asked softly, your voice carrying the strength of someone who understood both loss and resilience.  

Lucilla turned to you, her expression softening but still filled with despair. “There is no plan,” she admitted. “Only hope. Hope that you will do what I could not.”  

Marcus let out a slow exhale, his eyes narrowing as he considered the weight of the task ahead. “If we are to act,” he said, his voice firm, “we act now. No hesitation, no missteps.”  

You looked at him, your heart swelling with both admiration and concern. “Marcus…”  

His gaze shifted to you, softening for just a moment. “I will not stand idly by while an innocent man dies,” he said, his tone resolute. “Especially not Lucius.”  

Lucilla nodded, a flicker of hope returning to her eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice trembling.  

Marcus turned to you fully then, his hand releasing yours to cradle your face. “I will do this,” he said, his voice low but unyielding. “But you… you must stay safe.”  

Your eyes searched his, seeing both the unshakable general and the man who had claimed your heart. “And if I said no?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.  

A hint of a smile tugged at his lips, though his gaze remained serious. “Then I would spend the rest of my days ensuring your safety, even if it means carrying you out of harm’s way myself.”  

You couldn’t help but smile despite the weight of the moment pressing against your chest. “Then I suppose I shall try to stay out of trouble,” you said softly, though a glint of defiance sparked in your eyes. “But I will help you, Marcus, and you cannot stop me.”  

His expression flickered with something between amusement and frustration, but it softened almost immediately. “Carissima,” he murmured, his voice low and warm, like honey drizzled over flame. “You are the most stubborn woman I have ever met. And I have led legions.”  

His hand cradled your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly over your skin. His gaze bore into yours, not with the command of a general, but with the quiet reverence of a man hopelessly, irrevocably smitten. “But I would not have you any other way,” he added, leaning down to press a lingering kiss to your forehead.  

The tenderness of the moment struck you like a warm tide, soothing yet unrelenting. You closed your eyes, feeling the press of his lips against your skin, a silent promise that spoke louder than any oath.  

When he pulled back, his fingers lingered for a moment, tracing the curve of your jaw before dropping to your shoulder. His touch was grounding, steadying you amidst the chaos swirling around you both.  

Lucilla’s voice broke through the quiet, calling your attention back to the task ahead. Yet even as you turned to face her, your eyes found Marcus’ once more.  

As the three of you moved through the villa, the air seemed charged with energy. Fear and uncertainty hung like a shroud, but beneath it all was something more profound—a determination, an unspoken bond tethering you to him.  

You glanced at Marcus, the firelight dancing across his features, his profile sharp and commanding. But it wasn’t the image of the general that held your heart—it was the man beneath. The one who had whispered your name like a prayer and held you as though you were the only thing keeping him tethered to this earth.  

Where passion met insanity, where pleasure kissed pain, you felt the pull of something greater, something that transcended the fleeting world of men. If the oceans roared and struck, if the Elysian Fields itself lost its light, you knew without hesitation that you would stand at his side.  

You let your breath hitch for a moment, clinging to the fragile, beautiful thing you dared to call love. And in the stillness of that resolve, you tightened your grip on Marcus’ hand, silently vowing to meet whatever came with him, no matter the cost.

[shakespearean-simp]

mattheo and y/n explaining why they got into a fight the other day:

y/n: yeah, well, at least we made up after...

draco: jeez, you got all bent out of shape for that?

mattheo: shit...were we too loud?

draco: ...what? *overprotective brotherly eye-twitch bc y/n is like a sibling to him*

[the-witty-pen-name]

Amica (Part 1)

Lucius Verus x F!Reader

Word Count: 4.9k

Warnings: angst; mentions of depth/grief (Lucius’ wife & reader’s mother); childhood trauma; childhood friends to lovers

A/N: this has been sitting in my drafts for so long, I’m not sure if anyone is interested in this series… please let me know what you think! This is my first time writing for Lucius & if people like this I’ll continue the series!

When you first met Lucius, you were both children. You were still too young to understand how deeply separated you were by social status. He was soon to be sole heir to the throne, and you were the daughter of a handmaiden. You grew up in the palace halls, the same as he did and you never saw him as royalty, just as your best friend.

You weren’t allowed to go to school so you have vivid memories of him showing you what he learned from his private tutors that day. It was like a game, and you both were too innocent to understand the imbalance between the two of you. He told you everything, so excited to share with you what he’d learned. You look back on those simpler times so fondly. It was all before he left, and you never learned why. That might be what hurt the most.

You were just a child too.

Inevitably, you served in the palace as a handmaiden once you were old enough. Loyal to the people of Rome and the legacy of the great halls you wandered rather than the Emperors who now dwelled there. You kept your head down, did your daily tasks well. To be complacent was to survive. You had no choice- you’d never known a life outside these walls. This was your home and it felt as though it had been invaded when the twins took power.

When the servants hushed voices began talking about a new gladiator, you couldn’t help but be intrigued. Everyone compared him to Maximus, and you were skeptical. You doubted their word and believed it to be exaggerations fueled by the pomp and circumstance of the games. You would need to see this Hanno for yourself. He was exactly like they all said.

You never would have guessed how he would have changed Rome for the better. After the rebellion, he brought life back to the palace and the city began to feel alive again. New beginnings, new life, new opportunities seemed to rise from the ashes. Your friend had finally returned home.

He didn’t remember you. You were sure of it.

You made no attempt to get him to recognize you. You weren’t children anymore. He was the new ruler of Rome and you were a servant. This is what always was meant to happen. You understand now that the crown would have separated you both into strangers anyways. It’s better this way, you reason.

He’d soon need to find a wife- a woman of nobility who could produce an heir. A woman worthy enough to be the Empress of Rome and be by his side as he rebuilt the city. A woman from a distinguished family, who would bring great political influence to benefit Rome. No doubt his bride, whoever he selected, would be absolutely beautiful. A woman whose hands are soft and never knew hard work. Someone that was nothing like you.

He’d rejected every proposition. Months of meetings, countless families had visited and he’d left each introduction looking more disappointed than the last. You could feel the tension, the pressure from his advisors that must be hanging heavy on his shoulders.

He was running out of time and he knew that he was dragging his feet. He didn’t want to remarry for obligation. Not when he knew the bliss of marrying for love once before. He wanted to find love again but not like this. Not with prying eyes and other people’s interference. Especially not with drafted treaties.

His usual servant had fallen ill, struck by a fever. You had been sent to assist him as their replacement until they recovered. This would be the closest you’d been to the new Emperor since you both were children. You held your head high, resolving to say nothing to him. You were to draw his bath, offer him food and wine, and leave him when instructed. Nothing more.

“Where is Appius?” He asked you when he walked into his quarters. You’re surprised he knows the name of his usual footman, but you remember this is Lucius- of course he would. He’s not like the previous emperors you’d grown accustomed to tip toeing around.

“He has a fever, dominus.” You keep your head down, continuing to draw water for the bath. His face contorts in disgust at the formality of the name.

“Please don’t address me as that,” he asks, not unkindly. “Please, call me Lucius.”

You nod, not being able to bring yourself to call him that. You opt instead to just not address him at all.

“The bath is ready,” you say, stepping away from the large tub. He thanks you and you nod. You retreat to the other room when he declines your help to derobe, much to your relief. You return shortly later, placing a tray of food and a chalice of wine on the small table beside the bath.

“Tell me about yourself,” he asks, glancing over to you. You take a step back and wince, worried that you would reveal yourself to him. You don’t know what would be worse- him remembering, or him not remembering. You hope he doesn’t remember, for your own heart’s sake. You could not bear to lose him twice.

“Not much to tell,” you admit, and that’s not entirely untrue.

“Everyone has a story,” he counters, looking at you expectantly. “Why must yours be any less important?”

“I’ve served the throne for the past fifteen years,” you reply. “My story is here. My story begins and ends in the very halls I walk through everyday. I wish I had a more entertaining story to divulge, but my life has been extraordinarily mundane.”

“Why not leave?” he asks, piquing his curiosity. He finds you fascinating, and that makes you nervous.

“Where would you suggest I had gone?” You ask, holding back laughter the best you could. “It’s not that simple, especially not for an unwed woman. A mundane life is a privileged one.”

He nods, and you can observe the way he’s digesting your answer. “You seem resilient enough to have figured something out if you’d really wanted to go,” he counters.

You don’t like how he’s wanting to know you. This was not what you wanted to happen. You can’t open up to him, you don’t want him to see how vulnerable you are in actuality. You can’t let him know that he’s the reason you stayed. The hope that he would return. The hope that he would someday return to Rome- return to you. You can’t tell him how you’ve dreamed of him, how he’s plagued your every thought and how much you’ve missed him. You don’t know him anymore like you knew him then. He isn’t yours, he never really was.

“This is the only life I have ever known,” you eventually reply. You can tell he isn’t satisfied with your answer but he doesn’t press. “Is there anything else I can get you?” You ask, looking to make a swift leave.

“I suppose not,” he says softly. “Thank you. You are dismissed.”

You practically dart from the room at his dismissal and it only deepens his curiosity about you. He hates being alone in the palace, when night comes and he’s left alone with his thoughts. The still of night always making his head spin and sleep hardly ever finds him these days. Not since Numidia. When he does manage to sleep, it’s never more than a couple of hours and his dreams are always the same. A girl from his childhood whose face he’s forgotten but the memory of her is still very much present in his mind.

He can’t remember her name. He remembers the pain of not saying goodbye. He remembers their bond and how being with her made him feel. He can sometimes hear her laughter but it’s always fading, like she’s too far away for him to ever fully hear. Sometimes he can place himself there and he’s watching his scattered memories from his perspective of when he was a boy. Other times, it’s like he’s detached from his physical body- observing himself like a third party in his own dream state. No matter the instance, she is always there. And it’s like she slips away from him every time he wakes up too soon.

Another prospective match has been arranged to visit and she is arriving with her older brother and their father this morning. None of the servants really know for sure who she is, but the rumor is that her father is a General from Gaul and her brother a senior officer on the rise. Undeniably it was a very important relationship to maintain.

You can’t deny that she’s beautiful. She’s so well poised and gracious. She’s exactly what an Empress should be. She’s well educated and soft spoken, the model of a perfect Roman woman. The moment her arrival is announced, the palace is in a frenzy. Hushed whispers make their way through the halls, everyone believing Rome has found its Empress. They speak of it like it is already decided- that Lucius Verus Aurelius has chosen his bride. The rumors have made it sound so absolute that people begin to wonder when they must begin decorating the palace for the celebration.

You can’t bear listening to it all anymore. You can’t escape it as everyone becomes more and more enthralled as the visit that was meant to be a few nights is suddenly a week. No one knows anything for sure, but you can’t help but imagine they must be right. Why keep them as guests for longer if he planned to reject their proposal for a union? You decide to make peace with it, because this was always inevitable. You were foolish to think otherwise.

After dinner, you retreat to the garden- it was always a place where you found comfort to be alone to think. The dinner party now should be finished dining in the triclinium and moving to the tablinum for drinks and to discuss business. Probably devising plans for the marriage arrangement, you’re sure of it. You need to let yourself make peace with it, and remind yourself that you were never to be the one to have him. This was always what was to happen.

“It’s nice out here at night,” his voice startles you. “Peaceful.”

“Indeed it is,” you say in agreement and you keep your eyes cast upwards towards the night sky. You were admiring the stars, maybe hopelessly wishing on a few as well, before he snuck up on you.

“Shouldn’t you be inside?” he asks, but he’s not upset. You can hear his smile, that he’s teasing you.

“Couldn’t the same be said of you?” you counter, making him chuckle.

“I won’t tell if you don’t,” he quips, making it his turn to make you smile.

“Okay,” you reply, finally looking back to him to meet his gaze.

“My mother told me to find you,” Lucius says finally, after a prolonged silence. “At first, I didn’t know what she was talking about. She wasn’t specific- just told me my friend was still here. My dreams keep bringing back little glimpses of my childhood, and I just keep seeing you. Just brief memories from when we were small. Did you recognize me, this whole time I’ve been back?”

The confession sits in your throat and you feel even now you should deny it. You fight the urge to retreat back into yourself and avoid his question altogether. You feel like a curtain has been pulled back on you and it’s as though you're on a stage without any lines but a whole audience staring at you expectantly.

“I did,” you confess and it feels like pulling air from your lungs.

“How could you have said nothing?” he asks, and you can hear the hurt in his voice. It was as if you betrayed him, denying him the one thing left of his life that hasn’t been taken from him.

“You didn’t remember me,” you reply, “What was I supposed to do? What do you expect to have become of us? You’re the ruler of Rome like you were always destined to be. I’m here serving you, just as I would have done anyways. Do you think our friendship would have survived had you stayed? Was this not always our fate?”

“You didn’t even give me a chance before you decided that for the two of us,” He replies, his heart breaking at your words. He doesn’t know how the circumstances would be different, but he wants to know you. He wants someone who knows him in his life. He needs you, and he feels like you’re abandoning him when he needs you most.

“I don’t see it that way,” you counter, not arguing or defensive, just explaining yourself. “I couldn’t just approach the new Emperor of Rome and claim to be his childhood friend. What if you had not believed me? I needed to protect myself. I don’t know you now- I know you have power, and I know you aren’t that boy anymore. I may have known a version of you a lifetime ago, but I don’t know you now.”

“You know me well enough to know I wouldn’t have cast you out, I wouldn’t have brought you harm. I would eventually have found out- was your plan to keep this from me forever?”

“I don’t know,” you concede. “We are in the same positions now that we were then. Not much has changed.”

“This changes everything,” he’s quick to exclaim, desperate for you to see this how he does. You can only sigh, avoiding his eye by staring at the ground between you.

“It changes nothing,” you retort. “I’ve had a lifetime to make my peace with this. Please don’t force me to open an old wound.”

You both hear someone in the distance before he can reply to your statement. You both look at each other for a moment in brief panic before you quickly run away from him, again. You hear him greet whoever it is from the distance before you disappear around the corner, retreating back to your quarters for the evening. You toss and turn all night, you can hardly sleep.

You continue to fill in for Appius, despite the way it fills you with dread. You don’t want to let yourself become attached again. Each night he asks you a million questions about your childhood together, and his eyes light up every time you say something that jogs his memory. You are so reluctant at first, but it's Lucius- your Lucius, and you realize just how much you enjoy his company even after all this time. He makes everything just feel so simple, like it's just the two of you in the palace. Some nights, all you talk about is the past. He tells you about his life in Numidia and he manages to get you to share about your life here. Every night, it becomes easier and easier to fall into this routine. For those few hours it’s like the world outside doesn’t exist and it’s just the two of you. You can pretend circumstances were different.

You learn her name is Liviana. You find out that she can play music on her lyre beautifully. She can recite poetry. You can’t avoid finding out everything about her. She is all anyone can talk about still. The week has turned into almost a month she has been here with her father and brother. You haven’t spoken to Lucius about her, you can’t bring yourself to. You suppose you can’t blame him for not bringing it up, but selfishly, part of you deep down wished he would so you could stop foolishly fantasizing about the two of you. You know better, but you can’t help yourself.

You begin to accept that her presence will be a new constant in the palace. All signs lead to their inevitable union. This is a match that all of Rome will celebrate. She will make the perfect bride for him. She was bred to be the perfect empress. She is everything that this city needs her to be. You wonder in the back of your mind, is she what he needs? You’re plagued with the what if’s from that night in the garden- if you turned him away too soon. Guilt eats away at you more than your pride would ever let you admit, despite the many conversations you’ve shared with him since.

You and a few of the fellow servants are carrying out laundry when you see them together from a distance. Despite the heavy basket bundled in your arms and the day screaming at you to finish your tasks, you can’t help but stop and look- even if only for a moment. They’re walking in the garden, her arm linked through his as they talk. Her family and his advisors walked close behind. You watch how she seems to cling to every word he says, and you don’t miss how she’s smiling at him. Knots twist in your stomach.

He’s doing his best to be polite, and to be a gracious host. His patience is wearing thinner the more the people he’s surrounded by pressure him for this union. He doesn’t blame Liviana. However, he’s worried she’s more pleased with this match than he is. Every excuse her father has made to prolong their stay has only made Lucius more bitter than he was before. He’s not sure how much longer he could take this before he’s threatened to propose. He feels as though he’s being ambushed in his own home.

“You seem distracted,” you hear a familiar voice call from behind you. You smile and shake your head, and scurry to catch up with the group before they leave you behind.

“Camilla, I’m fine,” you insist. She raises her eyebrow. You know that she can always tell when something is bothering you.

She was a very close friend of your mother, she helped raise you. Despite being grown up, she still looks after you, worries about you- everything your mother would do before she passed. Camilla and your mother grew up together, and stayed together through everything. She’s lived through more than you could ever possibly imagine.

“Did you ever know my father?” You asked her. It was something that was on your mind a lot lately. It was a topic that you never really thought about before. However with your mother gone, you’ve now begun to wonder. She pursed her lips.

“Where did this curiosity about your father come from all of a sudden?” She asks, holding her hand out expectantly for you to begin passing her some of the laundry. She gets on her hands and knees to scrub out the linens and you do the same. You shrug.

“It seems as though every woman’s life in Rome is defined by her father,” you muse. “Except mine. Not that I’d want it that way- I just, with it being everywhere, you can’t help but start to wonder.”

“Is this because of our guest?” She asks, knowingly.

“I suppose that’s part of it.”

“Your mother didn’t want you to know,” she explains. You knew that already but you let her speak. “She did that to protect you.”

“Was he someone important?”

“Depends on who you ask,” she says, jokingly as she begins to wring out some of the clothes. You follow her movements. She takes a pause, and you can see how conflicted she is in this moment. “He was a patrician.”

“Did she love him?” You ask.

