#mens gladiator sandal

[streets-in-paradise]

For the Dastan request, fem reader is ok!! 😆 forever camping here for all and any Dastan fics 😌

Great, thanks for answering!!

Hahaha awwww, so glad you wanna stay for my dastan fics! I love him and he is so underrated. When i typed " dastan x reader" on the search here and found out there wasn't anything i was so dissapointed.

How had no one else ever written self indulgent x reader with this man?

Unexplainable, i couldn't believe it so i had to fix it.

[shoesparadise]

[wheresarizona]

Columba 

summary: It isn’t until you’re in his home that you learn it’s General Marcus Acacius who’s summoned you for your services—you’re not sure why he did, when the other courtesans standing beside you, hoping to be chosen by him, have bodies that look nothing like yours.

pairing: Marcus Acacius/Plus Size f!reader (Courtesan)

rating: E (18+!! This is smut. No y/n, explicit smut, plus size reader, courtesan reader, age gap (reader is of legal age in today’s standards), takes place pre-Gladiator 2, dommy Marcus Acacius (loves giving orders), he’s a tiny bit possessive, unprotected p in v (wrap it up!), creampie, rough sex, backshots, woman on top, oral sex (m receiving), vaginal fingering, breast worship, hair pulling (m receiving), slight breeding kink, (1) pussy slap, dirty talk, spanking, spit mention, some biting, with hair like that he wants it pulled, some sweetness at the end) 

word count: 4.8k+

a/n: I took one look at Marcus’ hair and immediately thought, that guy likes his hair pulled. I also decided that since he spends weeks to months with a bunch of men at a time, when he comes home, he really appreciates a curvy woman. Honestly, I didn’t think I’d be able to write anything for him until I saw the movie, but the trailer got me. This is unbeta’d, all mistakes are my own. I hope you enjoy!

Thank you for reading! Comments and reblogs feed me. I’d love to know what you thought!

Masterlist

It was the marble bust atop a pedestal that revealed whose home you were in. The opulence of the domus’ atrium, with its four tall marble columns surrounding the impluvium's shallow, sunken pool in the middle of the room and the compluvium’s opening in the ceiling above it, allowing the moon’s light to filter in, told you whoever lived here had notoriety—then you saw the face carved out of stone, recognizing the curls and strong nose you'd only ever seen as he was paraded past you down the street in honor of his latest victory, and you knew.

General Marcus Acacius is a man feared by many for his ferocity and skills in battle. It's been said Mars, the God of War, blessed his birth, while others believe his bloodline is descended from the God himself. What you know to be true is he's a gifted General that the Emperors and Gods have smiled upon, and in his presence, an intimidating figure you didn't dare look at unless you were addressed.

There are four women standing to your right, all of you younger than him, naked, and courtesans of the highest standard—well-educated and well-versed in politics along with the pleasures of the body—and highly sought out by society's elite. 

Marcus is at the opposite end, silently making his way down the line with what you can only assume is a scrutinizing eye, and you fear there's been a mistake that you're here—the other courtesans are all built similarly with small breasts, flattened stomachs and thinner waists than yours, whereas you’re curvier, and have more meat on your bones, with your bigger chest, soft noticeable belly, and grabbable hips. Clearly, he requested a particular type of woman, and it doesn't appear you're it. Staring down at the tiled floor seems better than seeing the disappointment on his face when he gets to you. 

His sandaled feet come into view as he stands before you, and you can feel his eyes roaming over your bare body—golden snake bracelets coil around each of your upper arms, and at the unexpected gentle touch of his fingertips to one, you flinch. 

"Do I frighten you?" His voice is a low, deep rasp that shivers down your spine. 

"No, Sir," you answer.

His thumb strokes over the snake's head and along its body. "Why do you flinch?" 

Raising your head, you see he’s wearing a white tunic with a gold pattern lining around his neck, down his arms, and along the hem, a belt securing it at his waist; golden cuffs covered his wrists. You’re met with dark eyes, a furrow crinkling between his eyebrows—his brown hair with a kiss of gray, curls like waves on his head, his facial hair dotted with a few silvery strands. It takes you a second to answer his question because the glimpses of him you caught during victory parades and the marble bust didn't prepare you for his beauty. 

Mars and Venus have bestowed their blessings upon him. 

“My apologies, Sir,” you finally reply. “It was simply surprise at being graced by your touch.” His expression is difficult to read, so you continue speaking, “I’ve heard of your prowess in battle that inspires songs and how your enemies tremble before you, but I do not believe I have reason to fear you—unless that is something you wish. Do you wish for me to be frightened of you?” 

Some men liked it if you acted afraid of them to feel powerful. Some men, usually the big, tough ones, liked to bury their faces in your bosom while you held them. The slight show of relief on Marcus’ face when you said you had no reason to fear him made you suspect he’d be in the latter category. 

“No.” His eyes are locked onto yours. “I do not need another to fear me. I wish for you to want my touch.” 

“I wish for more than your touch,” you reply. “I wish to feel your lips on mine and your weight on top of me, I wish to feel your cock inside me and to hear the sounds you make when you peak, and I do wish for your touch; I wish to feel your hands claim my body as yours.” 

His gaze turns to one of desire, and it makes you smile. 

"You," he says. "Stay. The rest of you,” he announces, keeping his eyes on yours, “leave us.”

The invitation the messenger brought to your home the day prior did not state who requested your services; it simply said the person was a public figure, and the woman picked would be paid handsomely.

The servants, who stood as still as statues against a wall, scurried to assist each of the other women with redressing.

"Come," he orders, offering you a hand you accept. He leads you to a room you realize is his personal quarters when you spot his armor in a corner, Medusa's golden head on the cuirass shining in the candlelight—she wards off evil and offers protection. There's a bed against the wall opposite the door, and he lets go of your hand, slipping off his sandals by the doorway before walking over to a thin table laden with a jug, cups, and a bowl of berries and grapes. 

"Care for some wine?" he asks without looking at you while pouring himself a cup. 

His body is tense, and you’re assuming you’re here to help him relax—he arrived home only days ago from war, and you got a chance to see him rolling down the street on a chariot as he waved to the cheering masses. It would make sense that he could use somebody with your expertise to get him to unwind. 

“No, thank you, Sir,” you answer, and he faces you again, taking a drink. “It’s a great honor that you chose me, and I do not wish to forget a single moment.” 

His cup lowers, and you're surprised to find he’s wearing a little smile. He twists to set his wine down next to the jug, and removes the cuffs from his wrists, setting them onto the table then his eyes are on yours. 

"Marcus," he says, and it only takes a few strides to have him in front of you again. 

"I'm sorry?" you ask.

His attention moves to your body, and he’s not looking upon you like an object or something he’s just purchased as most men do; his gaze is appreciative, the same kind of look you could imagine was on his face when he stared at art that pleased him. Your figure isn’t the ideal for most Roman women—your hips are too wide, your breasts are too large, your ass is too big, your thighs are too thick, and your stomach is too noticeable—yet, there are many men who sought you out and paid well for your time, and it seems the General is one of them. 

"My name." He walks around you, his fingers sliding along your upper back from shoulder to shoulder. “Call me Marcus. I want you to be familiar with how my name tastes on your tongue.” 

The touch and his words cause your nipples to harden and goosebumps to rise on your skin.

"Marcus,” you say. 

He’s in front of you again, his darkened eyes on yours. His big hands grip your waist, pulling you into him, and he shoves his face into the crook of your neck, feeling him inhale deeply. “Gods, you’re the best thing I’ve smelled in months.” The words are said against your flesh. “Like a meadow of flowers in Spring, and I fail to remember the last time I felt such softness.” He squeezes the fleshy handles at your hips and goes lower to grab handfuls of your ass, then runs his hands up your back. “Upon hearing your description,” he says, “I knew you’d be perfect, but what I imagined has no comparison to seeing your beauty with my own eyes.” His admission catches you off guard as it sounds as though he always intended to pick you from the line of women. It’s curious that he even invited the others if his mind had been set beforehand. He straightens, meeting your gaze. “Take off my clothes.” 

There's no need to reply; you just do as he ordered, getting his belt undone, the leather falling to the floor, then pulling his tunic over his head, it meeting the same fate as his belt. 

He’s completely nude, standing at his full height before you. 

You expected the scars etched all over his body, the evidence that he'd lay down his life for Rome without hesitation. There's a long, jagged one across his right pec, silvered with age, that has you forgetting yourself and softly pressing your fingertips to it.

He snatches your smaller hand, pulling it away from his marred skin. 

"My apologies," you quickly say, bowing your head in submission. "I shouldn't have touched you without permission." 

"You may touch me." Once again, he surprises you by putting the flat of your palm against the scar, his other hand grabbing your chin to lift your face. 

From his reaction to your fingers on him, you think he hasn’t been with a woman in quite some time, and you hope you can make up for all the nights he spent alone. 

It seems he's done with the pleasantries when his lips crush into yours. It's all of the encouragement you need, kissing him back while rubbing your palms up his broad chest, feeling his warmth. You snake a hand down his stomach through the trail of hair low on his belly to take his half-hard cock into your hand—he groans and twitches in your hold.

He truly has the Gods' favor—a talented General, handsome and well-endowed. 

With his hands on your waist, he walks you backward to the bed, laying you on the mattress. He's on top of you, deepening the kiss with his tongue pressing into your mouth, his hand palming your tit, making you wet with arousal and your body heat. 

It's fascinating how he's defying all of your expectations. The men who seek you out after spending months fighting are often rough and brutish, using you however they want to release their tension. There's never kissing or offers of drink; it's orders to suck their cocks, or to get on the bed in their desired position—and here's Marcus kissing down your body, along the skin of your neck to your chest. Most of his weight is on his knees between your legs while bending forward over you, and the only word you can think of to describe it is he's worshipping your breasts. He has them in his hands, moving from one to the other, licking, sucking, and nibbling on your nipples and soft skin, the sensations making your pussy weep with need. 

“Gods, Marcus,” you moan. He has you squirming with how good it feels, your fingers pushing into his curls. He takes a pebbled bud between his teeth and gently tugs. “Oh,” you gasp, your hands tightening in the tousled waves on his head.

He releases your nipple. “Harder,” he rasps, then flicks his tongue against your stiff peak, and you do as requested, pulling his hair harder. A loud groan rumbles from his chest as he continues laving at your tits, skimming his hand down your stomach, your skin tingling under his fingertips, until he’s sliding two fingers through your wet slit. You tighten your hold on his head, your toes curling when he starts rubbing your clit, and the realization hits that he intends for you to have just as much enjoyment as him. 

"Marcus," you whine.

He’s one of those men who has you praying that he’ll wish for your company again, and you wouldn’t even make him pay if you got another chance to warm his bed. 

The push of his thick digit into your pussy makes your breath hitch at the slight stretch, his thumb pressing to your sensitive bundle of nerves, moving side to side—you know he’s going to make you come, and you silently thank the Gods.

His finger is pushing in and out of you, his thumb continuing its movements, and he lifts his face to look you in the eyes, his own are so black there’s hardly a sliver of brown remaining. "Come for me," he commands, slipping a second digit inside you—you’re so wet you can hear the slick slide of his fingers pumping into you. The muscles in your belly are tightening, and the fire in your core is building. "Come for me, sweet girl." His head dips to lightly bite your nipple before soothing it with his tongue. "Once you come, I'll do as you wish and sheath my cock into this perfect cunt." 

The hot heat of his mouth envelops your pebbled bud, and he sucks—it's your undoing; your eyes close as you fall over the edge, coming with a moan of his name. His digits and mouth continue to extend your ecstasy while your chest heaves with labored breaths and your heart pounds. 

He lets go of your nipple with a wet pop, his hand sliding from your pussy, up your stomach, leaving a trail of your release on your skin. His voice deepens, “You’ve done well for me, and I keep my word—turn over.” 

He helps you to roll onto your front, and you get up onto your hands and knees—a familiar position. He takes a moment to admire you in front of him, his palms feeling the thickness of your thighs and hips. His fingers dig into your plump asscheeks as he spreads them and dips his head, hearing and feeling him spit between them, the hot saliva dripping from your asshole down to your opening. He shuffles up behind you, sliding his cock through the wetness of your come and his spit to lubricate himself, then notches it at your entrance—you both moan as he slowly starts feeding himself into you. 

Gods, he’s big. 

There’s a slight burn with how he’s stretching you, your inner walls having to accommodate his ample girth, and once he’s pressed all the way to the root inside you, a breath leaves you that you hadn't realized you'd been holding in. 

He has a tight grip on your waist and pulls out almost all the way, immediately pushing back into you hard enough there's a clap when his hips hit your ass. This was expected, Marcus setting up a rhythm that punches the air from your lungs each time he thrusts forward—he’s working out what he doesn’t wish to feel, and with how slippery it is between your legs, he's moving easily, and the brutal pace feels amazing. 

Many times, you’ve had to fake your enjoyment to make those employing you think they’re talented lovers—the majority are selfish in bed and care little about your comfort but want their egos stroked. Marcus, on the other hand, earned your favor when he took the time to ready you with his fingers and allowed you to climax. 

He's pounding into you, the collide of his body against yours making your asscheeks shake, and with how his cock is pressing into something truly divine, he’s also earned your screams of his name and whatever incoherent words are babbling from your mouth—he has you dizzy with pleasure, heat coiling in your belly, and there’s no doubting the Goddess of Beauty and Sex has given him her blessing. 

Sounds are spilling unbidden from your lips, Marcus loudly grunting with each stroke, the wet slap of skin hitting skin echoing in the room, and you look over your shoulder—the candlelight around the room shows the glisten of sweat on his golden skin. His head is thrown back, his eyes closed, and his jaw slack. Hair is sticking to his forehead, and a beautiful rosy flush has begun on his chest, rising up his neck to paint his cheeks. You can't think of another you've laid with who looked so breathtaking while taking their pleasure, and you could only imagine how glorious he’d look on the battlefield. You don't know what comes over you, reaching your hand back to touch his hip, and suddenly, he’s looking at you, his eyes glazed with lust. 

It’s as though he’s been in a trance, losing himself in your body, and now he’s come back to be in the moment with you. He falls forward, his hands sinking into the mattress on either side of you, blanketing your back and slowing his pace. His chin is on your shoulder, and he bites the shell of your ear; all of his weight goes onto one arm to free up the other that roughly grabs your breast and plucks at your nipple.

“You take me so well,” he says into your ear, his cock continuing to slide in and out of you. “Your sweet little cunt will milk me dry, and then I’ll have you again and again after that to keep you full of my seed.” 

His words steal a moan from your lips. 

“Does that please you, my sweet girl?” he asks. “You wish for more of me? Has another ever fucked you so good?” He gets his hand between your legs to circle the pearl of your pleasure, and your jaw drops, eyes closing—he’s going to make you come again. “Answer me,” he growls, lightly slapping your clit, and you clench around him. 

It’s challenging to think, but you say, “No,” and push your ass back against him as he thrusts forward, fucking yourself on him to get closer and closer to your end. “I’ve never had such fortune.” 

“You do now—by morning, I’ll have you ruined for any other man, and your cunt won’t soon forget the shape of my cock.” 

He means every word that slips from his tongue, and it sets the fire in your belly ablaze. You’re holding yourself up on shaky limbs, the muscles in your stomach knotting up—you’re close.

“Marcus,” you moan. 

His warm breath tickles your ear as he speaks into it: “I love how my name sounds from your lips. I know you’re close. Give in so I can feel you ascend to the heavens.” 

His words, the fullness of his thick shaft moving in and out of you, and his fingers swirling around your sensitive bundle at the apex of your thighs has you shattering—stars burst behind your eyelids as white-hot pleasure erupts in your center, your pussy clamping down on him hard enough he slows to a stop, and groans in your ear.

You exhale panted breaths, your heart beating rapidly, and the blissful euphoria ripples through your body, slowly ebbing away. 

Somehow, you find your voice, "Allow me to ride you." 

He kisses your shoulder, his beard scratching against your bare skin. "You want to mount me?" he asks. 

"Yes."

"Then you shall." 

He pulls out of you, an achy groan leaving him as he lies beside you on his back, and you get up onto your knees. He draws your attention with how he’s splayed out on the mattress, his long legs slightly spread and arms crossed over his head. His cock is still hard, it shiny with your juices, and resting against his lower belly, cushioned by the tantalizing path of hair that led directly to it—and he’s looking up at you, his eyes dark with want that keep lowering to your bosom, and back up to your eye line, the pink of his tongue wetting his bottom lip, that you suddenly wish to bite. 

There’s the common knowledge about Marcus all of Rome is aware of—the family he comes from and the military achievements that have led to him being the victorious General the Gods have blessed the city with, and now you’re versed in his more private attributes—he likes his women to be sturdy with sizeable breasts, he enjoys the pleasurable pain of his hair pulled, he’s a generous lover, he prefers to be in control unless you can tempt him enough to hand over the reins. It’s quite tempting for him to lie back and watch your tits bounce as you ride him. 

Shuffling in place to face him, taking his hard length in hand—he didn’t ask, and you didn’t offer, yet you want to take care of him like he took care of you, so you scoot back enough that you can bend down at the waist, wrapping your lips around the tip of his cock.

The sound of Marcus’ loud moan and the way his back arches as if it were the string of a bow shoots straight to your cunt—you can taste the mix of your essence and his arousal that’s steadily dribbling from the sensitive head that you lick and suckle; your hand easily stroking up and down the sheath of skin on his shaft. The muscles in his thighs and stomach have tensed like it’s taking everything in him to hold back and not fill your mouth with his come.