“Very much so,” she muses. “But they were both young, very naive- foolish. For her own protection, she had a lot of growing up to do- for you. She needed to grow up fast.”

“Did he know about me?” You ask. She shakes her head.

“He was visiting from quite a distance. He was just here for one summer. She decided not to tell him before he left- she knew he wouldn’t be able to come back. He had duties and obligations to his family, to his own city- there were expectations of him that she didn’t want to complicate.”

“Is he still alive?”

“I don’t know, sweetheart. He hasn’t returned to Rome since. I don’t know where he was from. It was too long ago for me to remember.”

“Do you think I look like him?”

“You have his eyes.” She gets up with a groan, and you both walk over to begin hanging the laundry on the lines to dry in the sun. “Is this your way of trying to distract yourself? So you are thinking about someone other than Lucius Verus?”

Your cheeks feel warm suddenly, like she’s exposed some secret that you didn’t know she knew about. You almost feel like a little girl again. You nod reluctantly, passing her some clothespins as she drapes the fabrics over the lines.

You tell her everything, just like you always have. She listens intently as you both work. She never interrupts, or judges- she just always listens. It’s comforting. Most of the time, she lets you talk in circles until you come to the right conclusions on your own. She marvels at your ability to talk without tiring yourself out some days. Other days, like today, you’re reserved. Stuck inside yourself and she needs to peel back the layers of defense you cocoon around yourself.

“And you’re in love with him,” she concludes when you finally pause to catch your breath. Your eyes widen, quick to interject and try to deny it. You both know you’re lying, more to yourself than anyone else. Eventually, you give up and agree. What was the point? Denying it does not change how you feel.

Lucius retreated to his office for the remainder of the afternoon and the evening once the walk in the garden had come to an end. He made up some excuse as to why he needed to work, leaving his guests in the hands of the magistrates despite their protest. He locked himself away, refused to leave for meals, and stayed planted in his chair until the lamps burned all of their oil. He needed a break, he felt suffocated. He desperately wished to be alone.

He was so lost in thought that he didn’t hear you come in. Not until you placed the tray of food down in the far corner of the room. You almost think he didn’t see you at all, about to slip out of the room without saying anything.

“Please stay,” he says at the last second. You’re the one person he’s wanted to see and yet somehow never can. You purse your lips, debating on what to do before quietly shutting the door again. You take a few steps toward him. He can see the way your movements are hesitant.

“I thought about what you said- that night in the garden,” he admits. “I’m sorry. I was unfair to you. I understand why you didn’t seek me out.”

“Thank you for saying that,” you reply.

“I just feel… I feel very in over my head here,” he admits with a self-deprecating chuckle. “I only wanted to be around someone who is on my side. I miss my friend. I’m surrounded by people here but this is the loneliest I have ever felt. Talking with you, these past nights, it’s the best I’ve felt in a long time.”

You can see the hurt in his eyes, and you can see how exhausted he looks despite the dim light. You can’t help but observe how beautiful his features are despite it. He makes you nervous- he’s just so handsome. It makes it hard to breathe.

“You can’t say you will be lonely much longer,” you offer, attempting to sound optimistic. “You’ll have the company of the new empress after the wedding.”

“What are you talking about?” He asks, and you’re confused as to how he doesn’t seem to know what you’re referring to.

“Do you not plan to propose to Liviana?” You ask. “I’m sorry, I just- everyone has assumed…”

“I’m not marrying Liviana,” he says, his tone absolute.

“Oh.”

“We’re not a good match,” he says, only scratching the surface as to why he’s decided to not go through with it. “Liviana and I.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No need to be sorry,” he’s quick to reassure you. “Believe me, I just- I don’t want to marry someone because of these obligations that are just hanging over my head.”

“What a childish thing to say,” you blurt out before you have a chance to bite your tongue. Your walls are being raised up again. You’d say anything to protect yourself, anything to push him away. You deflect from yourself, making this about Rome and not about your own fears.

“I’m sorry?”

“You dismiss it as an obligation like it’s an inconvenience to be the leader of Rome,” you gesture out the window towards the city. “The people put you here. You owe it to them.”

“So you don’t believe in marrying for love?” He asks.

“I believe the Emperor needs to do what is best for his people, even if it means sacrificing personal happiness.”

“What if this union isn’t what’s best for the people of Rome?” He asks. “Don’t you feel Rome deserves an empress who knows them? Someone who holds loyalty to them and not to Gaul?”

“I’m sure whatever you decide to do will be the right decision,” you state. He lets out a heavy sigh, and he rubs his temples.

“You think I should marry her?” He asks, his voice suddenly softer. You can see the conflict in his eyes, and it breaks your heart.

“Is there a reason why you think you shouldn’t?” You counter, asking gently.

“Well, according to you it’s not enough that I don’t love her,” he says, leaning back against his desk. He crosses his arms, mulling over the right way to phrase everything. All of the thoughts that have been racing this past month have jumbled in his mind. It’s hard to concisely separate them all, especially with you near him standing close like this. “Would it make a difference if I loved someone else? Someone else who would make a better empress?

You look back to him, confusion evident across your face until you see the way he’s looking at you. Your eyes widen, and you step back like you're dodging an attack.

“No, no you don’t mean that,” you’re quick to refute. “You don’t love me.”

“I do-”

“No, you don’t. Don’t mock me like this. You’re being cruel. Even if this isn’t your idea of some sick joke, you don’t love me. You might think you do, but you do not.”

“I love you…”

“Don’t. Just don’t.” A lump sits in your throat and you blink back tears. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I swear to you that I do.”

You feel hysterical. You’re dumbfounded at your look at Lucius. You couldn’t imagine that he’d be serious. You’d imagined this moment more times in your life than you ever would admit. You’d prayed to the gods, left offerings… did everything in your power to make this happen. Yet, now it still feels so unattainable. Maybe you’ve grown up too much, and became too cynical for your own good. This doesn’t feel romantic, it feels like the universe taunting you. Dangling what you want most in front of you and waiting for you to reach for it, so it can snatch it away again.

“I have to go,” is all you can manage when you feel like the walls of the room are closing in around you. You move to leave, desperate for fresh air.

“Why do you always run from me?” he asks, gently taking your hand. You’re quick to snatch it away before you admit that you felt something- some spark.

“Prolonging the inevitable will just make this harder than it needs to be,” you try to insist.

“What is inevitable?” he asks, he pulls you in closer and you know better but you let him.

“Losing you again.”

He brings a hand up to gently cup your face, and you let him. His touch is gentle, like if he’s not careful he’ll spook you. His thumb brushes away a tear from your cheek and it’s almost too much, letting him be this close. His heart feels like it’s breaking, he’s desperate for you to let him in but he’s terrified your walls are too impenetrable. He blames himself. He should’ve sought you out sooner.

“I’ll send them home tomorrow,” he promises. “I can’t entertain the idea of marrying any other woman but you.”

“Lucius-”

“Please,” he begs, his voice strained. He rests his forehead against yours. “I’ve lost everything but you.”

For the briefest moment, you swear you see his eyes flicker down to your lips. You can feel his weight shift ever so slightly and your breath catches in your throat when you realize that he’s leaning in. And for the first time since he’s been home, you feel yourself giving in to what you want. You tilt your face towards his, willing to meet him halfway.

The moment fleets when you both hear the door push open. He sighs and you can see the hurt on his face when you jump away from his embrace.

[gothamhappiness]

Being in a relationship with Bruce Wayne: a journey - Your new family (Part VI)

It's a big series about an afab!reader who doesn't like Bruce Wayne and who still falls in love with him (he fells quicker and harder)

Reader's origin story // Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 // Part 4 // Part 5

Warnings: no proof reading, mentions of stress, not a lot of plot here but little snippets of moments with all the kids

You were a little bit stressed out to meet all of Bruce’s children but you also felt like it was going to be alright. Jason was there, always by your side. Dick and Tim liked you and they had said only good things about you to the others. Especially Dick, because he was well aware that Jason wouldn’t agree to spend time with him again without you. The fact Bruce was much nicer since you were together was also working in your favour. Alfred was approving of you too and he had personally asked all of the children to treat you well.

The children were also aware that Bruce would be very unhappy and disappointed with them all if things didn’t go well. It was obviously very important for him.

At first, everyone was a little bit silent and awkward. It was the first time a civilian was introduced to the whole family. And technically, they already knew a lot about you without knowing you, so they weren’t too sure how to act around you. They didn’t want to scare you off by showing they made research about you… and stalked you.

After a little while, you gently teased them all, saying that for vigilantes they were quite shy. It quickly put them at ease.

Things went actually a lot better than you thought and you could tell no one really believed you would that easily get along with the family. You felt Bruce relaxing through the dinner, his hand on your thigh under the table. His warmth helped you feel safer around everyone as well.

Soon enough they all were chatting around and asking you questions. It was a true interrogation but you didn’t mind. For once, you were the one answering questions and not the other way around. It was fun.

Damian was the only silent one. He wasn’t too sure how to deal with you. He didn’t need you. He wasn’t used to seeing his father around someone. He wasn’t too certain how to react when his father kissed the back of your hand with such love shining in his eyes. 

You noticed his uncertainty but you weren’t too worried about it. You knew you were fitting just right in there. You had never felt like that before, or just with your grandma. It was a nice change in your life. And you were really eager to start spending some time with all of them, like you were doing with Jason already.

You went to concerts with Dick. He wanted to go to those classic piano concerts but no one was eager to follow him. He had asked you, half certain you would politely decline his offer. But on the contrary, you had been more than happy to agree to come with him. Your eagerness warmed his heart. It had been a long time he hadn’t had a motherly figure in his life, and he knew you were fitting perfectly. Since then, whenever one of you wanted to go to a concert - no matter what kind - you had to go together. It was your thing. None of you went to so many concerts before, but it was a pretext to spend time together. You talked a lot before the concerts too and Dick could only agree with Jason: you were easy to talk to.

You played video games with Tim. You were waiting for Bruce to come back from patrol one night and you were bored out of your mind. You found Tim playing in the living room. At first, you just asked him if you could hang around. He agreed without thinking much of it, before offering you to play with him. He needed another player and no one else was around at that time. It appeared you were a gamer and you enjoyed fighting against one other. But you enjoyed working together on co-op games even more. You spent a lot of evenings with Tim on the couch, screaming together when you were losing or winning. Everyone knew better than to annoy the two of you when you were gaming.

You watched movies with Stephanie. Stephanie was clearly not too certain how to be around you. Things weren’t always easy with Bruce and after the way her parents betrayed her, she felt like she couldn’t trust adults any longer. But Jason loved you so much that she thought she could give you a chance. Watching movies allowed the two of you to bond, without having to interact too much at first. Then you started to talk a lot about what you just saw, and then about everything else. Watching movies snuggled up against you started to become Stephanie’s comfort zone and you were more than happy to give her that. Even though you were a tease, you never said anything when she fell asleep on you.

You took dancing lessons with Cassandra. It was clear the girl was a classic dancer; she was really amazing to watch. You loved to dance too, even though you never really took any kind of lessons, so you thought it would be a nice activity to do together. Cass instantly agreed. It allowed her to observe you and your body language. She had more fun than she thought, and she offered to keep going dancing together. You improved a lot thanks to her help and she liked to discover other kinds of dances thanks to you. You also came to watch her repetitions and her representations. She started to always look for you in the spectators, happy to be taken care of that way. 

You did puzzles with Duke. You started to spend a lot more time at the manor, even when Bruce wasn’t around. You were currently doing a mind game on the living room table as Duke went by. You started to chat around and you saw Duke was quite eager to play with you, so you invited him to settle by your side. Once you were done, he looked for a puzzle he hadn’t finished yet so you could do it together. When the weather was pretty bad in Gotham, you quite liked to get some hot cacao and to do puzzles with Duke. Because you both were pretty good with puzzles, you had to always find more challenging ones. Looking for them was also part of the fun.

For Damian, things were a little bit more difficult, as he made it clear, he had no interest in spending time with you. It hurt you a little more than you wanted to admit but didn’t say anything at first. You eventually went to an animal care centre open to the public with Damian and Bruce. Bruce offered for you to come with the two of them so his son could get used to your presence. He had noticed he was the only one who was avoiding you. Damian stayed cold to you for a long time, eyeing his father holding your hand with a frown until you let go of Bruce’s hand to come closer to the lions. You really loved the animals and Damian thought you couldn’t be that bad then. That evening, Alfred the cat fell asleep on your lap, so Damian started to be more polite to you. It was the first step. You started to bond over taking care of his pets.

You also met Barbara, Kate, Luke and Lucius. 

Kate and you instantly became friends because you were seeing things quite similarly. You also loved to tease everyone together. You had a real complicity between the two of you, and you often hang out together just for the sake of being together. And annoying everyone.

Barbara needed some time to trust you but she could tell you were a good addition to the family. She slowly warmed up to you. You didn’t take it personally and you showed a lot of patience. You were happy to be part of this group of amazing people, and Barbara couldn’t deny how kind you were to all of them.

Luke trusted Duke’s approval of you. You talked a lot around a drink in a bar in Gotham after Dick invited everyone for his birthday. You asked him questions about the army and the way veterans were taken care of. You promised him to do an article about it, which touched Luke a lot.

Lucius and you enjoyed talking together, as ones of the only civilians of the family, with Alfred. For Lucius, it was quite refreshing to be able to discuss with someone who was also shaking their head at the Batfamily’s antics. Lucius quickly saw how much of a good asset you could be for Wayne Enterprises as well and he hoped that at some point you would agree to help Bruce with it.

As months went by, you started to all know each other a lot more. And to start to love one another quite fiercely. You were their Batmon. You got confirmation of it when the children playfully and yet tenderly brought you a bracelet with the bat logo on it. You swore to always wear it.

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PART 7

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Taglist for all my work <3

@blublock404

@wind-canoe

@silverklaus

@couldeatthatgirlforlunch

Taglist for Bruce Wayne <3

@alishii

Taglist for this series <3

@Esposadomd

@moraxussy

@resident-cryptid

@legendarypiratecheesecake

@randomnamedmira

@elleclairez

[leighbaye]

🖤 ₊˚⊹ — eldest daughter of the malfoy family (1) #DISCONTINUED

parring ➵ draco malfoy x sibling f!reader

summary ➵ family portraits with your little shit of a younger brother.

age of parring ➵ 16 - 18

warnings ➵ fluff

extra ➵ might become a multi - part series, but don’t take my word for it. reader’s middle name is named after bellatrix. thanks to @cafekitsune for banners! second chapter here.

here you were in the manor, in your large but dull gloomy dark room. subtle touches of your personal belongings scattered all about.

you’ve gotten news from your father, lucius, that the family was gonna retake yet another family portrait, it would’ve bugged you then but it happened every year. so what could’ve you done?

you were touching up your hair, defining your blowout and pining it up in a nice up - do, as your mother, narcissa, requested. you applied your favorite lipstick/lipgloss before you heard footsteps approaching.

you looked through the reflection of the mirror on your vanity as you added your desired pair of earrings, some bracelets, and layering some necklaces. the final touch being a matching ring you had with draco.

it was a simple stacking ring, engraved with your full first name, middle inital, following with the complete last name on it. you had a matching one with draco.

DRACO L. MALFOY — Y/N B. MALFOY

the baby of the family, who has grown to a young man, walked in without knocking. you clicked your tongue in annoyance, draco got the memo.

❝ m-may i come in? ❞

❝ you are already in. ❞ you scoffed softly, noticing the scowl on his face.

❝ sorry. ❞ he said blandly, you replied saying ❝ don’t worry about it dray, i need your help anyway. ❞

you sat up, walking up to a full length mirror in the left corner of your bedroom, draco following behind.

you fixed any sort of crimple and wrinkle on your dress whatsoever with a whip of your wand.

you presented yourself with a elongated black maxi dress, with a slit on the left side revealing your leg, the bust lined with black lace detailing, the same detailing of the thin straps.

you sported a pair of black crystal covered pointy toe high heels, a beautiful glamorous black cluster crystal on top of it. it was from a muggle high - end store, something along the lines of jimmy choo.

you ran your hands every curve, admiring yourself and catching a glimpse of your dark mark on your left arm, running your hand up and down the same arm.

as you did so, you were unaware of what draco was thinking.

draco malfoy, disliked by his fellow peers in the same year, most in a complete different house, known for his undeniable prejudice toward blood status.

one thing he was also known for was you, and he knew that of course.

anytime anyone would look, speak, or even breathe around you, he would always and constantly eye them.

he would clench his fist anytime someone would utter a bad mouth about you and disregard you as a person. no matter who it was, he would walk past and shove them so hard on purpose with no hesitation.

he absolutely hated people who would do so, cause you usually never did anything to anyone. back when he was a second year, you being in your third year, when the heir of slytherin was petrifying muggle borns, he never heard the end of it with the accusations of you being the heir.

reconnecting with the present, he looked at you lovingly with his hands in his blazer pockets. how he blazingly loved his older sister. every little thing you did, he always and never thought you weren’t the best at.

❝ you look beautiful sister. ❞ he said softly.

❝ you really think so? don’t you think its too much? ❞

he chuckled responding spontaneously with, ❝ too much or too little, you always look gorgeous. ❞

❝ oh i love you so much brother. ❞ you sighed placing you hands on his face kissing his forehead, being able to easier because of the shoes you were wearing.

you grabbed you favorite purfume, spritzing some on your wrists, collarbones, behind your ears. then spraying some near draco, giggling as he waved his arms coughing trying to prevent getting a feminine fragrance from attaching to his clothing.