“Enough,” he grits the order through his teeth, and his palm lands on the side of your ass with a hard slap that echoes against the walls, the sharp sting getting a moan out of you—your head lifts off of him to see he’s scowling. “I’m not spilling down your throat,” he continues and smacks your ass again. “Ride me, or I’ll have you under me.” 

“Apologies, Marcus,” you reply demurely and sit up on your knees once more. Quickly, you move, throwing a leg over his waist to have your thick thighs hugging his hips. You rise, grabbing his cock, you press to your entrance, and you watch his face as you slowly start to impale yourself on him, relishing in how his mouth falls open and the tight grip he has on the meat of your thighs, his fingers digging into them hard enough it bordered on painful. 

The fullness is incredible when you sit flush against him, and you love how he fills you. Your palms find purchase on his broad chest, and you rise until only the tip of him remains inside of you, and you drop back down—the rhythm you set has you moving in his lap, up and down in quick succession, Marcus groaning, his eyes locked on the jiggle of your breasts. 

Sweat forms on your skin, feeling it on your forehead and a single drop sliding down your spine, your eyes closed as you focus, your moans stuttering each time you sink onto him. 

His hands are resting on your backside, rising and falling with you, his voice rough with pleasure, “That’s it, ride me, bounce on my cock.”

This isn’t about you, and though it feels good riding him, your goal is helping him achieve his own high, and you’re determined to do so—your hands leave him to press your tits together, and you gasp in surprise when he sits up and shoves his face into them. Your pace doesn’t waver, and you look at him to see he’s keeping himself up with an arm braced on the bed behind him, the other hand grabbing a handful of your ass, and you know he’s not going to last much longer. 

Your fingers slide into the unruly curls at the back of his head, and you yank them hard to make him look at you, Marcus hissing while his cock twitches inside you. In this position, you’re taller, and he gazes up to meet your eyes. 

“I want you to come,” you pant, continuing to fuck yourself on him. “I want to feel you flood my cunt with your seed.” The noise he makes sounds like a whine. “Then I want you to do it again, and again after that—I want you to fill me to the point I’m brimming with you, and you’re in me for days.” 

He squeezes his eyes shut as he groans out a long, drawn-out Fuck

With his beautiful neck on display, you duck your head and lick up the taut skin of his throat, wishing you could suck a mark into it to remind him of you for a while after you part ways. His free hand roughly grabs your chin to pull you close enough for him to slot his lips against yours, and you have to slow to a grind as he messily kisses you, shoving his tongue into your mouth. 

He breaks away to fall back onto the mattress, his fingers getting a tight grip on your ass, the muscles in his arms flexing as he lifts you enough to start thrusting up into your soaked pussy rapidly—he’s grunting while baring his teeth to chase his high, and all you can do is press your palms to his chest for balance while keeping yourself raised enough for him to pound into you. 

The slick push and pull of him, moving in and out of you, has you chanting his name, and it sounds wet between your legs, hearing the clap of skin on skin of him plowing into you. Perspiration makes his tan flesh glint under the candle's light, his hair is a mess atop his head, and his expression is wild; it’s no surprise when his strokes get uneven and his eyes close. Marcus tugs your ass down to bury himself as far as possible in you as he gives in, coming with a guttural groan—you feel his cock jerk and the wet pulse as he paints your insides with spurts and spurts of his spend, wringing himself out until his body goes completely lax.

He pulls you forward to lie on top of him, wrapping his arms around your middle, and turns you both onto your sides. There’s a hiss that slips from his lips when he removes his softening length from your cunt, and you smile at Marcus sliding down the bed far enough for his face to nuzzle in your bosom while hugging you tight. Your fingers stroke through his sweat-damp curls, his hums of appreciation sounding like the purr of a cat. 

Minutes pass in silence as your breaths even out and your hearts slow. After some time, he says something you can’t make out.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you,” you reply. 

His head lifts, and he kisses under your chin. “Stay,” he says again. 

“I have no intention of leaving. I’m here until you send me away.” 

“And if I don’t wish to send you away?” 

His lips trail along your jaw. 

Your eyebrows pull together. “As I said, I’m here until you request my leave.” 

“And if I never request your leave?” 

He’s kissing your neck now, the question making your eyes round. “You intend for me to be your mistress?” 

It’s not uncommon for a courtesan to become one’s mistress. Some of you are from families of wealth and do this line of work for the powerful connections, while others are freedwomen who’ve worked their way up to earn their notoriety—either case, courtesans are respected and thought to make great mistresses. 

“That is all I can offer since I have no plans to marry,” he answers. “You can stay here with or without me when I’m ordered away, and whatever is left of my salary and spoils of war after the household debts are paid, you may keep.”

He makes you frown. 

“Why me?”

Marcus gets his arm out from under you and scoots up the mattress to look you in the eyes. 

“You’re everything I desire in a woman with your beauty and intellect, and you can sate my needs in bed—you’re perfect, and I want you all to myself. I do not wish to share you with anyone else.”

It’s in this moment you realize you’re the one in control here—you don’t need him, you’re self-sufficient, and there are many who’d eagerly take his place, but your looks are rare in your profession, and he needs his deal to be enticing enough for you to take it. 

“What if I decline your offer?” 

“Then I pray you’ll allow me to keep your company until I receive my next orders.” 

He seems to be a good, honorable man who wants to please you, and he had you tempted to accept on the merit of his skills in bed alone—there’s just something that won’t leave your mind. 

“Before I make my decision, answer this question: if you believe me to be so perfect, why were the others here?” 

He presses his large palm to your cheek. “It was in your power to deny me your company, and though the other women weren’t of my tastes, they were better than nothing.” 

You see no flaws in his answer. 

“I accept your offer on one condition.”

“And that is?”

You no longer find him intimidating, and you’re now comfortable brushing errant hairs off his forehead and sliding your fingers through the curls above his ears. 

Your eyes lock onto his. “You return home to me,” you tell him. “You fight with the might of Mars, and you always return home to me.” 

That earns you a small smile, and he takes your hand into his, kissing the center of your palm. 

“I will, my Dove.” 

Masterlist

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[punkshort]

In Another Life | Part I

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x f!reader (time travel au)

Chapter Summary: Your brother and his friend surprise you after work with a handsome stranger crashing on your couch who claims to be from Ancient Rome.

Chapter Warnings: language, food consumption, major romcom vibes, mentions of prostitution, mentions of OC death, mentions of OC pregnancy, flirting, sexual tension

WC: 6.5K

A/N: this is a soft/romcom Marcus Acacius mini-series. Heavily inspired by Kate & Leopold. Also, let's just assume Ancient Romans spoke and could read English.

Series Masterlist

Time was of the essence. He had to move quick.

People would say he was a coward, no doubt his legacy would be tarnished, but if he escaped with his life, so be it.

He didn't bother with spare clothes, just an extra set of sandals and food thrown into a satchel before he crept down the dimly lit hallway, careful not to wake one of his many servants.

He loved his palace. It was a place of peace and comfort for him, but come morning, it would be ripped away and he would be thrown into the pit. A general, Rome's deadly sword and the Emperor's right hand man, would become a lowly gladiator. Trained to perform and kill for amusement.

And all because he refused to play the Emperor's sick game.

He couldn't do it. He couldn't help train another legion of young men half his age to fight and die for their vanity. For their greed. When the Emperor announced his new task, all he could think of was his unborn son. He would be of age now, had he lived. He could have been training him to die.

He padded down the stone steps softly, hardly making a sound, his combat training serving him well. He managed to get just outside the city limits while it was still dark, but he could see the glow from the sun breaking the horizon. He didn't have much time to find a place to hide. He was still too close, and no doubt warriors would be looking for him once Geta realized he had fled.

Gods above, if they found him... his fate would be far worse than one of a gladiator.

He stumbled across a small clearing, head twisted around to make sure he was not being followed when he tripped over something large and heavy.

"Oh, shit!" he heard a young male voice exclaim.

Quickly, he unsheathed his sword and aimed it toward the voice. Confusion painted his face when he saw the unusual clothing and utterly strange contraption behind him. Before he had a chance to say anything, leaves rustled and he swung is sword towards the noise. Another young man, similarly dressed to the other, emerged from the thicket.

"State your names. Quick."

"Uh..." the first man trailed off, hands raising slowly in the air. "D-Danny. Daniel. And this is... Victor."

"Dude! C'mon! You know I -"

"Silence!" the general roared as loud as he dared. "What is your business here?"

"Science! Just... experiments. And the like," Danny said hurriedly, glancing at Victor for help. He nodded.

"Yes. Experiments."

"And are you citizens of Rome?"

They paused and looked at one another again.

"We are citizens of... York," Danny said.

"It's new," Victor added.

The general looked back and forth between the two men before ultimately deciding he did not have the time to quarrel with them and they did not appear to be a threat. He dropped his sword to the side and glanced around.

"You did not see me," he said sternly, turning to leave.

"Wait!"

He glanced back over his shoulder, pausing.

"Are you running away?"

"Fleeing," Victor added quietly.

"Fleeing?" Daniel repeated.

"I do not see it fit for you to ask such questions of someone above your station," he snarled. The two men exchanged worried looks before continuing.

"We're leaving. If you're looking to jet, you can... y'know," Danny said, jutting a thumb over his shoulder towards the strange looking contraption.

"Can you get me to Greece?"

They grinned and nodded.

"Sure, dude."

The general glanced around once again, his brow furrowing when he saw the light stretching high into the sky, brightening the landscape and soon, giving his position away.

"Then I accept."

He sheathed his sword and stomped over to the men, startling them both with his intensity.

Victor turned to unlock a door, struggling a bit before it popped open and crawling inside. Danny stuck out a hand and gave him a nervous smile.

"What's your name?"

His eyes dropped down to the frail looking hand before him, then slowly, as if he couldn't decide, lifted his arm to grasp the inside of Daniel's forearm, giving him a vigorous shake.

"General Marcus Acacius."

"What the fuck?" you grumbled under your breath, rereading your brother's text.

Danny: I have a friend crashing on the couch, won't stay long

Shuffling your bag onto your other shoulder as you walked down the bustling city street, you tapped out a response.

You: It better not be Lizard.

Danny: It's not, but he's here 2

Danny: Just visiting

Fucking Lizard. You've known him since he was maybe ten years old and you were fairly certain he never matured past that age.

Given you had two extra people waiting for you in your already cramped apartment, you decided to grab a couple pizzas on the way home instead of the sushi you had been thinking about all day. Choosing to be a little selfish, you made one of them a white pizza, it being your favorite, and made your way home with the last bits of energy you had left.

Nothing could have prepared you for what you walked into that day.

You stopped dead in your tracks when you stepped into your apartment, door wide open behind you, two pizza boxes balancing in one hand as you stared blankly at the massive man standing with his back to you in the middle of the living room. He was dressed in some strange type of robe that fell just above his knee and his head was bent, looking at something on your coffee table.

When you cleared your throat, he swung around and defensively placed a hand at his waist. That was when you noticed the massive and very real looking sword at his side and your blood ran cold.

"D-Danny!" you yelled, your eyes glued to the stranger's hand. As if he finally sensed your fear, he dropped his arm and straightened up.

"Apologies-"

"Danny!" you yelled again, louder this time.

"Yeah? Hey! Sorry," Danny said, hurrying into the room with Lizard following on his heels.

"Oh, pizza? Sweet," Lizard said, reaching for the boxes and brushing past you as if an armed man wasn't standing in the middle of your home.

"Who the hell is this?!" you exclaimed, pointing towards the stranger while glaring at your brother.

"I told you already, he's a friend who's crashing on the couch for a few days," he replied, following Lizard into the kitchen, pizza the only concern at that point.

"My lady," the man began again, "please allow me to explain."

"My lady?" you repeated with a scowl. "I thought you guys stopped playing Dungeons and Dragons after high school."

"That's not -" Danny shook his head with a mouthful of pizza, "this is General Acacius."

"General?" you said quizzically, raising an eyebrow first at Danny, then towards the large man in your living room. "Be serious, Danny."

"He is!"

"I promise, what he says is true," the general chimed in, taking a step closer and stretching out his hand. You sighed and dropped your things onto your table.

"I'm too tired for this, it's been a long week."

The general frowned, hand still outstretched. "Daniel, please explain to your mistress she is not to challenge men above her lover's ranking."

You balked and gagged. "Lover?!"

"Mistress?" Danny said at the same time with a similar look of disgust. "Gross, dude, she's my sister."

Something in the general's face shifted when he learned you were siblings and he looked at you with renewed interest. "Ah, so you do not belong to another?"

You rolled your eyes and grabbed a plate, tossing a piece of white pizza on it before Danny and Lizard ate it all. "I don't have a husband, no. And that's a super sexist thing to say, I don't care if you're role playing or not."

Turning around to exit the kitchen, you were surprised to find the general somehow snuck up on you. Standing just a few feet away, you nearly ran into his strong, broad chest. He lifted a hand to tilt your chin up and whatever biting remark you had locked and loaded died on your tongue. You finally allowed yourself to get a good look at him. Dark, brooding eyes. Thick, brown curls dusted in grey, the color matching his beard. Sharp, angular nose and pouty lips.

Okay, so he was good looking. That didn't negate the weird dress and obvious mental illness.

"Your name?" he murmured softly, finger still hooked under your chin.

You cleared your throat and responded with your name, to which he nodded before dropping his hand. His gaze drifted to your plate and his nose wrinkled. "What is this you are eating?"

"Pizza?" you replied, squeezing up against your counter so you could get past him and get some space. "Help yourself."

"What is pizza?" you heard him ask Danny. You collapsed onto the couch with a groan and took a bite, fully not in the mood for whatever weird shit your brother had going on.

"It's Italian, you'll like it," Danny replied.

The three men trailed in from the kitchen to join you in the living room, your moment of peace and quiet over.

"This appears to be some bastardized version of flatbread," the general said, lifting the piece of pizza and giving it a tentative sniff. "What is this red? Some kind of pepper paste?"

"It's tomato sauce."

"Alright, enough with this bullshit please," you said, but the men ignored you.

You watched as he took a bite and almost instantly spit it out. "This is vile."

"Hey, that's authentic New York City pizza. Nothing vile about it," Lizard said. You pinched the bridge of your nose in frustration.

"General - I'm sorry, I'm not calling you that. What's your real name?"

"That is my real name," he answered, cocking his head at you from the other end of the couch.

"General Marcus Acacius," Danny told you, cursing under his breath when he dropped some cheese on his shirt.

"Okay, Marcus," you began, but he shook his head.

"It is quite inappropriate for you to -"

"I don't give a shit, I'm not calling you General like I'm in the fucking army!"

The room fell quiet as you glared at Marcus, daring him to say another word. When it became evident he wasn't going to, you took a deep breath and continued.

"If you don't like the sauce, there's another pizza in the kitchen without it. Go try that," you said, voice a little softer now. He nodded and rose to go find the white pizza, leaving just the three of you for the first time.

"What the fuck, Danny?!" you whispered angrily. "Why the hell is there a guy in a dress pretending he's a fucking general in my home?"

"He is a general," Danny whispered back. "From Ancient Rome. I'll explain everything later," he said, straightening up when Marcus's footsteps approached.

"This is far better. Thank you, my lady."

"Oh, look at that. You already have something in common," Lizard said with a fake, syrupy voice. "You both love gross pizza."

"Thought you just said authentic New York City pizza can't be gross?" you sneered.

"Boom! She got you, Lizard," Danny laughed. Marcus looked around the room, confused.

"You said your name was Victor, did you not?"

You burst out laughing, covering your mouth with a napkin.

"Lizard's just his nickname. His real name is Victor," Danny explained.

"Yeah. No one calls me Victor. Just like no one calls you Marcus," Lizard explained.

"Only those dearest to me are allowed to use that name," he explained. "Such as a parent or a lover." His eyes flickered up to you quickly before focusing on his pizza once again.

"Does that make you his lover now?" Lizard teased. You kicked a foot out and jabbed him in the hip.

"Shut up," you grumbled.

"Do you not follow the proper steps to obtain a lover in your land?" he asked, genuine curiosity painting his face. "It is much more than simply calling another by a name. If a man were to deem a woman acceptable, he would make an arrangement with her father to wed." He scratched his chin in thought for a moment before adding, "unless, of course, she is a whore."

Lizard and Danny doubled over, howling with laughter while you stared daggers at them both.

"Did I say something to warrant such laughter?" Marcus asked you. You rolled your eyes.

"No, you did not."

"Rule number one, General," Danny said, gasping for air and wiping the tears from his eyes. "Don't call girls whores."

Marcus looked taken aback.

"I meant no offense. A whore is a common profession where I am from. There is no shame in it."

"Alright, can we stop talking about whores?" you asked, exasperated.

"Yeah, good idea. Let's find you some clothes to wear and we'll set up the couch so you can sleep. It folds out, don't worry," Danny told Marcus.

"My tunic should suffice," Marcus said, glancing down at his clothes.

"Uh, not in New York, man. Might stick out a little," Lizard joked, then stood to take his plate back in the kitchen for seconds.

"Depends on what side of town you're on," you mumbled under your breath.

"You can borrow something of mine," Danny said, standing up to go to his room. "You're a little bigger than me but I think I have something that'll work."