❝ let’s be on our way now, mother and father have been holding up long enough. ❞ you ordered.

he enterwined his arm with yours eyeing down at your shoes, being patient with you as you have a disadvantage of walking quickly.

the both of you reached the hallway, sounds of clicking and clacking shoes echoed throughout the halls. draco was talking about the new school year at hogwarts approaching, to say he was displeased would be understatement.

the both of you kept walking til you guys reached the wall full with frames of family pictures. from the moment lucius and narcissa were engaged, their wedding ceremony, your birth, draco’s birth, both of you and draco’s first year at hogwarts ; and so on.

one picture caught your attention, you grimaced.

it was when you were starting in your fifth year and draco in his forth. the thing that bothered you so much was you short hair phase and short your dress was. it was way to provocative for a sixteen year old.

listen your hair would’ve been so adorable if you have gotten layers but oh well.

❝ oh my god. i looked ghastly! ❞ you almost shrieked.

❝ i cannot believe you let your little brother walk out like that. ❞ uttered draco disapprovingly.

it then turned into a five minute rambling of you calling your younger brother cute and squealing at his undefined face back when he was eleven.

draco only flushed and continued letting his older sister call him names he hasn’t been called in years, he was pulling on your dress mumbling for you to quit it.

unknowingly to the both of you, narcissa was watching her eldest daughter and baby son holding hands and giggling at each other’s portraits, telling stories of the days each portrait was taken.

how it made her happy knowing draco had you watching over him and growing up with a role model, regardless of the both of you growing up, you and draco will always be her children.

❝ draco, y/n, it’s time to get going. your father and aunt bellatrix are getting impatient. ❞

❝ sorry mother.❞ the both of you said in unison, quickly walking to in front of her.

narcissa stood on his tip toes, even with heels on, and kissed draco and you on the cheek, caressing her towering children as she smiled at.

❝ cmon now, run along! ❞

draco quickly ran to narcissa’s left side as you stayed on her right, both of you simultaneously wrapping your arms around hers and made your way out to the center of the manor.

lucius checked his watch groaning at the fact that his children are almost twenty minutes late to the shoot.

bellatrix cleared her throat impatiently, she had to meet with the dark lord in an hour, she wouldn’t be able to unless her niece and nephew were aware of the time.

nacrissa came in with a smile, one that both her sister and husband noticed in a heartbeat.

❝ narcissa, where is y/n and draco? ❞ asked lucius asked blandly, bellatrix glanced wanting to know.

before narcissa could answer, you and draco came in, making unnecessary fixes to your hair and outfits, holding out a compact mirror in front of the both of you.

❝ oh, my beautiful niece! you really outdid yourself, come here my sweet! ❞ bellatrix cooed as you smiled and closed the compact, walking up to her.

kisses were being plastered all over your face, lucius signaling draco to come up to his father.

draco went up and watched as his father fixed his tie silently chuckling at the sight of his beautiful daughter all dolled up.

❝ sorry father, it was my fault draco was late. i would’ve been at lot earlier if i hadn’t kicked him out of my room. ❞ you exclaimed softly.

❝ that’s quiet alright y/n, i should’ve known it takes young ladies a quite amount of time to prepare themselves. ❞ he grabbed your arm reassuringly.

❝ you know where to go, take the lead draco, y/n. ❞

you and draco obliged and went down to the living room and sat together in a forest green velvet vintage lounge chair holding hands, as the adults stood behind.

a couple of pictures, mixing it up quite often, it was finally the malfoy children portraits.

sitting down, standing up, backsides, and many serious and some smiling pictures later, the both of you hugged and you reminded draco how much you appreciated him.

the both of you snapped back into reality facing the wizarding world equivalent of a camera in surprise as a flash blinded the both of you, laughing at the moment that would make this yearly family portrait tradition memorable.

୨⎯ 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐚 𝐥𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡 ⎯୧

[letsgobarbs]

Chapter 1

INDEX Chapter 2 Warning: They are provided on the Index page.

It was time for a Vestal to die. All the signs pointed towards it. Rome festered with sickness, poverty, desperation and death. It lingered, Death, like a stink that refuses to dissipate; it tittered in the corners with the rats— laughing at the hubris of man. Death circled the air, like the sharks in the Colosseum, looking for its next meal. You wondered who would be caught within its jaws. 

There was Aquilia, she had a lover waiting for her— one who had also made a vow of chastity, taking no other woman except her. They were to marry as soon as she had finished her service to Vesta, so she could not die. There were Junia and Marcia, two women who had spent the last two decades arguing whether chastity was only violated by a man’s phallus or also by… whatever they did in the dark of night, hidden from the eyes of others. They were dearly beloved and stupidly in love— so they could not die. Then, there was Licinia who had hands blessed by Edesia and could make the humblest of ingredients into the most delicious of meals. The world would be bereft without her patina cotidiana so she could not die. Tuccia, of course, could not die because she was your best friend. Which left… you. As it should be. 

Publius hoped that none of the Vestals died, poor man— his tenure as the Pontifex Maximus was pushing him to an early grave. The six of you were not the most biddable of women. But he remained kind and fatherly unlike the previous chief high priest who had a taste for little girls and had died an unfortunate and untimely death— that had nothing to do with the vial of poison your brother had gifted you. 

Publius had ordered the priestesses to recede from the public eye; tend to the fire of Vesta, perform the ceremonial rites and do nothing else in hopes that the murderous winds of change blowing through Rome spared them. But you had begged him for one last outing, not wanting to miss the Naumachia— they were living on borrowed time anyway, it would be a waste to miss the biggest spectacle. 

Acacius’ victory at Numidia ensured a brief moment of respite, just a bit more time, a few extra breaths. The Emperors were insatiable, they dreamed of conquering India and Persia— a pipe dream and a symbolic expression of imperial power while Rome crumbled under its own weight. Another defeat, another military loss, very well could be the straw that breaks the camel’s back. The discontent and anger that was only simmering and stewing would finally boil over. And instead of the greed, tyranny, and madness of those in power; the death, destruction and ruin will be pinned on an innocent woman and her chastity. Such was the way of the world.

The ship swiftly spun around and you slipped to the edge of your seat, it forged ahead and rammed the other ship. Hanno, you brilliant bastard. No… not Hanno. Lucius. Lucius Verus Aurelius. Lucilla’s son and the heir to the throne of Rome. The smoke obscured your view of him while he fought his way down the second ship, pushing his opponents into shark-infested waters. You watched Lucius pick up a crossbow, staring at the raised box where the Emperors sat. Would he dare take an aim at them? The arrow released just as another soldier grappled with him. It lodged itself into Geta’s seat, narrowly missing… Acacius. How dare he?

A hand gripped your arm, preventing you from following when Acacius helped Lucila, bracing his arm around her to pull her away from danger. Desperately, you watched their forms disappear, and with it your well-laid plans. They would fail. Just this morning, their servant Leta had informed Thraex of their plans, who was bound to tell someone— most likely Macrinus. He would trade the information about their plans to rescue Lucius, and their plot to arrest the Emperors to erase some of his debt. And Macrinus would use this information, you didn’t know exactly how just yet, but he had ambitions— big ones. He could trade this information with the Emperors for a seat in the senate. 

Regardless, this would mean certain death for Acacius. They must not be caught tonight. You had hoped to speak with him and Lucilla today, tell them how they had been discovered, and to exercise caution, perhaps, even delay the rescue; Lucius seemed to do just fine in the arena. You would have even offered to rescue Lucius yourself if Lucilla refused to take your advice. But you had missed your opportunity, and you couldn’t very well show up at their home— you had never even spoken to them before. It would be too suspicious, raise too many brows. You could only mutter a whispered prayer to Vesta that at least Ravi found Acacius with the information before he was surrounded by the Praetorian guard tonight. 

You were locked in your room. A maelstrom of dread churned in your gut. It made you nauseous, your throat hurt from bottling up the roiling emotions threatening to rise, and your mouth felt dry as if someone had shoved a large piece of linen in there. Publius had not appreciated your attempts at contacting Lucilla and Acacius yesterday, locking you in your chambers for ‘your safety and that of your sisters’ as he had put it. Of course, you knew he was right. But Acacius was caught. And you had no idea what had become of him. 

You lowered the knotted sheets down your window, there was no other way. The height made your head spin which did not bode well for your descent. You would brave this, you had to— Acacius’ life depended on it. You clutched a purse full of a few dinarii to bribe the stablehand for your horse, stuffing it into your bosom, before swinging one leg out of the window. 

Your family was one to believe that women should be educated just as men were. Even with your initiation into the Temple of Vesta, they had bribed the temple to send you tutors to teach you the art of fighting, horseriding and politics in addition to your languages and household management. While you had abhorred anything that required excess physical labour, the stamina and muscles you had built supported you as you slid down the sheets. 

The people weren’t rioting in the streets, that was always a good sign. It meant Acacius was not dead yet, nor was he being taken to the gallows to be executed. You strolled for a while, keeping close to your horse so it would conceal your form, listening to the whisperings and murmurs on the streets. They had imprisoned Acacius at the Colosseum. What were they thinking? It posed far too much risk for the Emperors. Should the Gods look kindly on him, and he survived whatever cruel, gruesome game the editors had devised for the arena, the Emperors would never be able to turn their thumbs down to kill him— it would turn the people against them. 

Frustration, and what felt very much like desperation, prickled under your skin. There were far too many people, you could not spur your horse any faster without hurting them. You took several deep breaths, hoping to stave off the flood of panic at the thought of being too late. But all your mind could picture was Acacius— dead on the grounds of the arena. 

By the time you reached an entrance by the side of the Colosseum, tears stung your eyes and your breath came in short jagged gasps. The horse echoed its owner’s anxiety as he stomped his foot and trembled under your legs. A hand reached out to take his reins, another gently soothed him with wide comforting strokes along his neck. Ravi.

“You’re not supposed to be here.” 

“Tell me what is happening, please. Is Acacius still alive? Is he fighting? What are they doing to him?” You refused to dismount the horse, in case you had to rush onto the arena. It wasn’t the best plan, but it was your only plan. 

“He fought a few of his own Centurions. But they are putting him against Hanno, from Numidia, to allow him a chance at revenge.” No. They were putting him against Lucius, son of Lucilla, and Acacius was going to give his own life for them.

“Pick it up,” Lucius demanded. Acacius stood unarmed, refusing to attack him, only fending off his blows. He reached for the staff, instead of the sword. Him and his stupid honour. Both men grappled as Lucius attacked relentlessly. You knew Acacius could win this fight, it was evident in the way he only had to push Lucius away for him to fall to the ground. The wars had shaped him into a powerful warrior who had fought and survived worse. Yet he refused to fight. 

“I’m sorry I could not reach him last night, the Praetorian Guards had already killed Acacius’ men by the time I arrived,” Ravi explained, but you could not focus on his words because Acacius had raised his hand in surrender— kneeling on the ground. Fury and anguish engulfed you, and you tightened your grip on the reins of your horse, waiting for the judgement. He was a soldier, a General, you would not allow him to die on his knees like a criminal. 

Geta raised his arms to the sky, languidly bringing his arms forward to… turn his thumb down, “The Gods have rendered their judgement.” NO. No, no, no. 

Acacius took deep, heaving breaths; blood and gravel smeared on his wounds and bruises formed against his face and arms. He was speaking to Lucius, you were too far away to hear the words but the Colosseum was shrouded in a silence of shock and disbelief. The wind carried parts of his words and you read his lips to know the rest. 

“... you have to know, I love your mother Lucilla… and your father Maximus. I would have died for him.” You could feel your heart shatter, it bled out in the form of tears. Of course, of course, he loved her. She was his wife. He belonged to her. You weren’t doing this so he might turn to you. How could he? Acacius had never seen you. 

Lucius dropped his sword and joined Acacius to kneel— an act of mercy, of forgiveness. But Rome was not merciful, it did not forgive, it only plundered and killed. Geta turned to the captain of the Praetorian Guard as your own horse reared back on its hind legs before shooting forward into the arena. The guards had notched their arrows at Acacius. And you flipped your veil while you circled the ground, allowing everyone to see who you were. 

“Kill him.” Caracalla insisted impatiently. But none would dare to launch an arrow while you stood in their way. Spilling the blood of a Vestal was sacrilege and an act against the Gods, it could ruin Rome. Because so long as your bodies remained unpenetrated, the walls of Rome would remain intact. You brought your horse closer to Acacius— shielding him from the arrows, the Emperors, the spectators, and the very sun itself that inflicted its scorching heat onto his wounds. You would shield him from the Gods if you had to, he will not die today. You gently patted your horse, the wonderful friend that he was, understood your gesture and brought his neck to the side of the ground, curling around Acacius to further cover him in safety and shade. 

Acacius was tired. He had been weary for a very long time, from the wars, the bloodshed, the devastation. The cries of the bereaved mothers, wives and children as they mourned their loved ones echoed in his mind, ringing in his ears until he could not sleep. Admittedly, he was terrified when they had been caught last night, but only for Lucilla and her fate— not for his. He felt an odd sense of relief at being discovered. It would mean no more fighting, no more wars— in death he would be freed from this burden of guilt and duty.

Alas, death never came easy. It had pained him to fight the four centurions. He remembered them as boys when they had joined the legions— he had trained them himself. They had protected him through countless wars, threw themselves in front of swords for him; they had ensured he returned home safe. He had vowed to not sacrifice another generation of men for the greed and vanity of the Emperors. Yet, he had been forced to take their lives himself. 

So the sight of his saviour was a little unwelcome. He had prepared for his end when he agreed to rescue Lucius. She was one of the Vestals judging by the red bands that adorned her hair and fell over her shoulders. One of the most powerful women in Rome was interceding on his behalf. Why? 

He glanced at her feet in the stirrup of her saddle, wrapped in elaborate swirls of leather with a soft sole; clean toes then a delicate arch and a smooth heel— the feet of someone unused to the harshness of the elements, of poverty and hard work. Her stola modestly fell over her legs in soft lavender folds, and a deep red woollen palla, embroidered with gold flowers and leaves, draped her form. Wealthy, very wealthy. She openly flouted the convention of priestesses being dressed simply— which meant a powerful family backed her. Despite all the wealth he had accumulated as the General of Rome, he would not be able to dress Lucilla in these clothes. 

Acacius reached up to pat the head of her horse that was nosing around his thighs. It wasn’t a superior breed, as he had expected, not flashy like the ones used for chariot racing, nor was it powerful like the horses provided to the military. A local breed— strong, dependable, loyal. Why was a woman like her standing between him and the Emperors? Ideals? Some romantic notion of heroism? Did she believe herself to be impervious to their rage? 

“You accuse him of being an enemy of the state and threaten the lives of its Emperors. But the people have yet to see a trial! He is a Roman hero… guided by the spirit of Vesta to watch over Rome from its furthest corners, fighting your wars. After over thirty years of his unflinching loyalty and abiding service to Rome and its people… you would label him a traitor?”— There was a moment of stillness, as everyone stood nervous and unsure of how the situation would proceed. Acacius also felt the knots of tension tighten in his stomach—“In the name of Vesta, the patron Goddess of Rome, the one who watches and presides over all our homes. I pardon Justus Acacius for any of his imagined crimes.” Her voice carried through the Colosseum, open and light but betraying the underlying fury in her words. 

A murmur arose swiftly morphing into a roar. The people chanted his name, begged for mercy on his behalf. And above all those voices rose the voice of the priestess, “THE GODS. HAVE. SPOKEN.” 

The arrows changed direction to face the agitated crowd, the spectators of his near-death raged against the Praetorian guards. Acacius prayed they would not fire their arrows into the crowd of people. He glanced at Lucilla, chained to her seat next to the Emperors who looked alarmed at the reaction and anger of the citizens.

“Furthermore. I free this slave, Hanno of Numidia. For his honour and strength. And for his refusal to harm those Vesta holds dear— Rome and its General.” Most in the Colosseum did not hear this declaration, but Macrinus flew to the ledge of his box staring at the woman as she dismounted her horse. Suspicion curled in his gut. There was no reason to pardon Hanno— unless she was aware that he was Lucius. There was a conspiracy afoot and this woman was at the centre of it. 

She reached out and pulled Lucius up by his arm, pulling him behind her and offered her hand to help him stand. He eschewed touching her to take the reins of her horse instead before leading them all out of the arena. She stumbled over the front of her dress as soon as they were out of the public eye. Lucius steadied her, and Acacius considered pulling the man away from her. She had saved them, but her safety was not guaranteed for too long.

Vestals had the power to free slaves and rescue condemned men from execution. But the privilege was so rarely used out of fear of retaliation. The most powerful women in Rome had an Achilles’ heel so easy to pierce that a whisper of rumour could destroy them— as it often did. Their chastity and virginity were synonymous with the safety and welfare of Rome, and they could be killed for violating their vows. 

She had challenged the Emperors, they would blame the woeful state of Rome on the failing of the Vestals and insist one of them had violated her vows. Then find this woman guilty of unchastity. And she would be killed for it. She had rescued them, and should one of them be groundlessly accused of being her paramour they would be publicly flogged to death by the Pontifex Maximus. He was grateful for her aid, truly, he was but she was a danger to them.

“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?” came a shout as someone rushed towards her fuming with anger. She flinched at the shout and leaned against the wall, barely standing on her shaky legs. Acacius drew himself up to full height and stood between him and the lady. It was the Pontifex Maximus; this man held the right to discipline and beat a priestess for a violation of etiquette or rules. He stood alert, with hands rolled into loose fists, waiting to jump into action if the chief high priest dared to lay a hand on her. 

She had curled her hand around her heart, struggling to breathe; he recognised these signs, had seen them before in the soldiers who returned from war— had suffered from them himself. Contrary to his expectation, and even the fury that still painted the senator’s reddened face, he handled her gently and tentatively like one would hold a child.  

“It is worse, Publius. So much worse than I imagined.” She whispered. Acacius struggled to make sense of their conversation.

“It is done. Nothing we can do about it now. You’ve… just, why?” Publius asked, anguish evident in his tone. He had the same question, why save them?