You eyed Marcus up over your plate, taking in the finer details of his appearance. "Where are you from? Really?" you asked. He turned to you with a sigh.

"Rome."

"Come on. You can drop the act, they're gone," you said, narrowing your eyes at him.

"I promise, I am telling you the truth," he replied, his gaze boring into you so intensely that it left you spellbound for a moment. "Your brother and his comrade found me on the outskirts of the city with some... contraption. They said they would take me to Greece, however it is clear this is not Greece."

"A contraption?" you repeated nervously. Oh, fuck.

He nodded. "I had never seen anything like it. I do not know what happened but once I entered, there were bright lights and a loud crack and... I must have lost consciousness. I woke in your lounge, utterly confused."

"Shit," you whispered, putting your plate down so you could angrily scrub your face with your hands. Danny, although very irritating and far too dependent on you for basic survival, was incredibly gifted. His intelligence stunned his teachers since he was three years old. He was doing long division at five and became fluent in Spanish at seven. By the time he entered high school, he had grown extremely interested in science, where he met Lizard. For years you had witnessed failed experiments and fireballs in your backyard, but you saw all their successes, as well. Since they were fourteen, Danny and Lizard talked about time travel and you always brushed them off, even when they began to build different devices throughout the years that claimed they were on the verge of a breakthrough, but of course, nothing ever came of it.

Until now.

No, that was crazy. There's no way they actually travelled back in time to Ancient Rome and returned with a Roman general... right?

"Why were you going to Greece?" you asked, tiredly dropping your hands in your lap.

He paused for a moment and you could see the hesitation in his eyes. He opened his mouth to reply right when Danny emerged from his bedroom with an armful of different clothing options.

"We'll go shopping tomorrow and find something else that will fit," he said, sheepishly handing over the clothes. Marcus slowly reached out and set them down on the cushion next to him.

"Thank you."

"Hey, I'm gonna take off," Lizard said from the kitchen doorway.

"Yeah, alright. Hey!" Danny said, swiveling around before he left. "You'll be back tomorrow, right? I need your help with the... thing."

You narrowed your eyes in his direction but remained silent. Once Marcus was asleep, you planned on having a very heated conversation with your brother, so you saved that little tidbit for later.

"Yeah, sure thing, man."

You stood to clean up the leftovers while you listened to Danny explain the concept of a pull-out couch to Marcus, then after that, a bathroom. The more time that passed, the more nervous you became. What if this was real? Was it even possible?

Quietly, you stepped out from the kitchen. Marcus was sitting on the edge of the pull out mattress, hands clasped together between his knees as he stared blankly at the floor. For the first time, you felt bad for him. If everything he said was true, he had to have been so confused and scared.

"Hey," you said softly. He lifted his head with a jolt of surprise. "Here's some water," you said, offering him a plastic bottle. He took it and frowned. "You twist the top to open it," you explained, ignoring how ridiculous it felt to tell a grown man how to open a bottle of water.

"Thank you," he replied, setting it down on the floor next to his bed.

"Do you need anything else?"

He shook his head and gave you a small smile. "No, my lady. Thank you for your hospitality."

"You're welcome," you said shyly, inching towards the little hallway that led to your bedroom. "We'll get you back home, Marcus. Don't worry."

He swallowed and smiled again. "Of course."

You smiled back and awkwardly clapped your hands together. "Well, if you need anything at all, just knock on one of our doors."

He nodded and with a sigh, began to peel back the sheets.

"Good night, my lady," he said once your back was turned. You swiveled back around and gave him a little wave, his deep brown eyes looking breathtaking in the evening light.

"Good night."

Flustered, you knocked into the doorframe on your way back to your room. Cursing under your breath and rubbing your shoulder, you slipped behind your door, finally putting an end to your humiliation.

The next morning you sipped your coffee in your kitchen as you replayed the argument you had with Danny the night before once you were sure Marcus was asleep.

"You need to get him back home. Tomorrow, Danny," you had said sternly.

"There might be a slight hiccup with that," he replied, bracing himself for your anger. "The machine needs repairs."

"What the fuck do you mean?!" you seethed as your paced around his cluttered room.

"Don't worry, sis! We can fix it! But we just need a couple days."

"How many days?" you asked with a glare.

Danny shrugged. "Two. Three."

You sighed and pinched the bridge of your nose.

"A week, tops."

"A week?!"

"Shh! You'll wake him up!" he scolded, pointing angrily towards the door. "Lizard's coming over tomorrow, we'll get working on it right away. Something happened on impact when we returned, I didn't factor in modern day atmospheric pressure originally, but -"

"I don't give a shit what the reason is, you just need to fix it! You have no clue what the ramifications are by keeping him here! You could alter the course of history or something!"

"You watch too many movies," Danny chuckled, but quickly stopped and cleared his throat when he saw the look on your face. "I'll fix it. Promise."

The caffeine hadn't even had a chance to enter your bloodstream before Danny woke and dropped yet another problem onto your lap.

"Do you think you can take him shopping for some clothes today while me and Lizard work on this thing?" he asked as he poured cereal into a bowl.

"So now I'm running errands for you?" you snapped.

"C'mon, don't be like that," he replied as he put the carton of milk back in the fridge. The dynamic between you and your brother was wearing thin. It was always up to you to be the levelheaded one while he just allowed the wind to take him wherever it pleased, completely carefree while you harbored all the stress of basic responsibilities.

"Try to just enjoy the adventure for once," he added before messily scooping cereal into his mouth.

"Yeah, right," you grumbled under your breath before bringing your mug to your lips and taking another sip.

"So, is that a yes?"

"Fine," you said with a roll of your eyes. "If only so I can get away from this apartment and the inevitable chaos those repairs will bring. Just don't piss off my neighbors, okay?"

"Deal."

"Good day," you heard Marcus's deep voice rumble behind you. You jumped and swiveled around, gaze flickering down briefly to take in his borrowed clothes. Danny was right, he needed something that fit.

"Morning, General," Danny said with a grin. "Sleep well?"

"Surprisingly, yes. Even with all the noise outdoors... tell me, is it ever silent here?"

"No," you both said in unison. He nodded and looked down at his tunic, which was crumpled up in his fist.

"Do you have a servant I can give this to for washing?"

"That would be me," you said, stretching out your arm. Marcus hesitated for a moment.

"The lady of the house shouldn't have to perform such arduous tasks."

"I agree, yet here we are," you said, taking the tunic and tossing it over your shoulder. "I have to put in a load, anyway."

You changed your clothes and freshened up while listening to your brother scrape together some type of meal for Marcus that he found acceptable, then pressed the button on your tiny washing machine before heading back into the kitchen.

"Ready?"

Marcus glanced between you and Danny while chewing the last piece of a baguette.

"My sister's gonna take you shopping for some clothes," Danny explained. Marcus looked down at his attire and nodded.

"To the market, then?" he asked you, trailing after you as you tossed your bag over your shoulder and walked down the hallway towards the elevators.

"Something like that."

"I have plenty of denar," he said as you jabbed the call button.

"Denar?" you asked, cocking an eyebrow at him. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small leather satchel filled with unfamiliar coins. You grinned and shook your head.

"Don't worry, I got it."

"Please, your hospitality has already been gracious enough," he said, following you into the elevator when it opened.

"If you can find someone who will take that, then be my guest," you said, tapping the lobby button. He was about to say something else when the doors closed and the car violently jolted, startling him.

"What is this?"

"It's an elevator. It lifts us up and down so we don't have to take the stairs."

His jaw hung open in disbelief until the doors slid open to reveal the lobby, then he broke out into a huge smile.

"Incredible."

But once he followed you out onto the busy New York City street, peppered with pedestrians, bicyclists, couriers, and a sea of vehicles, then his eyes practically bugged out of his head.

"I see now where all the noise comes from," he said to you, raising his voice a bit over the commotion as you walked. It was actually endearing to see him experience the city for the first time, something you took for granted every day leaves most people in awe. It was easy to forget that.

"Stick close," you said with a small smile when you saw him tip his head back to gaze up at the towering skyscrapers.

"What is your profession, then?" he asked as he walked by your side. You noticed with envy that others on the sidewalk veered out of his way, his massive shoulders and hulking frame no doubt the reason, instead of brushing past him, like what most do to you every day.

"I write for a fashion magazine."

"Oh, so you're a poet?" he asked, intrigued. You shook your head with a small laugh.

"No. I write about romance in the lifestyle section. I have a column every month on a different topic and I also pick three reader questions to answer and publish on the website every week."

It was clear he hardly understood what you were talking about, so you stopped at the nearest newsstand and grabbed your magazine. After paying, you ushered him over to a bench and sat down while you thumbed through it.

"Ah! Here we go," you said, proudly handing over the magazine and tapping on the corner of the page.

"'Are Soulmates Real'?" he read aloud the title before frowning at you. You nodded.