“I’m going to die.” She said it much more calmly and he had to appreciate the strength that coated her voice even when she was breathing unevenly, the grace with which she faced her future. His heart ached for her, she would lose her life for trying to save his. He owed her a debt he could not repay.

“No, no, the Pontiffs are meeting to discuss your actions, we will make sure nothing happens to you for this. We will figure out a way.” Publius insisted. 

“No, don’t make promises you cannot keep, it is done, nothing we can do about it now.” She echoed his words back at him. 

The priestess turned to him, “Acacius—”

“I need to find my wife, Lucilla, she’s—” She gave him a hurried dismissive nod before turning away from him. 

“Hanno, you will follow me.” No, the boy should come with him.

He needs to take Lucilla and her son out of the city and reunite with his men in Ostia. His plans to arrest the Emperors had been discovered and the Praetorian Guards were alert. They had lost their element of surprise and would have to plan another attack. But Lucilla and Lucius’ safety came foremost. They were the future of Rome. He tried to signal Lucius to decline her offer. But he was too busy staring up at the priestess, helping her mount her horse again. Acacius had to hold back his sigh of irritation. Not the right time, not the right woman. 

“I was hoping Hanno could help me…” All three of them turned to look at him as if he had grown a second head “I might need to—” 

“Rescue Lady Lucilla? And flee to your troops in Ostia I suppose? She is under house arrest in your home, kept under continuous surveillance. They will let you in easy enough but they will not let you leave. Even if you managed to escape with her, that army of yours has not reached Ostia. Leave Hanno out of your mess.” Acacius felt his blood run cold. Just how much did she know, and more importantly, who else knew of their plans? Did Hanno and her know each other beforehand? Was that why they were rescued? 

It was his turn to feel that tightness in his chest, his wounds burned, his bones ached and the exhaustion was catching up to him now that he was no longer fighting. He looked at her for the first time, studying her features, looking for a sign of… anything. She wore a mask that concealed every emotion, even the trembling in he limbs had subsided. He had no idea what she was planning and how they all factored into it. There was a game being played, but he was unaware of the rules, or the moves of his opponents. And the sight of her tugged at his mind, she was so familiar, he knew her from somewhere. A whisper of a memory lurked in the back of his mind, yet the image remained unclear. 

“You will make sure to go straight to the Temple, all the other girls are to be confined to their rooms. Ravi, make sure she and the gladiator reach there safely.” The senator issued terse orders.

“I am free, am I not?” Lucius interrupted. 

“Yes, Lucius, you are free to go as you please.” Was her parting reply before she rode out of the Colosseum refusing to wait for her escort. Was nothing a secret from her? Her knowledge could have Lucius killed, he was the only living heir to the throne. 

“But I suggest you follow her, my friend,” Ravi counselled Lucius, “Macrinus knows who you are. He will not let you go. But he will also not be able to pull you out of the Temple easily.” 

Macrinus? Macrinus knew of Lucius’ identity and had not told the Emperors. But he had informed them of his plans of treason… What game was he playing?

“Forgive me, General, she had asked me to pass on the information that Thraex had betrayed you to Macrinus. But I was too late last night…” He silenced the man with a hand on his shoulder. At least for now, the priestess seemed to be on their side. 

Acacius reached a decision, “Go to the temple. Keep in the public areas, always be within sight of somebody else. Do not, listen to me carefully, do not be seen alone with any of the priestesses… Your mother and I will join you there.”

You stoked the fire on the altar, seemingly deep in thought but the dread had settled so deeply into your bones that none of your thoughts registered in your mind. You had abandoned Lucius somewhere in another part of the temple, but somehow he had followed you here, you can still feel his eyes on you. 

There was a rush of footsteps, you would know them anywhere, Marcus. Another figure flew into the room with him, Lucilla. You were overwhelmed, on edge and agitated— you had no patience for her today. It wasn’t fair to her, especially because your frustration with her stemmed from a deeply personal issue; it wasn’t her fault that Acacius loved her. The very thought of it tightened your chest with misery and grief. You had loved him for so long that the emotion had receded like an old wound that only ached and twinged when one was overworked, or when the seasons changed. And today, you were exhausted from the physical and mental strain, and a storm was on the horizon that ominously heralded death.

You watched her embrace her son, refusing to look at Acacius still standing by the entrance of the room. Lucilla turned to you, gaze heavy with weariness and tears of gratitude, the years after her father’s death had not been kind to her. 

“Thank you, so much, you cannot know—” You stayed her with your palm outstretched, taking a step back to prevent her from touching you. 

“Please, you do not need to thank me. If you will excuse me… Marcia watch the flame.” You did not want her gratitude. After all, you hadn’t wanted to save her husband, you had only wanted to save the man you loved. You moved to leave the room— just needing time alone. 

“I remember you.” You abruptly halted. These were the words you had wanted to hear all day. But… the voice was wrong. The person was wrong. You turned to face Lucius anyway.

“You were there the day I was sent away from Rome”—he pulled a ring off his finger—“You gave me this ring…”

You remembered the day incredibly well, and you had given him the ring, “Yes, it was my mother’s.”

“I gave it to my wife when we were married… It must have meant a lot to you. This ring. You told me that it would be alright… that going away wasn’t scary at all. And that I was only being sent away for my own protection and to make me stronger. You assured me that my family would miss me just as much as I missed them… said you knew because your family missed you just as much as you missed them… you also promised to miss me too.” He finished with a mischievous grin. 

You huffed a broken laugh, you hadn’t kept that promise. All thoughts of that little boy had left your mind that very day when you were beaten for speaking to him. You had only been twelve. But as someone who had been training in the temple for six years by then, you should have known better than to talk to a boy, it was immodest. It had not been a selfless act to comfort Lucius for being ripped away from his home, you had only lingered because he was being watched over by Acacius— hoping to spend more time in his presence. 

“Would you… like the ring back?” You met his eyes, he was very different from the boy you remembered. You wondered if he saw how different you were from that innocent girl of twelve.

“No, once we give away something, we do not take it back. The ring means far more to you now.” 

You hadn’t wanted to reminisce about the past, but Lucius’ words had taken you back to that day. Death lingered in the air even then, but you had been too young to notice it. History was in the making, winds of change had uprooted what was in place to make space for something new, an Emperor and a hero had died in the arena; and you only had eyes on Marcus. 

He had been Marcus to you then, just Marcus, not Acacius, not Justus, and not General. He was just a young man, your brother’s best friend. They had both trained under Maximus when your eldest brother served as a Centurion. Your brother had been elected by the Senate to the post of Centurion because yours had been a military family; while Marcus had been promoted from the ranks of common soldiers for his valour.

You had loved him from the day your brother had brought him home as a guest; at your tender age of five, you had not known what love is, but you loved him anyway without rhyme or reason. Or perhaps there had been a reason. You had been a demon as a child, climbing trees and walls, chasing after your brothers, breaking priceless decorations, and hiding from your wetnurse and tutors. Marcus, your senior by a decade, had been unfailingly kind and endlessly patient. No matter how busy he was, he always had a smile for you, gently rubbing his knuckle over your plump cheeks in greeting.

When you were too afraid to descend from a tree you had climbed, it was only him you trusted to catch you. He could entertain you for hours, seating you atop his shoulders while he walked around the gardens with your brother. He took the blame when you had broken your mother’s priceless vase. He could find you no matter where you ran to hide. 

You had been all of six when you were told that you would be joining the temple of Vesta. Commodus had demanded your hand in marriage to command your father’s loyalty. And when your father had denied him, staying true to Emperor Marcus Aurelius, Commodus had conspired to steal military funding and rations and accused your father of this crime. While your father was proven innocent, his career never recovered and it was safest for the family to retreat from political life. 

Your father had been a general who commanded the loyalty and trust of the entire army— not unlike Marcus who he had adored. The family had far too much military influence and wealth, it would have been a threat to any reigning monarch. Men would covet you, their only daughter, as a way to force your family to do their bidding. So it was safest for you in the temple, where you symbolised Rome itself; any man who touched you had assaulted the very embodiment of Rome and would be killed with impunity.

But you hadn’t understood all that at six and had chosen to run away from home to your dear Marcus. You had followed him all the way to his insula— apartment blocks made out of wood and mud, unlike your palatial domus. He had lived on the highest floor, you would later learn these were the ones with the cheapest rent, sharing a home with countless other men also learning their trade. 

It was the first and only time he had been angry with you— out of fear for your safety. He had never raised his voice, but you could tell he was angry by the furrow in his brows, his pursed lips and the clench of his jaw… just like today at the Colosseum. The disappointment rolling off him in waves had caused you to burst into tears, much like it made you want to do today. But today, he would not have comforted you as he had then. Marcus had gently washed your soot-covered feet and dirty cheeks before carrying you home in his arms. It was only a day after this tantrum that the chief high priest had taken you away to the temple.

For years you were sequestered in the temple, learning how to be a priestess, that day at the Colosseum was the first time you had been allowed to attend a public event. You remembered fluttering with excitement at the idea of seeing Marcus again. He had looked beautiful and just as you had remembered him; kind, protective, strong. 

You had watched him comfort Lucius and help him onto the horse before sending him away to the safety of distant lands. You had waited, patiently, for him to turn around and notice you. Your training would not allow you to call out to him first. There had been a large grin on your face when he had finally turned around; but he had glanced at you, bowed his face in deference and walked away from you. He did not remember you. He had left you standing there with tears washing away that beam. You could not remember ever having smiled that way again. Which had not been Marcus’ fault, no, that was because of the beating that had come after.

Twelve had been the age you were finally, and unfortunately, to the previous chief high priest’s tastes. And while he may not have touched you out of fear of the consequences, there were ways a grown man could terrify a child. The temple hadn’t been the refuge your family had hoped it would be. You had killed him. It was a fact you didn’t regret to this day. 

You were not built for the temple, it was the truth no matter how hard you had tried to carve a place for yourself here. But you had endured. You had endured the training, the rites, and the ceremonies. You had endured the beatings and the whippings when you made mistakes. You had endured having to lower your gaze demurely and not look around at the world around you. You endured when your mother passed away in the countryside but you couldn’t see her because Vestals could not leave the city. You had endured losing Marcus. Never even receiving the chance to attain him. You had endured until he could no longer recognise you. Worse, you had endured until you could no longer recognise yourself. But this was the last of your endurance. You were exhausted. 

Loud banging was heard on the doors of the temple, your judgement was here. You smoothed the folds of your stola, and gathered your palla around you. Instead of pulling it over your head like a veil as was expected, you draped it over your left shoulder, under your right arm and then folded it over your left arm in neat pleats just like your mother would have worn it. You allowed it to cloak you in her courage, and called forth your father’s strength that resided in your bones before walking out to face the Praetorian Guard.

The courtyard was filled with people as you descended the stairs. The lamps had been lit, the guards had brought torches and the altar blazed with heat behind you. Vesta was watching. Your sisters glared down at the guards, the younger initiates were standing by the columns looking afraid. Marcus, Lucilla and Lucius were noticeably absent.

“Flavia, escort the young ones to their rooms, please.” You requested the maidservant, they did not need to see you be sentenced to death.

“What brings the guards to the temple this evening?” You finally asked once the girls had disappeared down the corridor. 

“Vestal, you have been found guilty of unchastity. You have angered the Gods and endangered the lives of the people. You will be punished for your crimes against Rome—”

“Found guilty? I have served this temple for almost thirty years. Will there be no trial?” You addressed Publius, the Pontifex Maximus stood deflated, shoulders hunched and head bowed in defeat beside the head guard. You knew there would be no trial. 

“We have many witnesses who have seen you with that foreign barbarian, Hanno.”

Lucius materialised from the shadow, summoned by both his name and accusation, “I have not touched her!” None of them acknowledged his outburst. 

“Who are your witnesses?” 

“Senator Thraex, Senator Gaius, Senator Dalius…” The names of senators kept on being read. And it was telling, so telling of the move Macrinus had played. 

“... General Justus Acacius.” The world stilled around you. Marcus Acacius? A witness to your unchastity? A hollow broken laugh left your mouth. The sound was jarring to your own ears, it rankled in the silent and oppressive air. 

“Did the General witness me in a compromised position before or after his fight in the Colosseum?” Your words were accompanied by a derisive sneer. There was a twitch in your cheek and a tremble in your hand from your barely contained rage. How dare they use him against you?

“He witnessed it after we had escorted Lady Lucilla to her home.” The guard leered. The threat in his words was clear. Lucilla was under house arrest, should Marcus Acacius stand in your defence, Lucilla would suffer. They did not know that Marcus and Lucilla had escaped their watch and taken refuge within the temple. 

The announcement of death had brought new clarity. It was in this very courtyard, before the fires of Vesta, that Maximus had made Marcus take an oath to protect Lucilla and her son. You had watched them then not understanding the weight of that oath. Marcus, protective and honourable, would keep that vow to his dying breath. 

Even though Lucilla was not within their grasp, Marcus would not reveal himself and come to your defence; they would know she had escaped and where to find her— it was a threat to her safety. Silence once again shrouded the courtyard. Heartbreakingly, and to your expectation, Marcus was not forthcoming in denying his addition to the list of witnesses. 

Had he not made a similar promise to your brother of protecting you? You know your brother had asked him to watch over you, fearing that you would be alone and helpless in the city without your family. But Marcus had not kept this vow. Why was an oath for you inherently less important than an oath for Lucilla? Because you weren’t the woman he loved? Because you weren’t the future of Rome?

Very well, Marcus. You had chosen to trade your life for his; there was no retreating now. It was not an act you would ever regret because it was the truest you had been to yourself. All your past endurances had been for your family, friends, Vesta, and for Rome itself. But this last act of endurance was solely for yourself, and the love you had sowed and nurtured into a towering tree that shaded you in times of loneliness. 

You would give your life and then nothing more to him. Perhaps in the afterlife, you would ask the Gods to sever your ties with him, to never allow you to love him again in another world. You could not spend another moment, let alone an entire new lifetime, begging for the scraps of his affection and attention. These last few hours of your life you would spend with those who loved you, who saw you. 

Marcus was ashamed. He never considered himself an honourable man. He had committed far too many atrocities, and killed too many people in pointless wars to ever lay a claim on honour. He had sworn to protect Lucilla, had made his choice and he could live with it. But that did not mean the chain of his oath did not weigh heavily on his soul; it did not mean every life he took did not weigh down his conscience like boulders on his chest. The life of this Vestal on his conscience might just be the thing that breaks him. 

He had stopped believing in the Gods a very long time ago. Because had they existed they would have put an end to him and the destruction he had brought. And if they existed then they were just as vengeful and hateful as the Rome they watched over. But if there was ever a God who was honourable, gracious and compassionate then they would take her image. Strength and tenacity clung to her form, her chin proud and resolute as she stared down at those who would kill her. She faced death with more grace and dignity than any soldier he had ever seen— himself included. 

“I accept the edict. Tell me how have they decided to punish me?” Her voice was light and steady.

“He has decided you will be sealed in the crypts near the Porta Collina with some bread, water and a lamp as the ancient tradition demands. You will be left to the mercy of the Goddess you betrayed, you will live should she spare you.” There was no goddess who would come to her rescue. 

“So, I am to be buried alive then? How kind.” She spoke the words through a barely contained smile. He felt tears sting in his eyes. 

“Your funeral will take place tomorrow.” A jagged sob pierced the air, one of the other priestesses was sobbing into the palm of her hands. Another priestess embraced the crying one with tears in her own eyes.

“As they wish. Escort the guards out, please.” She turned to Lucius with a brilliant smile and large, lustrous eyes— shining under the light of the lit torches. That smile tugged at his heart, he had seen it before somewhere. Who was she? 

“I have been a terrible host, haven’t I? Come it’s time for dinner.”—she turned to the healer from the Colosseum—“Ravi you will join us tonight?” 

“I cannot, it is not pro—”

“I’m sure I can afford a few breaches of propriety tonight. If anything, I intend to be entirely immodest.” 

She tugged him along to their dining room, “I hope there’s honey cakes, the kind with hazelnuts and figs. Can’t have a last meal without them.” Her last few words were interrupted by another gasping cry.

She turned around with a mildly concerned but teasing look, “Too soon?” Far too soon.

Dinner was laid out across a long table, it was a meal fit for the Emperors. The Vestals preferred to take their meals sitting at the table rather than lounging on the couch and being served by their servants. The priestess sat at the head of the table furtively and tentatively glancing at the others around the room who were somberly submerged in various levels of shock, anger and grief. The senator had already helped himself to several cups of wine as he stared into the hearth. Ravi sat to her right, serving her food on her plate, and Lucius to her left. But nobody touched their plates. 

“You are selfish, you always do this.” One of the Vestals accused her. 

“I—”

“Who told you to go off to be a hero? Didn’t we agree to stay out of this mess? We would have hidden until this all played out. We would not have been killed.”

“Yes, we would have—”

“No! We didn’t know for sure.” Her voice grew louder, angrier. 

“The senators were already discussing the idea after the rebellions in the western empire. There is famine and poverty. The people are angry and we are convenient scapegoats.” His priestess still answered gently. Acacius paused… she wasn’t his anything— except his saviour. 

“Yes, but General Acacius’ victory at Numidia bought us time. We only have six more months of service left. We could have avoided this.” 

“And then what? One of the little girls we trained dies?” The question was entirely rhetorical and for a moment Acacius believed the other Vestal would not argue further. 

But she continued through a burst of tears, her voice wobbling, “Then we should have talked about this? Any one of us would have rather given up our lives instead of you!” 

His priestess blinked back several tears and looked away to take a few deep breaths. He felt a sliver of compassion as Acacius finally had a few answers, she had been trying to rescue her sisters, give up her own life instead of theirs. But why rescue him? 