"Yeah, I talk about the idea of soulmates and how it's putting too much pressure on the modern woman to find this perfect partner when in reality, they don't exist."

"And how do you know this?" he asked, clearly amused.

"I don't, but I wrote from experience," you shrugged.

"So, since you have not found a soulmate, that means they do not exist?"

"No, it's an opinion, Marcus," you explained, "the magazine pays me for my opinion and outlook on things."

He sighed and closed the magazine with a shake of his head. "I am sorry you feel that way."

"Are you saying you believe in soulmates?" you asked.

"Well, I cannot say one way or another from experience, but I like to believe they exist, yes."

"Do you have a wife or family waiting for you back home?" The thought hadn't even occurred to you before now and you felt guilty, but he shook his head.

"My wife died many years ago during childbirth," he said sadly, and your heart plummeted. "She was young and I had just made rank, so her father arranged our marriage in order to ensure a safe and comfortable life for his only daughter." He looked down at the magazine in his hands but he wasn't really reading it. He was too lost in thought.

"She was with child very quickly after we wed. I had not even known her a year by the time she passed, but the time I had with her was enjoyable. I thought very much one day we would learn to love one another," he said, giving you a sad smile. "Was not meant to be."

"I'm so sorry," you said softly, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. "That's horrible... I don't even know what to say."

"It was a long time ago now. I never did remarry, although I had many offers. I became entirely focused on war, fighting to keep Rome and her citizens safe. It is what I was meant to do," he said, exhaling loudly and looking around. "Is this what you feel you are meant to do?" he asked, holding up the magazine. You laughed, grateful for the change of subject.

"No, probably not."

He grinned and nodded in agreement. "Yes, I imagine you are destined for much more, my lady."

"You think so?" you asked, scrunching your nose self-consciously.

He nodded, his gaze drifting over your face solemnly.

"I do."

If elevators impressed Marcus, then the escalators within Bloomingdale's practically floored him. He was so enraptured with them that you had to nudge his shoulder to remind him to step forward before he tripped when you got to the top.

"This is unlike anything I have ever laid my eyes on," he said to you in wonder, his head rolling around on his shoulders as he gazed around at all the lights and signage.

"Yeah, Bloomingdale's is special," you said dreamily. "Sometimes I get to tag along with girls from work to pick out fashion samples for the magazine. It's always so much fun."

You led him over to the men's section and turned to study his broad frame. "You're probably an extra large," you said as you began to sift through the racks, picking out various shirts in different styles and colors and draping them over your arm. He watched you without saying a word, just occasionally feeling the material between his fingertips whenever he saw something that caught his eye. When you got to the pants, you paused and pursed your lips. Glancing around, you spotted a measuring tape left on one of the registers. Grabbing his hand in yours, you dragged him over and shoved the shirts in his arms.

"Here. Hold these while I measure your waist and inseam."

He frowned for a moment but did as you asked, then jumped when you wrapped your arms around his middle with the tape.

"Sorry, it will only take a second," you murmured, ignoring how muscular and firm he felt under your hands. You took note of the number and flushed when it came time to measure his inseam. You chewed on your lip and glanced around, searching for a worker to maybe do it instead, but none were nearby.

"Okay, I'm going to have to measure the length of your leg," you began to explain. "I need to... put my hand close to..." you trailed off and gestured vaguely towards his lap and it finally seemed to click.

"Oh," he said in surprise, glancing down. He cleared his throat and nodded but you could see the pink creeping up his neck.

"I'll be fast," you assured him, "unless you prefer I find someone else."

"No, that is quite alright," he told you, standing tall and tucking his hands behind his back. Glancing around the store once more, you fell to your knees with the measuring tape. You tried not to think about it, tried not to look, but his clothes were too snug as it was and it was right fucking there.

Jesus Christ, you had to get it together. You were not lusting after a time traveling Roman general in the middle of Bloomingdale's. But it was impossible to ignore the impressive looking bulge right at eye level.

"Okay," you said quickly, standing up so fast your head spun. "Got it, let's go."

You hurriedly dropped the measuring tape back on the counter and swiveled around, looking for men's pants while trying to hide how flustered you were. You grabbed a few pairs of jeans and khakis before adding them to Marcus's pile, and avoiding his eye, you pointed over to the corner.

"You can try them on in there."

You waited outside patiently, listening to him struggle with a zipper. You had to draw the line: there was no way you would help him with that. But when he emerged from the dressing room for approval wearing a nice fitting pair of jeans and a white polo shirt, you kind of missed those tight clothes from before. You gave him a smile and thumbs up and he grinned before stepping back into the dressing room. When he turned around and you saw his ass in those jeans, you tilted your head to the side and raised your eyebrows.

Okay, the new clothes weren't so bad, either.

You picked him out two pairs of pants, an assortment of shirts, and paid before going to the intimates floor to grab some underwear, socks, and pajamas. On the way to the men's section, you passed by some mannequins wearing lacy lingerie and robes. Marcus frowned and tugged on your elbow.

"What is that for?"

You glanced in the direction he was pointing and inwardly groaned.

"It's undergarments women wear," you explained, hoping to leave it at that, but he still had questions.

"What is the purpose of the colors if they are under your clothes?"

You sighed and pinched your nose. "It's for sex, okay?" you whispered to him, looking around quickly to make sure nobody could overhear you.

"Sex?" he repeated at full volume. You shushed him, your cheeks flaring with heat, but he just gave you a bewildered look. "Why must I be quiet?"

"We don't talk about sex in public here," you told him, voice still lowered. "It's inappropriate."

"Why on earth not?" he asked, but he kept his voice soft for your benefit as he followed you into the men's section. "Nothing is more natural or beautiful than sex."

"Yeah, well, I don't have all the answers, Marcus."

"And why would a woman drape herself in such garb? A woman's body is a work of art. It is meant to be worshiped and admired just as it is. One would not hang ornaments off a statue of Venus, so why would a woman -"

"I don't know, Marcus!" you said, grabbing a pack of boxers and then a pack of white socks. "Men just like it, I guess."

He scoffed and shook his head but chose not to say anything further when he picked up the agitation in your voice.

You paid for the rest of the clothes and handed him the bag to carry as you led him to the exit. "Are you hungry What do you usually eat around this time of day?"

"It varies. I quite like fish with some bread and cheese."

You thought about it for a moment before your face lit up and you snapped your fingers.

"I have an idea."

Right around the corner from Bloomingdale's was one of your favorite bagel places. You found a table outside and made him sit then hurried inside to order two lox bagels. You almost grabbed Diet Coke but then thought that might kill him, so instead you got two waters and met him back outside in less than ten minutes.

"Try this," was all you said, handing him a warm bagel wrapped in paper and smelling absolutely divine.

Carefully, he peeled the paper away and sniffed the bagel before taking a hesitant bite. You waited, your own bagel untouched, for his reaction. His eyes snapped up to yours and a slow smile spread across his face.

"This is magnificent."

You giggled and tore into the paper covering your own lunch. "I had a feeling you would like it. Fish, bread and cheese."

He nodded and took a bigger bite. "Very wise. Tell me," he said, wiping the corner of his mouth with a napkin. "How has no one asked your father for your hand in marriage? You are bright, strong and beautiful. I am shocked you are not taken."

You decided to let the taken comment go that time and swallowed your food before replying. "Our parents are dead, first of all. But secondly, even if someone was interested in marrying me, they wouldn't need to ask my father. They just ask the woman directly now."

He raised his eyebrows in surprise. "My apologies. I was unaware of your parents' passing."

"That's okay," you shrugged. "It was a long time ago. Danny was a teenager and I had just graduated high school." You looked up at him, realizing he wouldn't understand what that meant. "I was nineteen. I had to grow up fast and help keep an eye on Danny," you settled on saying, figuring that would sum it up enough.

He nodded and looked down at his food, quietly thinking over what you said. "Has a man ever asked for your hand?" he asked before taking another bite of food.

You laughed. "Uh, no."

"Why is that humorous?"

You sighed and glanced around. "I haven't exactly dated many winners." He cocked an eyebrow at you and you added, "I seem to only attract assholes."

"Ah," he said in understanding. "I am attracted to you. Does this make me an... asshole?"

Your eyelids fluttered and you nearly choked on your water. "W-what?"

"I said, I am attracted -"

"No, I heard you, I just needed a second to process what you said," you told him, feeling your heart beat loudly in your chest. He tilted his head at you curiously.

"Does this surprise you?"

You laughed and fanned the back of your neck nervously. "Um, yes, a little. People don't usually go around just announcing when they're attracted to someone. They're a little more subtle than that."

"Oh. Have I made you uncomfortable? I do apologize," he said, his deep brown eyes softening as he gazed at you across the table.

"It's okay, I just didn't expect it," you chuckled, waving him off and focusing on your food with a stupid smile stretched across your face. He watched you eat for a moment, the corners of his mouth twitching as he replayed what you just told him.

"You did not say if you are attracted to me," he said, drawing your attention back up to him. "Is this because you are not, or are you being... subtle?"

You grinned and shook your head. "You have a weird way of flirting."

He smiled back, the creases next to his eyes deepening. "I told you. Where I am from, sex is not something to be ashamed of. It is enjoyable and discussed often. Unless one has devoted themselves to a life of celibacy."

Definitely not, you thought. He let the subject drop as he finished the rest of his lunch and sat back in his chair, looking around at the cars inching by and beeping their horns angrily. You remained quiet for a few minutes, debating on what to say, if you should say anything at all until you finally decided fuck it.

"I'm attracted to you, too."

His head swiveled in your direction and he grinned. "Thank you," he said sincerely.

You giggled in disbelief before you said, "you're welcome."

Something had shifted between you on the walk back to your apartment. It felt so different from just a few hours ago, and it wasn't just the shocking confession over lunch. You had learned a little more about each other, let the other in and shared personal details about your lives, trusting one another with your vulnerability. And for once, you didn't feel raw and exposed. Strangely, it felt like you could trust him. Maybe it was because you knew he would be gone in a few days and it didn't feel like you had much to lose.

However, when you got off the elevator and walked toward your apartment, the sounds of power tools and shouting coming from the other side of the door, Marcus stopped you. He plucked your hand from your side and brought your knuckles to his lips, brushing over them gently while maintaining eye contact, the entire moment making your hands tremble and your heart to flutter excitedly in your chest.

"Thank you for today, my lady. I had a lovely time with you."

You smiled shyly at him and looked down at the ground.

"Me, too," you replied softly.

And it was then you realized you very much might have something to lose after all.

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[wizzard890]

Listen I know "iPhone face" is in common parlance now, but I think it's worth returning to what the phrase actually means, outside of TikTok trends. It's not that some people have faces that look like they "belong" in the 14th century, it's about how cosmetic procedures often recognizably alter actors' faces to such an extent that their looks are anachronistic.

(Strikingly beautiful people existed in all eras. The Ottoman court of Selim II had its own Zendaya; somewhere within the Aztec empire lived a man as gorgeous as Jacob Anderson, this isn't really about the hotness factor of celebrity.)

As cosmetic procedures become more common, we've gotten good at knowing when someone has had work done. Not because it's obvious, but because the result is a certain Look, particularly among people who live their lives in the public eye. And let's be real, particularly among older women. There's a ton to unpack in that as it touches pay equity and job opportunity and the freedom to do whatever you want with your own body, but that's not really what this post is about either.

I guess this post is about the first images we've gotten of Gladiator II, a movie I'm very excited about.

Has Denzel Washington had work done? Almost certainly. But he's a man, so he hasn't had to have nearly as much done, plus we're not as used to looking for cosmetic procedures in men; as a result, at age sixty-nine, he looks credibly historical in a sword-and-sandals setting.

Women actors, particularly actors of a certain age, aren't always so fortunate. And I'm not talking about botched procedures, or even visible procedures. I'm talking about the sameness of the result, the plumpness and smoothness demanded of older women.

I don't want to include the Vanity Fair photo of the lovely fifty year old Connie Nielsen, also in Gladiator II, because this shouldn't be a conversation about the appearance of a particular woman. But we all know what good filler looks like! And we also know that no women in ancient Rome or Georgian England or medieval France had that look.

There's no real conclusion here, it just bums me out how often I'm watching a historical drama and a sixty year old woman, an actor of presence and skill and experience, has a face that just pushes me right out of the scene. This is no actor's fault, and it doesn't undercut their talent or that of the filmmakers, but it's a damn shame.

[lucky-clover-gazette]

my favorite moments from theamandafiles’s confrontation with volo. this is an adult woman talking to a screen for 7+ minutes and im obsessed with it. the dynamic she’s made up in her head for this game is so far from what’s actually happening, but also absolutely fantastic. the sneasler rant has nothing on this.

transcript under the cut:

He is so passionate about his thing, about his special interest. He really is. I am constantly losing my grip on reality. I have no room to judge Volo for a little bit of unhinged laughter and some mildly insane musings.

Hmm? Sorry, I just. I think I just realized what's going to happen. Sorry. Am I an idiot?

That was your—that was you who did the hole in the sky. Okay, mhm, all right. I got blamed for that, Volo, I don't know if you knew that. It's fine. Honestly, it's fine. Just let's keep, let's keep learning more about Volo.

Right, yeah, we did that! We did that, Volo, right? Didn't we fuckin' do that? Why don't we donate them to a museum or something? Wouldn't that be sick? Would that be fuckin' awesome if we put them in a museum for all to see?

What's—what's this? Hey, what the fuck? Who's this? Is this a prank? Surely, with the hair. Because I did not just see that you have a fuckin' Arceus hairdo.

Oh, okay! Volo's crazy! Right, right. Look at the fucking hair. Yeah! No, Volo's fucking crazy—yeah, no, he's a deranged lunatic.

Actually, yeah. Look at his eyes, oh my god. Volo's going to kill me and then cook and eat my remains. It's. It's fine. I'm fine.

Pokemon Wielder Volo? You mean (voice cracks) Gingko Guild Merchant?

You know what, Volo? I'm crazy, too. Look, I can match this. Like you said, when you said you were going to wipe out Jubilife City, I'm all for that. I am all for that. Absolutely! Yes! Let's do it. We can make this work. I am not invested in helping these people. Yeah, we live in a society? Not for long, am I right?

Just, I looked at the costume again. And his hair. He—he did his hair, you guys. And it's... bad.

First and foremost, what the fuck are you wearing? Literally, I keep looking at it. And the more you look, it's like, the more you look, the more you see.

I'm just really unpacking this... as I kick his ass. Anyway, where was I, Volo? Let me just continue to fuck you up. Volo is really doing this. Volo is really doing this. He's doing it in green pants.

He method acted an entire love story between us. Yeah, he is that crazy. He's that crazy, that he's going to let me slip through his fingers. Are you sure, Volo? You really sure? Maybe, like, that was your plan at first. Because if I may be so bold, uh, it's actually not even fucking possible for anyone to spend as much time with me as you have without falling in love with me.

Like I said, I said it before, and I will stand by that—and I'm about to beat you, by the way—

Call me. Call me, Volo! Oh wait, you can't, because we live in the fucking past, and you don't have a phone. And I do. Mhm, yeah. You know, you can't call me on your arc phone because Arceus didn't give you an arc phone, did he? Oh, poor Volo. He did his hair like Arceus and everything. And for what? Right. It was probably the green pants, Volo, honestly. And the gladiator sandals, what the fuck are you doing?

What the fuck was I thinking? God, why do I always go for these crazy ass fucking men?

I don't want to be picked by Arceus! If anything, I wanted to be picked by you! But unfortunately, I'm amazing. And Arceus loves me. I'm sorry that your little fucking hairdo didn't work to impress Arceus, and that all I had to do was literally exist and Arceus stanned the hell out of it.

What, are you going to kill me? He's going to kill me with a knife now just to get me out of the way. Like, what the hell, why does everybody want to fucking kill me?! I get it. I'm the best. I'm amazing. I'm the best that ever was. But murder is illegal, okay?

What is this? Are you fucking kidding me? What is this act? Oh, my god. Volo... this is very camp.

Volo is fucking crazy. Did I even get to heal these motherfuckers? Am I supposed to catch this motherfucker? This Satan ass Pokemon. This is Satan, I guess. And he came to, like, pull up for fucking Volo. Why? The hair? Was it the hair?

Finally, I got, like, a word in edgewise. Finally. Acorn, take this motherfucker out. Yeah. This is embarrassing for you. You're a God Pokémon? Where? You could have fucking fooled me, Giratina.

I do find it very inspiring that my little tugboat-ass Jay Jay the Jet Plane Togekiss, like, ended your entire bloodline. Mhm, yeah.

Volo! Oh, honey, sweetie, are you okay? Are you going to be okay?

He's fucking crazy. He's so crazy, Volo, I fucking love your crazy ass... but this is toxic of me to say, so, I hate it. I hate you. What was I talking about? Yeah. No, you're such a bad guy. You're the bad guy, Volo. I didn't even read that, fuck.

I know, Volo. Believe me, I would have agreed with you when those motherfuckers kicked me out in Jubilife City. I would have agreed if you had come to me then and you would've said, "Let's take down the whole fucking world. Let's end the entire planet." I would have said, "Okay. Yeah. Oh, yeah. Hell, yeah. That's exactly what I want to do right now." But you didn't. And now I'm here, and I'm... being noble, and I'm going to say, "You better stop, because this is not okay. Cut it out."