“I know…” His priestess smiled through her tears before quickly wiping them away, “In six months, darling, you will be free to marry that man who has been waiting for you for the last thirty years… He even took a vow in front of Vesta to take no other woman but you. You have to live, all of you do.” 

“You deserve to live, too. They should have given you a trial, at least.” 

“Nothing short of a miracle would save me now.”

“You can carry water in a sieve from the sacred springs to the temple. I’ve seen you do it before.” Acacius raised his eyebrows in disbelief. A miracle.

“It’s candlewax.”— she huffed a laugh—“you rub candlewax on the sieve.” The secret of the trick broke through the strained air as some of the priestesses shared an affronted laugh.

“I cannot believe I let you convince me you could perform miracles.” 

“Yes, yes, now let me be entirely selfish and request that you postpone your grief until after I am dead and let me enjoy a meal with friends.” She turned to Ravi, “And can I have some food that is not laced with opium?” 

Acacius keenly watched their exchange, how did a highborn wealthy woman know a Freedmen like him? There was an ease and familial affection between them. 

“No, I promised your mother that if you were ever in real danger I would help you. Eat, and you will wake up on a ship headed for your mother’s homeland. You have family there, they will be very happy to have you home.” 

“How did you know her mother?” Lucius interrupted, receiving a mischievous smile from his saviour. 

“Yes, Ravi, how did you know my mother?” Her words were coloured with a teasing lilt. 

“I worked for her. She bought me from my previous master and then freed me.” Ravi sounded resigned to the ribbing coming his way. 

“He was in love with her.” She excitedly informed Lucius, eyes glinting with mirth. 

“Yes, that is why I will keep my vow. You will be sent away, willingly or unwillingly.” 

“Ravi—”

“He is right.”— The high priest interrupted—“your father has also made arrangements for an event like this. You probably already guessed but it was the only reason I was given the Pontifex Maximus post, he bought it for me.” Just which family was she from?

“I will not run away. It would be a testament to my guilt.” 

“Better guilty than dead.” A vestal offered, and he wholly agreed. 

“This was my life’s work. I worked hard to be a good Vestal. I will not have that hard work be wiped away by aspersions on my character. I would prefer to be remembered in history as an innocent woman killed for the political agenda of men rather than having broken my oath. And if I ran away, what would happen to my family’s honour? To their lives? I have made my bed, I shall lie in it.”

“You could join us,”— Lucilla spoke beside him—“We have plans to arrest the Emperors and hand over the administration of Rome to the senate, then you could argue your innocence and be cleared of your charges.” 

She gave a scornful scoff, “Oh? Defend myself in front of the very senators who saw me lose my virginity on the senate floor it seems, while eating… what was it Thraex had? Ethiopian bull heads.” 

Her thumb and finger came up to press between her brows, “Forgive me, I do not mean to… Most of the senior senators had signed to be a witness to my unchastity. The only reason the junior ones haven’t signed, I’m sure, is because they ran out of paper. They will never admit they were coerced or manipulated into signing.” 

“I have heard your father’s dream of Rome. It is not a bad one. Certainly better than what we are living now… But the highest echelons of Rome have rotted to their core. It was a senator that betrayed you. They will all only look after their own interests and their own wealth. Even in a republic… if you held new elections, whose vote will actually count? It will not be your average Roman who barely has a roof over their head or food in their stomach. Their fate will still be decided by a few hundred Patricians.” 

Acacius didn’t know what emotions she had read on Lucilla’s face, but she leaned forward to gently grasp Lucilla’s hand with a soft, comforting smile, “Although it might not be perfect, it is a good ideal, a worthy goal to strive for. Ideals make life easier to live. Perhaps, in the future when we are all long gone, the world will be a more fair and just place because of it. It will be a step in the right direction for Rome.” 

A servant entered carrying several scrolls and handed them over to her, “But ideals cannot help you survive the present. So, I have written wills.” 

The declaration brought forth more tears, “We do not want to read your will.” one of the Vestals exclaimed in a fit of temper.

“I see…”—she raised an exaggerated, mocking brow—“So none of you want my enormous amounts of wealth?”

“I have made three wills. This one”—she pointed the scroll towards Lucilla—“is in case Rome is declared a republic.” 

She picked up another scroll, “This one, you will open if there is a civil war.” Civil war?

Then she moved to the last scroll, “This one, has instructions on how to move forward should Macrinus become Emperor.” 

Acacius felt momentarily speechless, and so did every other person in the room. Macrinus?

“Macrinus?” Lucius voiced. 

“Macrinus.” She confirmed. 

“He is a former slave…” Publius trailed off. 

“Yes, I feel ashamed for having underestimated him.” An odd fervour gripped her voice. 

“I had grossly miscalculated, you see. We thought that Macrinus wanted a seat in the Senate. But that was not the case. I only realised when I was in the Colosseum. He was the man behind the Emperors, leading their strings like a puppeteer. He doesn’t want a Senate seat, he wants the throne.” 

“I do not follow,” Publius confessed. 

“Well, we know that Macrinus has been in business with many of the senators until they are riddled with debts— he took over Thraex’s domus just yesterday morning. I had assumed he would leverage these debts to be elected into the Senate. But he made no move, he was waiting for the right opportunity.” 

She stood to pace across the length of the table, “And then the opportunity came when Acacius and Lucilla shared their plans to arrest the Emperors with the senators”— she turned to face him—“terrible move, by the way. A secret that has left your mouth is no longer a secret, even if it is only whispered in an empty room. I knew of your plans by dawn.” How did she know?

She plucked a grape from the table, popping it into her mouth, “Macrinus did not know then, but he encountered an obstacle in Lucius—”

“Who is Lucius?”

She turned to face the Vestal who had interrupted and gestured towards Lucius, “Hanno is Lucilla’s son Lucius. Macrinus noticed Lucilla’s reaction to him on the first day of the games. I noticed as well. So he paid you a visit the next day, do you remember?” Lucilla could only softly gasp in acknowledgement. 

“It was probably that bust of Marcus Aurelius that gave him away, I am told Lucius looks very similar to his grandfather. But then you went to meet him secretly that night, so our suspicions were confirmed— Hanno was your lost son.” 

“You know far too much about what happens in other people’s homes.” Acacius felt vexed, she had spies in his home. 

“Your servant Leta has grown expensive tastes that Thraex cannot afford with his debts, I merely supplement her income. She overheard your plans to rescue him from the Colosseum, and passed it onto Thraex the next morning. I knew Thraex would tell Macrinus everything… the rescue, the troops at Ostia, everything… to erase his debt and prevent his home from being seized.” 

“Is that why you wanted to speak to them at the Naumachia?” Publius asked. 

“Yes, but they left before I could, all because Lucius wanted a shot at Acacius.” She levelled an accusing stare at Lucius. “Just after that battle, Macrinus came to know of the plans. I had sent Ravi to intercept the General and his men before they were caught. But it didn’t work as planned.” 

“But that still doesn’t explain why you think Macrinus could be king.” Ravi urged. 

“Aah, this is where things get exciting”—there was an excited gleam in her eyes, her hands grew more animated as she explained—“at the Colosseum. Geta would look to Macrinus before he issued any orders. I knew he had sway over the Emperors, but I believed anybody could misguide them, they are quite easy to manipulate. But it was the first time I glimpsed the naked ambition in his eyes. He was instigating Geta to kill Acacius.” 

“Killing Acacius would leave us without support,” Lucilla admitted, “It would weaken the dream of a Roman Republic.”

“Well— yes. It was killing two birds with one stone. Killing the General would instigate the people against the Emperors. The people are tired of their madness and tyranny, but most people are too busy trying to survive, feed their families. His death would enrage the public enough to riot in the streets. There is already an uproar in a few parts of the city because the Praetorian Guards turned their weapons on the crowd.”

“Macrinus would then act as the saviour of the people and get rid of the Emperors. But that would not mean he would get to be the Emperor. He is still a former slave, the Romans would never accept him as Emperor.” Publius countered. 

“No, it’s worse, Publius. This story is not about Macrinus becoming the Emperor at all…” The vestal looked accusingly at his priestess, and an undercurrent of agitation rippled through the room.

“General Acacius’ death was supposed to spark a revolution which did not happen. Without the revolution, Macrinus does not have the final leverage over the Emperors. Change demands blood. If it is not Acacius, it will be you.” 

His priestess adorned a resigned, heartbreaking smile, “And if I run, then it will be one of you…” Acacius did not understand what her words implied, would the people truly care about an innocent Vestal’s life? 

A far more likely victim would be Lucilla. If Macrinus killed Lucilla, who was beloved by the people, and blamed the Emperors, then he would have the uproar he required. But would he have the resources to pull off such a conspiracy? He and Lucilla had already escaped house arrest, would he be looking for them? Could he trust the Vestals to not hand them over to the Guards to save one of their own? 

“But to answer your question Publius, the Romans wouldn’t have a choice.” He watched her once more. 

“If I was Macrinus, I would kill Geta.” The admission stunned the room. Acacius was astounded. This woman was not suited to the staid temple life, her family had done her a disservice. A mind like hers could change the political landscape of Rome. 

“It would leave Caracalla alone, who is not always in a present state of mind so he would naturally appoint Macrinus onto the Senate. Ideally, Lucilla and Lucius would die in the arena in some spectacle supposedly ordered by Caracalla. But since Macrinus no longer owns Lucius, and Lucilla is not under house arrest that plan is foiled. Nevertheless, once the riots start, the Senate will allow him control of the Praetorian Guards in hopes that he can calm the public. The Guards are already loyal to him because the Captain earns a heavy purse of dinarii every month from Macrinus. Somewhere in the chaos, both Lucilla and Lucius would need to be assassinated. And once the dust settles, Macrinus is Emperor with the Praetorian Guards for his personal army, and a Senate deeply in financial debt with him.”

She lathered a layer of cheese on a piece of bread, dipping it into honey before guiding it to her mouth. Acacius faltered when she let out a satisfied hum, did she not realise the enormity of her words? He had spent years planning his rebellion against the Emperors, and she was making it sound so easy. A guest burst into the room in a shock of red, gasping for air. 

“He has killed him… Killed the Emperor.” The newcomer exclaimed. He reeled with the declaration, the situation was spinning out of his control.

“Fortuna… dinner?” His priestess offered. 

Their new addition slumped in the seat his priestess had emptied at the head of the table, “He has killed Emperor Geta… just… sliced his head off…” She still looked shocked, her gaze went to the meat on the table before her face took on a sickly, green pallor. And she turned to vomit all over Lucius’ feet. 

“I suppose he sent you to keep watch over me?” 

The woman looked up from the floor to give a distracted nod. 

“He probably knows you are here, Acacius, but I don’t believe he will do anything until my funeral tomorrow. He needs me to die without a hitch.” He faced her with the alertness of a soldier taking commands. 

“Stay here, rest. He cannot reach you in the temple tonight. You can try and escape now, but your troops have still not reached Ostia, it only means that Macrinus will be able to hunt you down. Darius and his men will probably arrive tomorrow afternoon, we will have my funeral in the evening…” 

She gestured for a servant to fetch her a cloak before turning to him once more, “You will be attacked after my funeral, Macrinus will not care whether you die in the public eye or not, either way, he will scapegoat Caracalla. But I think you should be part of my funeral procession because Lucilla would be safest with the Vestals. The temple will be empty during my funeral procession so she will be left defenceless, it is best if she joins us. None would dare to harm one of us to reach her—” 

“How can I trust that they will not hand her over to the Guards out of fear or to protect themselves?” 

His priestess shared a deep look with another Vestal who turned to him and proclaimed, “Because it is the last thing our sister has asked of us.”

“Lucilla will return safely to the temple with the other vestals. The burial grounds are just south of the city gate. If you and Lucius fought your way over there, the Praetorian Guards would be forced to follow instead of controlling the crowd because their instructions would be to kill the both of you. You should send someone you trust with a message for Darius, and ask him to meet you at the city gate. This way, the Guards will be faced with your troops in the front and blocked off by the angry mob behind them.” 

Acacius could admit it was a brilliant strategy, pulling the guards away from the crowd and drawing them to the city gates would also minimise civilian deaths. And it would also leave an opening for the public to dissipate should things get too bloody. 

“Ravi, go to the Colosseum and recruit a few of the gladiators, see if they would like to help their good friend Lucius. Have them follow the funeral procession. That city gate has an iron grating, the gatekeepers could lower that grating and crush the people under it. Take a few of those men, quietly and discreetly, replace the gatekeepers. Do not let anybody discover you. But also do not kill the guards, tie them up and lock them somewhere. Use your opium if you must, grant them a nice, healing rest.” 

It seems his priestess was well educated in the art of battle and warfare, her strategy was prudent and detailed. He was amazed she had deliberated over their attack in such a short time. The iron grating was their biggest danger, had the gatekeepers seen them leading the skirmish towards the gate, they would have lowered it and blocked off his access to the troops. He and Lucius would have been crushed against the gates— and died. Respect and gratitude filled his chest. 

She donned her cloak, pulling its hood over her head. 

“Where are you going?” 

She gave a dazzling and roguish smile, “To find someone, or perhaps multiple someone’s, who will show me what I have been missing with this whole chastity thing.” She strutted out with a playful kiss to Publius’ bald head who only sighed at her audacity. 

Acacius could not hold in the laugh that broke free from his chest.  

INDEX Chapter 2 

[maryu-fics06]

The Casket of Venus

Chapter VIII

𝐃𝐚𝐦𝐧 𝐓𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬

𝐆𝐞𝐭𝐚 𝐱 𝐨𝐜

Summery: it was supposed to be only a normal servant..right?

Hi guys! I hope the story is of your liking, stay tuned for more chapters, please leave a comment or like if you want more!❤️‍🩹

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠:poisoning, attempts of killing, angst, gentle Geta (he is bipolar in my story), fear.

The scent of incense hung heavy in the air as servants and concubines prepared for the Quinquatria celebrations.

Haydee stared at herself in the ivory-framed mirror. Her chamber, made of white and bluish marble, didn’t displease her—it reminded her of the ocean.

Lemonia was gently arranging her hair.

The attire was terribly lascivus, with deep necklines. It was a ball gown, the youngest maid, Aurea, had told her.

But Haydee hadn’t expected it to be nearly transparent, except for the chest and intimate areas. The fabric was a dark blue and shimmered in the sunlight, embroidered with beautiful golden patterns.

“You are beautiful, Puella” Lemonia said with affection. Haydee thanked the woman.

She was truly stunning. Slowly, she twirled, letting the transparent skirt flow around her.

Her hair had been styled into a modest braid, and the usual strands no longer obscured her face.

She joined the other concubines in a large hall; they all seemed hostile toward her. She hated their poisonous glances crawling over her skin.

Only then did she realize she didn’t know what kind of dance was expected. She had no idea how the others would dance.

Seeing the distracted look on Haydee’s face, Aurea leaned closer.

“My Domina, what troubles you? You seem worried,” the young maid whispered.

“I don’t know what dance to perform, Aurea,” Haydee whispered back.

The maid giggled softly. “Don’t be afraid. If you dance something only you know, the emperor will be more than pleased. He adores the unknown… and you, it seems, throw him off quite a bit.”

The banquet doors opened, and Haydee moved with the other women. One detail stood out—many of them wore orange, red, and some green. She alone wore the damned color blue.

The hall was immense. The two emperors usually sat upon their ivory thrones, sipping wine.

When the concubines entered, everything seemed to halt. Geta raised his gaze, ignoring Senator Thaex’s usual chatter.

His eyes searched among the women—he was looking for her.

The music began, slow and sensual. Haydee tried to follow the others’ movements. She was lucky—if there was one thing she was good at, it was learning quickly.

But then something changed. The music overtook her mind, and her body began to move in her own rhythm—like a rattlesnake swaying its tail.

Some women were shocked to see her break from the group.

Geta saw her and bit his lower lip at the sight of that body and those hips.

Damn temptress—Geta thought.

Their eyes met, and Haydee felt a heat ignite in her chest at the emperor’s hungry gaze.

She didn’t dare stop. She moved with grace, like a butterfly among the other women—miserable in comparison.

Many concubines stared, stunned. No one knew such a dance, nor one so shameless.

The dance ended, and Haydee stopped. The emperor called her over.

The others could only watch with envy.

Geta’s eyes never left her as she ascended the few steps of black marble.

He touched his own thigh—a signal—he wanted her to sit on him.

At first, Haydee considered refusing, but in front of the whole banquet, it wasn’t worth it. She gave in to his command.

Geta felt her body, tense like a violin string, pressed against him.

He slowly guided her back against his chest, and the emperor’s lips brushed her ear lobe.

“Relax, Graeca, being so tense is useless,” he whispered hoarsely.

His hands stroked her thighs through the fabric of the skirt. Haydee held her breath, then let it go.

The emperor pushed her styled hair off her shoulders and kissed her bare skin.

“You wanted my attention, didn’t you, temptress?” he said, softly, just for her.

“I only did what I was told,” she whispered, trying desperately to sound neutral.

Geta chuckled. She was clever, but not enough. The emperor could taste the sweet lie on her tongue.

“Of course, Graeca. Then I should kill everyone at this banquet,” he said.

She didn’t understand. Why would he kill his guests?

Geta smiled at her naïveté. “You should’ve seen their eyes. Like crows, ready to feast on your body. So much lust… but they know they’ll never touch you. Never have you.”

His words stirred something in her belly.

Haydee blushed.

Caracalla, sitting next to his brother, stared at the concubine but found nothing special in her. He returned to playing with his little monkey, Dondus.

“That blue suits you enchantingly,” Geta whispered.

Haydee didn’t know what to say. Just yesterday he had almost hurt her—and now, suddenly, he was too sweet to even seem like the same man.

She shivered as Geta’s lips grazed her neck—too gentle, as if she were made of glass.

The banquet continued stiffly: wine, senators’ usual chatter, and vulgar touches from some women toward the guests at the large table.

Haydee didn’t try to touch the emperor in any way. She sat still, like a statue.

Geta didn’t tease her further, nor touch her inappropriately.

He even rejected Alba’s advances when she tried to caress his chest.

The concubine glared hatefully at Haydee, seated on her emperor’s lap.

Geta watched Haydee from the corner of his eye. He was enchanted. She had cursed him.

She had wormed her way under his skin, to the bone—consuming him like fire devouring candles on the banquet table.

Haydee politely accepted a cup offered by a servant. She didn’t recognize him—thought he was just a kitchen boy.

How wrong she was.

The sweet taste of wine touched her lips and tongue.

The emperor reached for a glass from the same tray when Haydee suddenly felt irritation rising in her throat.

She coughed once, thinking the wine had gone down wrong—but the sensation worsened. Her throat began to burn, pulsing painfully.

Geta looked at her. His blood turned cold when he saw her clutching her throat, the glass slipping from her fingers as she desperately tried to breathe.

Poison. The wine was poisoned!

Geta caught her in his arms, shouting in panic, “Charcoal, quickly!”

Aurea ran to fetch the antidote.

Alba chuckled under her breath.

Geta held her tightly, forcing two fingers down her throat—he had to make her vomit, and fast!

Haydee coughed up the wine, but the poison had already entered her system.

The emperor whispered deliriously, eyes wide, trying to help her breathe.

He had never felt so powerless in his life.

“No… No! Graeca!… Look at me! Breathe, damn it!” he whispered.

Someone had tried to kill her. Someone wanted her dead.

Haydee’s cerulean eyes welled with tears. She had fought so hard to survive—was she to die now?

The charcoal arrived in time. Geta mixed it with water and forced her to drink it.

Haydee, exhausted, closed her eyes.

The last thing she heard were the emperor’s furious screams.

“Who… dared… WHO DARED!!”

Then everything became a blur—like a memory fading into darkness.

But Haydee knew: whoever had tried to kill her wouldn’t escape.

Because Geta was ready to unleash hell—if not burn all of Rome—to find them.

He would be worse than Nero, than Commodus, worse than any emperor before him.

Mastelist.

I hope you like this chapter!

Yep someone tried to killed her, and we might know who is already mhm mhm…🙃❤️‍🩹.

WHO wants to be tagged please told me!!🌻

Taglist🏷️ my beauties pookies!💕

@deliciousfestsalad

@coruja12345

@opy005

Translations

Lascivus= dirty, sensual

Domina= lady

Graeca= Greek female

Puella= girl

[sugatrapp]

「 O p e n 」

•─────────────•°•❀•°•─────────────•

Pairings: Lucius Malfoy x Gender Neutral Reader

Summary: The reader and Lucius get intimate in his office.

Warnings: NSFW / Sexual themes ~ Dominant Lucius ~ Master/Pet usage ~ Non-specified gender or genitalia of reader

AO3

Masterlist

Ko-Fi

•─────────────•°•❀•°•─────────────•

You cast a silencing charm over the room in an embarrassing uneven tone, lying on the desk once more. Your wand slips through your fingers and clatters to the floor, yet you can’t muster enough energy to care. All you could ever need is right here, nestled between your thighs.

The familiar view of the ornate ceiling greets you. You’ve fed it many of your most lewd, earth-shattering moans but this time is different. His prodding tongue—while skillful—isn’t enough. You want to watch him as he takes what he wants.

Before, you would have thought twice about indulging in your ardent desire. To imagine what you must look like in his eyes—desperate and eager to bend in a way unlike anyone has asked of you before—is strange. It's wild and spontaneous, words you consider yourself the opposite of.

Anxiety boils in your belly, though you're hell-bent on immersing yourself in the moment. Steeling, you rise on your elbows and look down. You almost come apart at the seams.

It’s filthier than you imagined. His hair is tossed carelessly over one shoulder as he licks and sucks at your sensitive skin. Your thighs tremble and glisten with his saliva. His fingernails leave behind crescent marks to keep you still. His other hand isn’t visible from under the edge of the desk, but a rhythmic wet sound paints a clear image.

“J-Just like that, don’t stop,” you whimper, reaching out to wind your fingers in the platinum strands.

He breathes out a shaky moan as you tug, his grey orbs rising to meet your eyes. The corners of his eyes crinkle as you try to push your hips harder against his face to no avail. Smug bastard. Slick with his precum, his fingers caress with the right amount of pressure to leave you breathless. Every muscle in your body tenses and the sight of him grows to be too much.

Then he stops.

You nearly give yourself whiplash at how fast you look down. He rises to swallow your protests, pressing his lips to yours and you have no choice but to play along. Your combined taste mingles as his tongue swirls around your mouth, the bitter tang an aphrodisiac. He doesn’t stop your hands from roaming. They caress his warm skin, tug him closer. You rake your nails down his back and leave behind angry red lines. After many attempts he pulls away, steeling himself with a firm hand pinning down your neck. You’re reduced to a pile of putty.

“Do you want me pet? Do you want master’s cock deep inside of you?”

The hoarseness of his voice and the dirty words send tremors straight to your core. You nod without hesitation, squirming.

He squeezes your neck. “Say it.”

Your face warms at his intense gaze yet you bite your lip and continue to meet his eyes.

“I want you i-inside me,” you inhale sharply as the tip presses against your entrance. “Want you to fill me up and fuck me until I can’t walk.”

You groan in unison as he sheaths himself achingly slow inside, your warmth welcoming him with a clenching embrace.

“Hm, such a naughty pet. I have half a mind to stuff that filthy mouth of yours as well.”

The thought sends delicious shivers down your spine. He fucks you at a tortuous pace with slow, deep thrusts. Each time you try to urge him deeper to hit that spot that makes you see stars he pulls away with a tsk.

“Lucius…” you whine.

His hand is over your mouth in seconds, silencing any further objection. You hope your glare expresses how frustrated you are. But he only smirks.

Two can play that game.

You wedge your fingers underneath his, coaxing two into your mouth. You flick the tips, swirling your tongue around the digits before hollowing your cheeks. His jaw clenches, a shudder running through him. A dark look flashes across his eyes and you know you’ve won.

A muffled shriek leaps up your throat as he pounds into you with reckless abandon. The desk creaks in protest. Skin slapping against skin reverberates through the room. You whimper and sob around his fingers until he removes them with a resounding pop, reaching down to stroke your tender flesh the way he knows you like. Your back arches and your toes curl, breathing hitched as your end rapidly approaches.

You don’t even realize your eyes slip closed until he’s growling at you.

“Look at me.”

You obey without question. You can almost make out your reflection—a needy, pleading mess dripping with sweat, fragile from hours of foreplay.

“Now, you’re going to be a good little pet and come all over my cock. Can you do that for me?”

“Yes, yes please!”

Pure ecstasy. His swelling length triggers a tsunami to crash over you. You shout to the high heavens while he curses, prolonging your orgasms with shallow thrusts before coming to a gradual stop.

Your gaze returns to the ceiling as he pulls out, beginning to redress. Your limbs are heavy, fucked out, feeling his seed trickling out of you.

It’s not long before his arrogant demeanor is back, clothes and hair smoothed out, looking down his nose at you.

“I assume you know where the front door is?”

Rolling your eyes, you slide off the desk ignoring your wobbly legs. You throw on your scattered clothes and snatch your wand from the floor. Though you can’t find your underwear.

You move to push past him to regain some semblance of dignity, but a hand on your forearm halts you in your tracks.

“Next week?” You take the leap.

His grip tightens.

“Tomorrow.”

You gulp and nod, leaving with a barely concealed smile.

[andy-15-07]

newly engaged couple actressxpaul do the puppy interview?

Puppies, Promises, and Pure Joy

PAIRING:Paul Mescal x reader

WORD COUNT: 1177 | requests are open

Paul Mescal Masterlist

The Puppy Interview is one of the most beloved staples of celebrity culture. There’s something about seeing big-name stars cuddling with bundles of wiggly joy that makes even the most reserved fans swoon. So, when BuzzFeed announced that newly engaged couple Y/N, the rising star actress, and Paul Mescal, the award-winning Irish actor, would be participating in the segment, social media went into a frenzy.

The scene opens in a cozy studio, soft ambient lighting casting a golden hue over the carpeted floor. A large white playpen dominates the space, adorned with toys, blankets, and bowls of treats. Off-camera, faint yips and barks echo—the stars of the show are ready.

Y/N and Paul sit side by side on the floor, leaning against a fluffy couch. She’s dressed casually in an oversized sweater and jeans, her engagement ring catching the light as she tucks her hair behind her ear. Paul, in a simple t-shirt and joggers, radiates his usual easygoing charm, though he’s clearly excited. Both are grinning like kids on Christmas morning.

“Right, let’s get started,” Paul says with a laugh, clapping his hands together as the first batch of puppies is released.

A litter of golden retriever puppies bounds into the room, tails wagging furiously. The couple’s faces light up as the puppies swarm them, tumbling over each other in their excitement.

“Oh my God, look at them!” Y/N exclaims, scooping up a particularly tiny pup with floppy ears. “You are so small! How are you even real?”

Paul laughs as a more adventurous puppy climbs onto his lap, gnawing on the drawstring of his joggers. “This one’s already causing trouble. You’d fit right in at my family’s house,” he quips, scratching behind the puppy’s ears.

The interviewer, speaking from off-camera, begins with a warm greeting. “Welcome, Y/N and Paul! How does it feel to be surrounded by this much cuteness?”

“Overwhelming,” Y/N replies, her voice soft as she cuddles her puppy closer. “But in the best way. I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy.”

Paul nods in agreement, holding up the puppy on his lap so they’re eye level. “I mean, look at this face. How could you not feel pure joy?”

The interviewer chuckles. “We’ve got some fan-submitted questions for you two. Let’s dive in. First up: What’s the best part about being engaged?”

Y/N and Paul exchange a quick glance, their connection palpable. Y/N speaks first. “I think for me, it’s just knowing that we’re building something together. Like, we’ve always been a team, but this feels like… the next chapter, you know?”

Paul nods, his expression softening. “Yeah, it’s like this little promise we’ve made to each other. It’s not about the ring or the labels; it’s about choosing each other every day. Also, she’s already started calling me her fiancé in random conversations, and it’s…” He pauses, grinning. “It’s the best thing ever.”

Y/N laughs, nudging him playfully. “Don’t make me cry. There are puppies here, Paul.”

The next question comes as Y/N tries to stop a particularly wriggly puppy from climbing onto her shoulder. “If you could describe each other in three words, what would they be?”

Paul leans back, pretending to think deeply. “Okay, for Y/N… I’d say passionate, hilarious, and… luminous.”

Y/N freezes, clearly touched. “Luminous? That’s such a good word.”

“It’s true,” Paul says earnestly. “You light up every room you walk into.”

“Stop it,” Y/N whispers, hiding her face behind the puppy in her arms. “Your turn.”

She takes a moment, her gaze soft as she looks at him. “Grounded, kind, and… soulful.”

Paul raises an eyebrow. “Soulful?”

“Yeah,” she says with a small shrug. “You feel things deeply, and it shows in everything you do—your acting, the way you treat people. It’s one of my favorite things about you.”

For a moment, they’re lost in each other’s eyes, the puppies around them forgotten. The interviewer clears their throat, breaking the spell.

“All right, next question: What’s the weirdest thing you’ve learned about each other since living together?”

Y/N bursts out laughing. “Oh, I have so many answers to this.”

“Be nice,” Paul warns, though he’s grinning.

“Okay, okay,” she says, holding up a hand. “Paul has this… very specific way of making tea. He’ll boil the water, pour it into the mug, then immediately pour it out and boil fresh water again because he swears the first batch isn’t hot enough.”

Paul laughs, shaking his head. “It’s called precision, Y/N.”

“It’s called madness,” she teases. “But I love you for it.”

Paul grins, then retaliates. “Well, Y/N has this habit of talking to inanimate objects. Like, if she bumps into a chair, she’ll apologize to it. Or she’ll thank the fridge for keeping the milk cold.”

“That’s called being polite,” Y/N says, feigning indignation. “You should try it sometime.”

They’re interrupted by a tiny yelp as one of the puppies tumbles into Paul’s lap. He immediately picks it up, cradling it like a baby. “You okay, little one? You’re stealing the show here.”

The interview continues with more fan questions, ranging from their go-to karaoke songs (“Toxic” by Britney Spears for Y/N, and “Dreams” by The Cranberries for Paul) to their guilty pleasures (“Cheesy reality TV,” they both admit simultaneously, laughing).

As the session wraps up, the interviewer asks one final question. “If you could give one piece of advice to your younger selves, what would it be?”

Y/N’s expression turns thoughtful. “I’d tell her that it’s okay to take risks, even if they’re scary. And that the right people will love you for exactly who you are.”

Paul nods, his gaze steady. “I’d say something similar. I’d tell him to trust himself more and not to be afraid of failing. Every mistake leads you to where you’re meant to be.”

Just as they think the interview is over, the puppies—now more comfortable and mischievous—cause a delightful chaos. One puppy manages to steal Paul’s sock, prompting a playful chase around the playpen. Y/N, laughing uncontrollably, tries to wrangle two others that have decided her hair is the best chew toy.

“This is a disaster,” Paul says breathlessly, finally retrieving his sock.

“This is heaven,” Y/N counters, sitting cross-legged with two puppies curled up in her lap.

As the crew steps in to gather the puppies, the couple’s reluctance is palpable. “Can we adopt all of them?” Y/N asks, only half-joking.

Paul wraps an arm around her shoulders. “Let’s start with one and see how we manage.”

The interviewer, sensing the perfect closing shot, asks, “Any final words for your fans watching?”

Y/N smiles warmly. “Thank you for all the love and support. And if you ever get the chance to be in a room full of puppies, do it. It’s life-changing.”

Paul adds, “And adopt, don’t shop. These little guys deserve all the love in the world.”

As the couple waves goodbye to the camera, their hands intertwined, the internet collectively swoons. The Puppy Interview has once again proven to be a heart-melting success, but this one might just be the most adorable yet.

[fawninthesnow]

Hallo Beatrice, kannst du vielleicht was schreiben wenn du die neue Dienerin von Lucilla bist und dich ständig in der Villa verläufst und so endest du eines Nachts vor den privat Gemächern von Lucilla und Acacius und hörst Geräusche die wenig Raum für Interpretation lassen und du läufst an wie eine Tomate du wolltest dir doch nur was zum trinken holen du solltest eigentlich in deinen Gemächern sein und schlafen aber vorallem solltest du nicht mal in diesen Teil der Villa sein. Als du endlich deinen Weg in dein gemach findest fragst dich wie du den beiden morgen in die Augen sehen sollst von deiner Mutter weißt du dass das Thema nichts ist über das man redet du kannst dir trotzdem nicht helfen als zu fragen wie es sich anfühlen muss von einem Mann in dieser Weise geliebt zu werden. Liebe Grüße❤️

Hiiiii!!! <3 Translation: Hello Beatrice, maybe you can write something if you are Lucilla's new servant and you constantly get lost in the villa and so one night you end up in front of Lucilla and Acacius' private chambers and you hear noises--- you should actually be in your rooms and sleeping but above all you shouldn't even be in this part of the villa. You know the topic isn't something to talk about, but you still can't help but wonder what it must feel like to be loved in this way by a man.

𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧: One Shot

𐙚 General Acacius x Lucilla x Fem! reader𐙚 18+

Summary: You are one of the servants for the two newlyweds, Lucilla and General Acacius.

Warnings/contains: Voyeurism, fem! cuck, mentions of perversion, smut, not proof read-- english is not my first language!

Word Count: 0.5k

More on my Master list! + follow & reblog pls

You hold a tray to your abdomen and walk slowly through the halls. Flames from within the lanterns blazed along the halls of the general’s palace. The day came to an end and the sun no longer adorned the limestone walls with light; you finally rest your feet in the servant’s quarters and massage your legs. In the servant’s quarters, you stayed to yourself and remained quiet as the other’s rested or whispered among themselves.

Not that many knew, and not that many cared but you were what many would describe as a pervert.

It isn’t that you are awkward. You are a rather respectable young lady; however, there was something off about you. Maybe it was the way your gaze seemed to linger on the newlywed couple of the house: the general and Queen. Or maybe it was because you stayed up later than all the servants; even the errand boy went to bed before you. Why? No one really knew but you.

When the flames of the palace died and the embers cooled, you rose from your bed and shut the door to the quarters. Before leaving the corridor, you looked both ways down the hall. There was no shadow from an open door, so you slowly walked down the hall and into the Owner’s wing of the palace. You turned to the painting of the man and his Queen above the mantle of the hallway divide.

Of course, the couple was beautiful; everyone, anyone could tell you that. However, you saw them differently. You were infatuated with the two, in love with the couple entirely. Just staring at the painting alone made your pupils dilate; your jaw went slack and your lips fell open.

Conveniently, you had your nighttime walks to stare at this painting since you couldn’t look them in the eyes for too long. Your eyes lingered on General Acacius’ showing biceps and---

Echoing through the hall from the bedroom, a drawn moan was quickly shunned with a low shushing. You moved closer to the owner’s bedroom. You ear pressed to the door as you listened to the two’s bodies press onto the other side. A shivering moan arose from Lucilla’s throat as her husband’s lips suckled on her breasts. Her finger’s caressed his head gently, his hair shifting against her touch.

You listened to all the ‘I love you’s’ and every word of affirmation as he gently moved his hips against his wife’s. You tried to catch your breath as the heat of the moment began to fluster you. You jumped to a thud on the door and quickly covered your mouth. He continued to push—you gently swiped your thumb over your left breasts, gently rubbing your nipple. “Mhh~ M- Marcus~” His wife moaned as your eyes closed.

You bit your lip as your hard nipples poked through your servant’s toga. Your fingers pushed the fabric from the way, exposing your flesh as they continued to make love a few inches from you.

In the dark hall, your knees grew weak as your imagination ran wild. How could a man do that? Make a woman feel that way? Have her making such lewd noises?! You could only imagine how he felt, how *she* felt during a time so tense, so tight… A lewd moan left your lips, drawing the quick attention of the Queen.

Your heart stopped as the noises on the other side of the door stopped.

AN: Starting to get back into K-pop. Thank you for the request!

More on my Master list! + follow & reblog pls

[theetherealbloom]

IF THERE'S NOTHING LEFT - CH.5

Chapter Five: When They Erase Our Names, God Knows That One Thing Remains

Summary: You, a skilled healer, are brought to Rome by Senator Gracchus under the pretense of treating gladiators and Roman elites. You work with General Marcus Acacius to fight against the cruel reign of the twin emperors. Through danger and shared hope, your connection becomes a source of strength as you both dream of freeing Rome.

Paring: General Marcus Acacius x F!Reader

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI, ANGST, Fluff, SMUT, Age-Gap(ish), Ancient Rome, Canon-Typical Violence, Gladiators, Blood, Gore, Romance, Politics, Alternate Universe, Eventual SMUT, Slavery, Sexism, Misogyny, Guilt, PTSD, Rebellion, Empires, (Very Light) Strangers-to-Enemies-to-Friends-to-Lovers, Crowds, Shouting, Animals, Duels, Loose Historical Fiction, Kissing, Torture, Threats, Fighting, 

Word Count: 6.6k

A/N: I dreaded this chapter for various reasons lol T^T I hope you enjoy!

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

Song: The Rider by Paris Paloma

Previous Chapter → Next Chapter | Series Masterlist |Main Masterlist|

IMPERIAL VILLA — NIGHT  

The grand hall of the Imperial Villa was dimly lit, the flicker of torches casting long shadows across the marble walls. The air reeked of incense and the sharp tang of blood, a bitter reminder of the night's brutal events. You stood off to the side, your wrists bound, a bruise blooming across your cheek and a shallow cut stinging on your temple. Beside you, Marcus Acacius knelt, beaten and bloodied but unbroken, his defiant gaze fixed ahead.  

Lucilla, regal even in captivity, was forced to her knees on his other side. Her disheveled hair did nothing to diminish her dignity. 

The Emperors swept into the room, their appearances as disheveled as their tempers. Geta, draped in an elaborate robe hastily thrown over his sleepwear, strode in with practiced authority. Behind him, Caracalla, his tunic barely covering his fury, paced like a caged beast. Macrinus and Thraex lingered in the shadows, smug satisfaction written across their faces.

Geta’s eyes locked onto Marcus with contempt, his voice ringing through the hall like a gavel. “The honor, the dignitas that Rome has bestowed upon you—all this you have forfeited by your treachery. Thanks to the civic virtue of men like Macrinus and Thraex, your insurrection has been revealed.”

Marcus lifted his chin, the blood on his face gleaming in the torchlight. Despite his injuries, his voice carried with unwavering strength. “Please, Emperor Geta, torture me if you want. But do not lecture me.”  

Geta’s lips curled in a sneer. “Your name and deeds will be forgotten, lost to history. You are damned to oblivion.”  

Marcus let out a low, defiant laugh, the sound echoing ominously through the chamber. Geta bristled. “You laugh?!”  

“You damn me?” Marcus growled. “I don’t care. Everything is forgotten in time. Empires fall. So do Emperors.”  

Caracalla, already simmering with rage, exploded. Grabbing a sword from a nearby Praetorian, he stormed forward, his voice a snarl of fury. “Why wait? I’ll gut him right now!”  

Geta rushed to restrain his brother, grabbing his arm as the blade swung wildly, narrowly missing Marcus’s head. “No! No! Calm! Calm! His death must be public.”  

“Public, yes,” Caracalla hissed, his eyes wild. “Hang his entrails from the city gates!” He spun toward you and Lucilla, his gaze venomous. “And them! Crucify them both. Crucify her!” His finger jabbed toward you, his voice breaking into a shriek. “Let them all suffer!”  

For the first time, Marcus’s composure cracked. “Leave her out of this!” he roared, his voice reverberating through the hall.  

Lucilla, too, stepped forward as far as her restraints allowed, her voice cold and commanding. “She is no threat to you. Punish me if you must, but she is innocent.”  

Caracalla’s lip curled. “Innocent? No one in your circle is innocent.”  

Geta held up a hand, signaling for silence. His gaze swept over you, considering, calculating. “No,” he finally said, his voice low but resolute. “Her skills as a healer are of use. She will not die.”  

Caracalla rounded on his brother, his outrage spilling over. “You would show her mercy?”  

Geta sneered, his tone dismissive. “Not mercy. A healer stripped of her riches and status is no better than a servant. She will remain—serving the Empire, tending to our men. Let her be a reminder of what happens to those who think they can defy us.”  

The decision was made. The Praetorians moved to haul you away, their grip bruising. Marcus struggled against them, his voice a thunderous plea. “No! Let her go!”  

You glanced back at him, your heart aching at the anguish in his eyes. “Marcus,” you whispered, your voice soft but steady. “Live. For Rome. For us.”  

His struggles stilled, though the fury in his gaze remained unquenched. “I will come for you,” he vowed, the weight of his words promising blood and fire.  

Lucilla caught your gaze as you were pulled away, her expression unyielding. “Stay alive,” she commanded in a soft whisper. “That is how you win.”  

You didn’t speak again as the guards dragged you out, but the quiet determination burning in your chest was louder than any words you could muster. The fight wasn’t over—not yet.  

UNDERCROFT, COLOSSEUM — MORNING  

The undercroft was cloaked in a heavy stillness, the faint roar of the distant crowd above serving as the only reminder of the chaos awaiting outside. The dim torchlight flickered against the cold stone walls, casting wavering shadows that seemed alive. You worked with quiet determination, dabbing ointment on Lucius’s wounds, though your hands trembled slightly from exhaustion. Sleep had eluded you since the altercation. If Ravi or Lucius noticed the change in your demeanor, they chose to remain silent.  

Ravi was seated nearby, carefully wrapping Lucius’s wrists with the precision of someone accustomed to mending what others sought to break. Lucius, his youthful face etched with weariness, broke the silence first.  

“Today, I woke up dreaming of a dark river,” he murmured, his voice low but steady. “A river I have dreamt of before, but this time, for the first time... I was crossing it.”  

Ravi paused, his hands stilling briefly as he considered Lucius’s words. “Where I come from, crossing a river represents forgiveness and salvation,” he replied softly.  

Lucius let out a faint, humorless chuckle. “Where I come from, it means you’re dead.” His gaze shifted to the middle distance, as if seeing something far beyond the confines of the undercroft. “I believe it means I will die today in the Arena. But—as I saw it, I was not afraid. For there were people on the other side. I was not alone. And my heart felt... open.”  

The weight of his words lingered in the air, but you said nothing, focusing instead on your work. You felt the knot tighten in your chest, the reality of his belief pressing down like a physical force.  

Lucius turned away, his eyes catching on the shrine of gladiators carved into the wall. He moved closer, stopping before a blank spot where a name had been crudely chiseled away. “Who was this man?”  

“Maximus,” Ravi answered, rising to stand beside him. You hesitated before stepping forward, your curiosity drawn toward the name as well.  

“I saw him fight once,” Lucius said, his voice carrying a rare sense of reverence. “It was magnificent.”  

Ravi nodded in agreement. “My time in the Arena was after his, but in whispers, many still spoke of him and what he did.”  

Lucius tilted his head slightly, as if piecing together a memory. “I met him once. He was kind,” he added, his voice softening. “Bowed to no one.”  

Your eyes met Ravi’s, a silent understanding passing between you. You swallowed hard before speaking. “Come with us,” you urged, your voice low but insistent.  

---

UNDERCROFT, CATACOMBS — DAY 

The air grew colder as you descended the narrow staircase, the light of your torch flickering against the damp stone walls. The tunnel was lined with catacombs, their alcoves filled with the remains of fallen gladiators. Most were marked with nothing more than a name etched into the stone—Iduma of Mykonos, Cimon.  

“When a rebel gladiator dies, we are supposed to cremate him and scatter the ashes,” you explained, your voice barely above a whisper. “But we bury them here instead.”  

The crypt opened into a small chamber, dominated by a single phrase chiseled roughly into the stone: What we do in life echoes in eternity.  

Lucius approached the words, his fingers brushing lightly over the inscription as he read aloud, “What we do in life... echoes in eternity.” Beneath the phrase, the name Maximus was etched into the stone.  

Above the crypt, Maximus’s breastplate and sword hung from the wall, the metal dulled by time but no less imposing. Lucius reached up and took the breastplate down, his expression thoughtful. “Scatto,” he whispered. “Argento.”  

You watched him for a moment, your heart heavy with the weight of what lay ahead. Finally, you turned to Ravi, passing him the torch. “I must go before the games begin,” you said, your voice faltering slightly. “I...”  

Ravi gave a solemn nod, his expression steady. “The people will be ready when you call upon them,” he assured you.  

Lucius’s brows knit in confusion, but before he could ask for clarification, you turned and fled, your footsteps echoing in the narrow corridor.  

THE COLOSSEUM — DAY  

You sprinted through the labyrinthine corridors of the Colosseum, your breath ragged, the cold stone walls blurring past you. The distant roar of the crowd reverberated through the halls, each cheer a hammer against your chest.  

At last, your eyes found him—Marcus, striding toward the Arena gates. His armor gleamed faintly under the dim torchlight, but it did little to hide the stiffness in his movements, the weight of his untreated wounds dragging against his formidable will. His commanding presence, though battered, remained intact, his head held high as if he bore the weight of Rome itself.  

“Marcus!” you cried out, your voice slicing through the din, raw with desperation.  

A Praetorian stepped forward, intercepting you with a vice-like grip on your arm. “Stand back!” he barked, his tone as sharp as the gladius at his side.  

“Let me go!” you screamed, thrashing against him. Your gaze locked on Marcus, pleading. “His wounds—they haven’t been treated! You’re sending him to die!”  

Marcus turned sharply at the sound of your voice, his piercing gaze cutting through the distance. The hardness in his expression wavered for a fleeting moment, giving way to something tender. “Release her,” he growled, his tone low but unyielding.  

The Praetorian hesitated, glancing between you and Marcus as if weighing the consequences. When he didn’t relent, you tore your arm free, ignoring the sting of his grip. “If you send him into that Arena like this,” you said, your voice rising with fury, “it will not be a fight—it will be an execution!”  

Marcus took a step closer, his battered frame radiating defiance. His eyes, however, softened as they met yours, and for a moment, the clamor of the world seemed to fade. “You shouldn’t have come,” he murmured, his voice rough, but threaded with something intimate.  

“I couldn’t stay away,” you replied, your voice trembling. “Not when I know what they’re doing to you. Not when I—” You swallowed hard, the words catching in your throat.  

The Arena gates groaned open, and the roar of the crowd surged, deafening. Time seemed to slow as Marcus reached for your hand, his touch brief but searing, grounding you in the moment. “No matter what happens, know this,” he said, his voice steady despite the chaos around you. “You are the light I carry into the darkness. My carissima—my heart has been yours long before this day.”  

Your breath hitched, your vision blurring with unshed tears. “Then fight for me,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “Fight for us.”  

A faint, bittersweet smile ghosted his lips as he released your hand and turned toward the gates. “For you, I will endure anything,” he said, his voice resolute.  

As he stepped forward, the sunlight streaming into the Arena catching on his armor, you stood rooted to the spot, your heart splintering with every step he took. “Marcus!” you called out one last time, the weight of unspoken words heavy on your tongue.  

He paused, glancing back with a look that spoke of endless promises. “Whatever happens, my love will echo into eternity.”  

You watched him disappear into the blinding light of the Arena, the roar of the crowd swallowing him whole. The Master of Ceremonies reads off the official denunciation of the man you love, “For his treason against the lives of the Emperors and the Roman state... an Enemy of the People.”

And in that moment, all you could do was hope—that the fire in his spirit would be enough to carry him back to you.

The clash of swords echoed in your ears, but your focus was entirely on him—on Marcus. The sight of him in the Arena, a whirlwind of strength and precision, sent your heart into a spiral of anguish and awe. He dispatched the four soldiers with ruthless efficiency, sustaining only a superficial scratch. His breath came heavy as he stood amidst the carnage, blood staining the sand beneath his feet.  

You tore your gaze away to look above, where Lucilla sat in the royal box, her wrists bound in chains. Her face, streaked with tears, mirrored the grief clawing at your own chest.  

When Marcus’ eyes found yours, the rest of the Colosseum seemed to vanish. Though his body bore the scars of countless battles, it was his gaze that struck you deepest. His eyes burned with a fire that had kept him alive through horrors unimaginable, yet they softened when they landed on you.  

Your heart twisted painfully. Yes, he wore the scent of blood and death like a warrior’s perfume, his every move a testament to his survival. But you loved him regardless, perhaps even because of it. He was a star burning with the light of a thousand suns, and your world was an endless abyss without him.  

The Master of Ceremonies stepped forward, his voice booming over the crowd. “From the vanquished city of Numidia, the victor of two contests in the Colosseum—the barbarian Hanno!”  

The south gate creaked open, and from the shadows stepped Lucius. Your breath caught in your throat. Fear consumed you, gnawing at your resolve. This was no ordinary opponent; this was Lucilla’s son. Lucius, whom you had come to know, to care for as a friend. And now, fate had pitted him against the man you loved.  

Marcus straightened, his sword glinting in the harsh sunlight. Lucius raised his weapon, his youthful face a mask of determination, and charged.  

The clash of their swords reverberated through the Arena, each strike heavier than the last. Marcus splintered Lucius’ wooden shield with a single swing, sending fragments scattering. Without hesitation, Lucius threw himself back into the fray, weapon raised high. The flat of his blade caught Marcus broadside, forcing him to stagger.  

Your nails dug into your palms as you watched the brutal dance unfold. Marcus managed to disarm Lucius, knocking him to the ground. But when the final blow could have come, Marcus hesitated. He stepped back, raising his hand to the crowd, then dropped to his knees in the sand.  

“Acacius has raised his hand!” the Master of Ceremonies declared. “He has surrendered!”  

A stunned silence fell over the crowd. Tears streamed down your face, unchecked, as you whispered, “No…”  

The silence broke with a roar. “Let the gods decide!” the Master of Ceremonies proclaimed.  

Your stomach churned as Geta stood in the royal box, his hand lifted to the sky. Time slowed as he brought it down—thumb turned irrevocably down.  

“No!” you screamed, though your voice was drowned by the crowd’s cheers.  

Lucius rose, sword in hand, and approached Marcus. The words exchanged between them were faint, but you strained to hear. Marcus spoke with quiet conviction, his voice steady even in the face of death. “Do what you must. On my death, you must know… I love her—the healer, my carissima. Your mother was my friend. Your father, my brother in arms. I would have died for him.”  

Something shifted in Lucius’ stance. He faltered, his sword lowering. And then, to the shock of all, he dropped it to the sand. Slowly, he knelt beside Marcus, defying the will of the Emperor.  

Rage flared in your chest, consuming the fear that had gripped you. It was raw and primal, burning away hesitation. You darted toward a weapons rack near the Arena’s edge, your fingers trembling as you grabbed an arrow. Wrapping its head in cloth soaked with pitch, you moved swiftly to the north gate.  

The guards were too distracted by the unfolding scene to stop you. Lighting the arrow on a nearby torch, you notched it and drew the bowstring back, your muscles taut with purpose. The flames licked at the arrow as you aimed high and let it fly.  

It struck true, igniting a banner in the royal box. Flames spread rapidly, drawing screams from the crowd. You let out a sharp whistle, piercing through the chaos—the signal.  

In an instant, chaos erupted. Some of the Praetorian archers turned on their comrades, loosing arrows in calculated rebellion. Screams and confusion engulfed the Colosseum as you sprinted toward the center of the Arena.  

“Marcus!” you shouted, dodging arrows as you reached him and Lucius.  

His head snapped toward you, his expression a mix of fury and desperation. “What are you doing? You’ll get yourself killed!”  

“I’m not leaving you!” you shouted back, grabbing his arm.  

The three of you ran for the undercroft, but not before an arrow struck Marcus in the arm. His cry of pain sent a fresh wave of terror through you, but you didn’t stop.  

Ravi appeared at the entrance to the undercroft, his face streaked with soot and pale with fear, but his resolve unwavering. “This way!” he called, rushing forward to take Marcus’ other arm and hoist it over his shoulder. Marcus groaned, his weight pressing heavily against both of you, though his eyes still burned with determination despite the pain.

“Keep moving,” Ravi urged, his voice tight with urgency.  

Lucius, breathing hard but steady, halted suddenly. “I will stay,” he said, his voice firm, though his expression betrayed the conflict within.  

“Lucius, no,” you protested, your voice catching as you turned to him.  

“I must,” he said, shaking his head. His eyes were filled with a mix of fear and fierce loyalty. “For my mother. For Lucilla. I can’t abandon her to them.”  

You hesitated, your chest tightening. “Lucius…”  

He stepped forward, his hand resting briefly on your shoulder. “You have a chance to make this right,” he said, his voice softer now, almost imploring. “Go. Protect him. Do what I cannot.”  

Marcus stirred at Lucius’ words, his head lifting weakly. “Lucius,” he rasped, his voice laden with respect and sorrow. “You’re braver than I could ever hope to be.”  

Lucius gave a small, sad smile. “No, General. I’ve only learned from the best.”  

Your throat tightened as you searched for words, but none came. Instead, you nodded, a silent promise passing between you.  

“Go,” Lucius said, his voice more urgent now as the distant sound of Praetorian guards grew closer. “I will buy us the time we need.”  

Your heart clenched as you watched him turn back toward the chaos above, his sword in hand, shoulders squared against the impossible odds.  

“I’ll see you again,” you called after him, your voice trembling.  

He didn’t look back, but his voice carried through the shadows. “I’ll hold you to that.”  

Ravi tugged on Marcus, breaking you from your frozen stance. “We have to move!”  

You spared one last glance at the chaos above—the flames licking at the banners, the rebellion erupting like a storm, the empire trembling on the brink of collapse. Lucius stood at the edge of it all, a lone figure against the inferno.  

Then you turned and disappeared into the shadows, Marcus’ weight heavy against your side but his presence anchoring you. Each step was a vow—to see this through, for Marcus, for Lucius, for Lucilla, and for the fragile hope of a future you still dared to dream of.  

HIDDEN COTTAGE, OUTSKIRTS OF ROME — EVENING

The hidden cottage was small, nestled among the thick trees on the outskirts of Rome. Its weathered walls, cloaked in ivy, offered a fleeting sense of safety as you dismounted your horse, your legs trembling beneath you. Marcus slumped in the saddle, pale and shivering, his strength all but drained. Ravi rushed to help, catching him before he toppled to the ground.  

“Inside, quickly,” you urged, your voice shaking as you flung open the door. The cottage was sparsely furnished—a rough-hewn table, a single cot, and a fireplace where embers still smoldered from whoever had left it behind.  

Ravi and you eased Marcus onto the cot, his armor clinking as it hit the wood. He let out a low groan, his hand gripping yours tightly as his head lolled back.  

“Marcus,” you whispered, brushing sweat-soaked hair from his forehead. His eyes fluttered open, glassy and unfocused.  

“I’m fine,” he rasped, though the deep crimson staining his tunic said otherwise.  

“No, you’re not,” you said firmly, your voice steady despite the storm raging in your chest. “Ravi, get the water boiling. We need to clean these wounds.”  

Ravi nodded, already moving to the fireplace. You quickly removed his armor and tore at Marcus’s tunic, exposing the angry gash on his shoulder where the arrow had struck. Blood seeped sluggishly from the wound, a stark reminder of how close you’d come to losing him.  

“This will hurt,” you murmured, your fingers trembling as you pressed a cloth to the wound.  

“Hurts less,” Marcus said, his lips twitching in a faint smile, “when you’re the one tending to it.”  

“Save your charm for when you’re not bleeding to death,” you replied, though your voice softened, betraying your worry.  

As you worked, Marcus’s breathing grew shallower. His hand found yours again, squeezing weakly. “You’re trembling,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.  

“So are you,” you shot back, though your resolve wavered as his thumb brushed over your knuckles.  

“Carissima,” he murmured, the term of endearment slipping from his lips like a prayer. “I need you to listen.”  

“Marcus, stop,” you said, blinking back tears. “Save your strength.”  

He shook his head, his dark eyes locking onto yours with startling clarity despite the fever setting in. “Listen to me. There’s something I need you to do.”  

Ravi returned with a steaming basin of water, and you began cleaning the wound with swift, efficient movements. Marcus flinched but didn’t pull away.  

“You’re going to ride to Ostia,” he said, his voice hoarse but resolute. “You will find General Darius Sextus. Tell him to bring the army. It’s the only way we overthrow those bastards on the throne.”  

“I’m not leaving you,” you said, your tone sharp as you dabbed at the wound. “You’ll bleed out if I’m not here.”  

“You’ll come back,” he said, his lips curving into the faintest smile. “I know you will.”  

“Marcus, stop talking like this,” you snapped, the lump in your throat threatening to choke you. “You’re not going to die.”  

He reached into the pouch at his belt, fumbling until his fingers closed around something. When he pulled it free, your breath caught. It was his simple signet ring, battered with age but unmistakably precious.  

He pressed it into your hand, his fingers curling over yours. “Take this,” he said, his voice trembling now. “When you return, I want to see it on your finger.”  

“Marcus…” Your voice broke, tears spilling down your cheeks despite your best efforts to hold them back.  

“You’ll be my wife,” he continued, his delirium softening his usual commanding tone. “You already are in my heart. Always have been.”  

Your hands shook as you clutched the ring, the weight of his words pressing into your chest. “You’re feverish,” you said, trying to deflect the overwhelming wave of emotion. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”  

“I’ve never been more certain,” he murmured, his eyes searching yours. “You’re the reason I fight. The reason I live.”  

Ravi placed a steadying hand on your shoulder, his voice quiet. “We need to cauterize the wound, or we’ll lose him.”  

You nodded, swallowing your tears as you set the ring aside, your fingers brushing Marcus’s cheek one last time. “Stay with me,” you whispered, your voice fierce despite the crack threatening to break it. “Stay, Marcus.”  

He gave a weak nod, his hand tightening briefly around yours. “For you, carissima, always.”  

The fire roared as Ravi prepared the blade. You took Marcus’s hand again, anchoring him as he drifted between consciousness and oblivion. The pain would be unbearable, but so was the thought of a world without him.  

As you pressed the heated metal to his wound, his scream tore through the room, and your heart shattered. But you didn’t let go. You never would.  

HIDDEN COTTAGE, OUTSKIRTS OF ROME — MIDNIGHT

The crackling of the fire filled the silence of the room as shadows danced across the walls. You sat on a worn wooden stool, staring into the flames while absentmindedly twirling Marcus’ signet ring on your finger. The weight of it felt both grounding and unbearable—a constant reminder of him, of the fragile hope that lingered between life and death.

The sound of the door creaking open startled you, and you rose quickly, your heart in your throat. Ravi stepped inside, his arms laden with bundles of potions, food, and water. His face was streaked with dirt and exhaustion, but his resolve remained unbroken.  

“I carried what I could,” he said, his voice quiet but steady.  

You gave him a small, grateful nod. “Thank you, Ravi.”  

Together, you began unpacking the supplies, arranging them on the shelves in hurried efficiency. The weight of the night pressed down on both of you, heavy and suffocating.  

As he placed a jar of salve on the counter, Ravi broke the silence. “The streets are in chaos. Masses of people rioting, chanting for the emperors’ heads. It’s madness out there.”  

You paused, the weight of his words sinking into your chest. “And Lucius? Lucilla?” you asked, though you feared the answer.  

Ravi hesitated, his face grim. “I’ve heard talk… They plan to execute her tomorrow, along with several senators, including Gracchus.”  

Your heart clenched, and tears slipped down your face before you could stop them. The thought of Lucilla—brave, steadfast Lucilla—facing such a fate made your chest ache with helplessness.  

Ravi turned to you, his voice gentler now. “I know the fear inside you,” he said, his eyes steady on yours. “But let hope live beneath the doubt. You must ride to Ostia. Gather the army. I’ll stay here and watch over Acacius.”  

Your hands trembled as you gripped the edge of the table. The coolness of the ring on your finger seemed to burn against your skin, its presence a bittersweet comfort. “You have to keep him alive,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “I beg you, Ravi. Keep him alive.”  

Ravi placed a reassuring hand on your shoulder, his gaze resolute. “I will. I swear it.”  

You moved quietly into the small room where Marcus lay, his large frame stretched across the narrow cot. His brow was furrowed even in sleep, and the faintest groan escaped his lips as he shifted. You knelt beside him, your heart tightening at the sight of him so vulnerable, so worn.  

Carefully, you brushed a stray lock of his salt-and-pepper curls from his forehead, your fingers lingering against his warm skin. He leaned into your touch unconsciously, his expression softening, and the faintest flicker of peace graced his face.  

“I love you,” you whispered, your voice trembling. The words felt like a prayer, a promise, and a plea all at once.  

Tearing yourself away from him felt like ripping your heart from your chest. Your knees threatened to give out, but you steadied yourself, reminding yourself of the task ahead. For Marcus, for Lucius, for Lucilla, for Rome—you had to be strong.  

You stepped outside, the crisp night air biting against your skin. Pulling your hood over your head, you turned to Ravi, who stood waiting with your horse. He handed you the reins with a solemn nod.  

“Heo is se wind. You’re the wind,” Ravi said softly, almost as if speaking to himself. “The wind that will carry them home.”  

You met his gaze, your throat tight with unspoken gratitude, and mounted your horse. With a final nod to Ravi, you dug your heels into the stirrups and rode into the darkness.  

The cold air whipped against your face as the cottage disappeared behind you, the quiet night broken only by the sound of your horse’s hooves pounding against the earth. The road ahead was long and uncertain, but your heart burned with a single, unrelenting purpose: to save Marcus, to save Rome, and to see the light of hope once more.  

—--------------

OSTIA — DAWN  

The first light of dawn kissed the horizon, streaking the sky in hues of gold and crimson. The Roman camp at Ostia stirred with life as soldiers prepared for the day, their voices carrying through the crisp morning air. You rode into the camp at a gallop, your horse’s hooves pounding against the earth, kicking up dust in your wake.  

“Stop!” a centurion bellowed as you neared the heart of the camp. Others joined in, shouting commands to halt, but you paid them no mind. Your determination was unshakable.  

You dismounted swiftly, your legs unsteady after the relentless ride. The horse whinnied, tethered hastily to a nearby post. Two centurions moved to intercept you, their hands outstretched to block your path.  

“Out of the way!” you snapped, your voice sharp with urgency. When one of them grabbed your arm, you shoved him aside, yanking your hood back to reveal your face. They froze, their expressions flickering between surprise and confusion. A woman, unarmored, and yet, you carried yourself with a ferocity that made them hesitate.  

You stormed through the rows of tents, your breath coming in shallow gasps, until you reached the largest one—adorned with the banners of Darius Sextus, the legate commanding the army at Ostia. Two guards stationed outside moved to block your way.  

“Identify yourself!” one barked, his hand on the hilt of his gladius.  

Your eyes burned with the fire of purpose as you held up your hand, revealing the signet ring gleaming in the early light. “This is my identification,” you said fiercely, brushing past them before they could respond.  

Inside the tent, Darius Sextus sat at a makeshift table, a half-eaten loaf of bread in one hand and a goblet of wine in the other. He looked up at you with mild irritation, his brow furrowing at the sight of an unannounced visitor.  

Before he could demand an explanation, you strode forward, your breath still labored, and thrust the ring onto the table. The sound of metal striking wood reverberated through the space.  

His gaze dropped to the ring, and the moment recognition dawned in his eyes, he stiffened. “Who gave you this?” he demanded, rising to his feet.  

You straightened, despite the ache in your legs and the sweat dripping down your temples. “Marcus Justus Acacius,” you replied, your voice steady despite your exhaustion. “My husband.”  

Darius blinked, his surprise evident, but you pressed on before he could question further. “My friend Lucius Verus Aurelius Maximus, the prince of Rome, and his mother, Lucilla, are in grave danger. They need your help.”  

Darius stared at you, his expression unreadable. Finally, he gestured to the ring. “This is proof of Acacius’ command. And yet, you claim he sent you as his... wife?”  

Your jaw tightened, your hands balling into fists at your sides. “He entrusted this to me because he knows the danger we face. Rome is falling, and you, Legate, have the power to stop it. Marcus fights for a better Rome, not for glory or power, but for the people. If you care for your city, for your honor, you’ll listen.”  

For a moment, silence stretched between you. Then, Darius stepped closer, his voice quieter but no less firm. “If Acacius sent you, where is he now?”  

Your heart clenched at the memory of Marcus lying pale and wounded in the hidden cottage. “He is injured,” you admitted, your voice breaking slightly. “But alive. And he fights still, in spirit, even as his body recovers. He would be here himself if he could.”  

Darius studied you for a long moment, his sharp eyes assessing. Finally, he nodded. “You have his courage,” he said, a flicker of respect softening his tone. “I will call the banners and ride for Rome. But understand this, woman—if you are lying, it will cost you your life.”  

You lifted your chin, defiance burning in your gaze. “I do not fear death. But you should fear the wrath of a man who loves Rome enough to sacrifice everything for her. Marcus Acacius does not choose his allies lightly.”  

Darius gave a curt nod, already turning to issue orders to his men. The tent erupted into activity as soldiers prepared to march. You stepped back into the dawn, your heart heavy with the weight of what lay ahead but emboldened by the hope flickering in the distance.  

You clutched the ring on your finger, its presence grounding you. "Wait for me, Marcus," you whispered under your breath as the camp burst into motion. "I will see this through."  

VIA SACRA, RIVERBANK — DAY  

The air was thick with tension, the distant outline of Rome rising like a specter against the horizon. The sound of hooves pounding the ground was relentless, a rhythm of war and desperation. You rode at the front of Acacius’s army, the wind whipping your cloak as your horse surged forward. Around you, the soldiers moved as one, their determination palpable.  

Beside you, General Darius Sextus rode with a stoic expression, his gaze fixed on the gates of Rome. Your own heart thundered in your chest, not from the exertion, but from the knowledge of what lay ahead. Somewhere beyond those gates was Marcus, his life tied to the fate of this city, and you would see it through—if only for him.  

As you neared the gates, movement drew your attention. Macrinus, a dark figure astride his horse, galloped toward the advancing army. His presence was a challenge, a taunt, his defiance cutting through the rising tension.  

You reined in your horse, watching as Macrinus paused, his sharp gaze darting between the approaching forces. General Tegula, standing at the head of the praetorian line, gestured for Macrinus to act. But before he could, another rider tore across the field—a blur of motion and purpose.  

Lucius Verus Aurelius.  

You drew in a sharp breath, your hands tightening on the reins as Macrinus's voice rang out.  

“Will nothing kill this barbarian?” he shouted, his tone biting, his words aimed at Lucius.  

The two men faced each other, their animosity tangible even from a distance.  

“My name is Lucius Verus Aurelius,” Lucius declared, his voice steady and commanding. His words carried to the men at the front of the praetorian army, the hint of intrigue flickering in General Tegula’s expression. The soldiers began to falter, their loyalty visibly wavering.  

Macrinus sneered, his voice laced with contempt. “A man does not become Emperor by bloodline alone. It must be taken by force and kept by force. Are you such a man as this?”  

Lucius sat tall on his horse, the morning sun catching the golden trim of his armor. “I don’t fight for power,” he said, his voice resolute. “I fight to free Rome from men like you and return it to them.” He gestured to the soldiers and people around him, his meaning clear.  

Your chest swelled with a mix of hope and trepidation as you glanced at Darius, whose expression remained unreadable.  

For the first time, doubt flickered in Macrinus’s eyes, his bravado cracking. “The gods themselves want Rome reborn. They sent me to fulfill that task,” he declared, though his voice lacked its earlier conviction.  

“And what if your gods sent me here to kill you?” Lucius countered, his voice deep and unyielding. “It’s time to end this, Macrinus.”  

Without another word, Lucius drew his sword, spurring his horse into a charge. You barely had time to catch your breath as the two men clashed, the force of their collision sending Macrinus and his horse tumbling.  

Your gaze followed the battle, each strike and parry a brutal testament to their will. The armies on either side stood silent, watching as Lucius and Macrinus fought beneath the Arch. Darius’s men halted, their discipline holding firm, while the praetorians hesitated, their loyalty unraveling.  

Lucius’s movements were fierce and unrelenting, but Macrinus fought like a cornered beast. The clash carried them off the road and toward the riverbank, the muddy slope making each step precarious.  

You leaned forward in your saddle, your breath caught as Lucius slipped, his body vanishing beneath the filthy water. Macrinus pounced, his blade flashing as he drove it downward, but Lucius erupted from the river with a rock in hand, smashing it against Macrinus’s head.  

The fight turned savage. Each strike from Lucius was fueled by purpose, his blows braining Macrinus until the man reeled, blinded by blood. You winced as Lucius swung his sword with surgical precision, severing Macrinus’s arm and then cutting deep into his abdomen.  

Macrinus crumpled, his remaining strength spent as he slumped into the river, his body drifting away in the current. Lucius stood motionless for a moment, his chest heaving as he stared after his fallen enemy.  

When he turned back, his bloodied form ascended the muddy slope, stepping into the silence that had overtaken the battlefield. Under the Arch, between two armies, Lucius paused, his gaze sweeping across the faces of the men and women who watched him.  

He threw down his sword, the sound of it hitting the ground a final punctuation to the violence. His voice, ragged but clear, carried across the field.  

“You look to me to speak,” he began, his tone solemn. “I know not what to say other than we have all known too much death. Let no more blood be spilt in the name of tyranny.”  

You swallowed hard, your chest tight as his words struck a chord.  

“My grandfather, Marcus Aurelius, dreamed of a Rome that would be a city for the many, a home for those in need—a republic. That dream has been lost.” He looked at the soldiers on either side of him, his expression weary yet determined. “But dare we rebuild that dream together. What say you?”  

For a long moment, the battlefield held its breath, a fragile stillness settling over the chaos. Lucius stood at its heart, bloodied yet unyielding, like a lone pillar in a storm-ravaged temple. His chest rose and fell with the weight of his words, his armor bearing the scars of battle, but his gaze remained steady, unbroken—a light that refused to be extinguished.  

Your eyes met his, just for a fleeting second, and in that shared glance was an unspoken vow, a thread of hope tethered to the impossible. As you turned your gaze back to Lucius, he stood as a reflection of what Rome could become: bruised but not beyond redemption.  

In that moment, a fragile ember of belief sparked within you. Hope, tenuous and flickering, wove itself into your thoughts. You closed your eyes briefly, your heart murmuring a silent prayer—for Marcus, for his dream of a better Rome, and for the chance to stand beside him when it was finally brought to life.

[ay0nha]

Does this need a part two?

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

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

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

WORD COUNT: 2.4K

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Time?” Lucius looked to you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Able or willing?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 “You have my word.”