I'm crazy too, Volo, I'm so fucking crazy. I'm so unhinged, I'm crazy, nobody understands the inner workings of my mind, Volo, you don't get it.

This is your last chance to scoop me up as your partner. Honestly, Volo. That's what it is. I would fix your hair, I would. We would go back to the salon—to the salon!—I would fix it up. It's not that bad. It just needs a little shaping.

(Deep sigh) Volo, you could have had it all. I would have been your crazy bitch. We could have been Bonnie and Clyde, Volo. And we still can, honestly, if you say the word. And let me fix your hair. And also your outfit.

So I also just want to say really quickly, I noticed that you had a Togekiss, and that means that your Togepi that you had in the beginning evolved to a Togekiss. But in order to do that, I think you need to love your Togapi. So it's like, you do—you did have the capacity to love someone.

He's fucking unhinged. He's deranged, he's crazy. Like, why did his eyes go crazy like that? What the fuck?

He actually looks so good right now, like, minus the hair. The hair is so bad. Volo, that is the one and only reason Arceus did not choose you. Honestly, that's all it comes down to. Easy as that!

But I'm putting my thumb actually, on the—I'm putting it on the screen, over the weird part of your hair? I'm begging you. Let's destroy society together. Come on.

That's so sad, he's, like, hanging up his hat. Actually, please put the hat back on. He's giving me something—he's giving me the plate. Spooky plate. Yeah, that's for sure. That's for damn sure, Volo.

Why do you suddenly look so good? You know, you look deranged and crazy like a fucking lunatic. And I could have swore you off forever, but now you look so cute and good. And I'm like, what the fuck were you thinking, Volo? You threw it all away for what, the arc phone? Bitch. It's really not even that good of a phone. Honestly, there's, like, no games on it.

I don't know. I figured like, a true Arceus fanboy would be impressed and enamored by the girl who Arceus is simping for this hard. Like, if you were to date me, I'd literally bring you with me to meet Arceus, and you'd be able to live your stupid little dream.

Although I will say, for someone who so deeply wants me to fail, you giving me that last plate, that spooky plate... I dunno. It's just kind of interesting, and I am reading into it. Yes.

Volo you are fucking out of your mind. You're crazy. I tell you, you're fucking insane. Somebody wheel him off. Seriously, what the fuck? He's going out in public looking like that.

[xdaddysprincessxx]

A God Among Men

General Marcus Acacius x f!palace worker

Warnings: 18+ only. Kissing, touching, sexual tension 😏

A/n: oops I fell and my pussy accidentally wrote this 😬🤷🏻‍♀️ I will not apologize for it. This is soft, sweet, tension filled. Wrote this quickly. Not edited or beta’d. Please enjoy!

The Roman sun beat down as the gladiators fought each other to the death. The loud roar of the crowd made for background noise in the bathhouse where you work. It’s your duty to service the gladiator who comes out victorious. You clean their scrapes, dress their wounds, aid them into the bath and help clean the dirt and grime off. You are currently keeping busy by folding the clean linen and putting it away for the victor. There’s been one gladiator in particular that’s been quite victorious for awhile now. If memory serves you right, the emperor made him a general. His wide honey brown eyes forever looking at you as though you are the sun in his universe. The two of you never exchange any spoken words, he simply strips his armor off and lets you get to work fixing him up. Deep down you hope he wins today.

The crowd seemingly gets louder, alerting you that a gladiator has been victorious over the rest. You quickly move to stand to the side of the open doorway, clasping your hands together in front of you, bowing your head down as you await the victor.

After several long minutes you hear footsteps coming closer. Your heartbeat rushes into your ear drums and blocks out all outside noise as your nerves are set ablaze in wait. As your head is bowed, the sandaled feet of the gladiator walks into your view. You stay where your at, not lifting your head as the gladiator walks past you into the bathhouse. Keeping your eyes cast down, you close the doors and turn around to walk towards the gladiator when you walk right into the man’s chest. Your head immediately pops up as your eyes lock on the honey brown eyes that haunt you.

“General. I I’m s-“

“Take my armor off, dulcissimus (sweetest).” His voice scruff and gravelly as he spoke as gently as one can after braving such battles.

Your lips tighten as you shake your head, casting your eyes down as your hands get to work lifting his chest piece up and over his head. You quickly get the armor off when you realized all that’s left is his tunic. Your movements stutter ever so slightly before you go to grab the bottom of his tunic to lift up.

Marcus’ hand reaches for your face as he lifts your chin with his fore finger and thumb, Making you look up into his eyes.

A look of longing, of desperation on his face as his eyes searched yours. An unseen force seemingly pulling your face closer to his, noting how his lips part. You blink a few times in quick succession as if snapping yourself out of this trance before you get back to undressing the general. His hand falling away from your face, almost in disappointment. You lift his tunic up and over his head, the general now naked as the day he was born standing before you. You take a step back as you painfully notice how close you’ve been standing next to him.

Before you realize it, Marcus is making quick work of pushing your own tunic off your shoulder and pushing it down, his own body moving down with it, revealing your own body to his eyes.

Crouching down in front of you, he looks up, eyes wider than you’ve ever seen them,

“Please” he asks in a soft whisper, almost sounding like a plea but still firm enough it sounds like an order.

You gulp down before shaking your head. He stands up, grabbing your hand in his as he turns and walks toward the bath.

He starts to descend down the stone steps going into the warm water. The bath itself built into the stone floor, with a stone shelf around the perimeter for those bathing to have a seat and relax. As your feet hit the bottom, the water coming up about an inch above your belly button.

Marcus sits on the far side, spreading his legs and pulling you forward to stand in between his muscular thighs. Unsure of what to do you grab a sponge sitting next to the edge and dipping it in the floral scented water. Bringing it up to his face you begin to wipe off the dirt and grime. Gently washing his face and working your way down to his neck. The air surrounding you, thick with a sweet tension that’s just begging to be cut.

Marcus’ hand comes up and cups your face as his other hand finds your hip, gliding across your skin to your butt. Giving your cheek a squeeze.

“Dulcissimus (sweetest), look at me.”

Your eyes drift up to his, feeling the pull you lean in. Feeling terrified your misreading this but wanting to know how he tastes, needing to know how his lips feel. Taking a deep breath you close your eyes and lay your lips against his. Dropping the sponge into the water, your hand goes up, your fingers combing into his brown curls.

He quickly deepens the kiss, pressing his lips back against yours with a certain intensity. Almost ferocious in a way. His tongue on your bottom lip, asking for entrance. And you gladly grant him permission. He pulls you close to him, one arm around your back as the other hand still on your face as he keeps to pressed against him. Tongues greeting each other, finding their own rhythm, dancing with each other as your other hand roams over his broad shoulder. Snaking your arms around his neck, holding onto him as you bend your knee, sliding your leg against his.

The doors slam open as two of the emperors guards come storming in. You jump back, quickly pulling your arms off of him as you try to cover yourself from the intruders.

“General Acacius, Emperor Geta has requested you meet with him at once. Urgent matter.”

Marcus sits there, a dark storm clouds his once bright eyes. A scowl deepens on his face as he just stares right ahead, not really looking at anything or anyone.

“Of course. Don’t want to keep emperor Geta waiting.”

Marcus gets up and walks to the stairs, getting out of the bath and toweling off before throwing a clean tunic on. You start to shiver as you continue to stand in the water. The temperature has nothing to do with the chills you have running down your spine but more so the general and how coldly he turned.

He walked toward the open door where the guards waited and he turned his head back, looking at you.

You lock eyes if only for a second before he faces forward and follows the men.

Feeling incredibly dejected you get out and redress as quick as you can. Cleaning up the mess left behind before going back to your room.

Living in the palace itself, down where the other palace workers lived. You had a beautiful small room all to yourself. As the sun started to set as you laid down on your bed, trying with all your might to forget those honey brown eyes that haven’t left your mind since the events of earlier when a knock comes.

Getting up to answer, trying to figure out who would be calling at this hour. You open the door to reveal a guard.

It looks like one of the men from earlier.

“Come with me girl.”

He says with a grunt.

You close your bedroom door behind you as you follow behind him, when he takes right turn leading you upstairs where the royals live. Your mind adrift as you try to think of where he could possibly be taking you.

[harpersessentials]

i have been working on a little special trip with my harpers and i decided to explore the trip to egypt mod by nando. suddenly, the urge to have ancient egypt related cc (pharaos, pyramids, mummies...) became a thing. so i present you a selection of cc that i liked particularly. i hope it can help you in the future if you wish to explore a north african landscape in your sims game too.

p.s. all bullets with * mean it is a TSR link.

worlds & save files

trip to egypt (world modification) by nando

egyptian oasis save file by sims 4 collab

the sims medieval save by divan the simmer (oasis springs was turned into ancient egypt)

lots (no-cc)

trip to egypt lot by genkai haretsu*

maroccan mansion by mychqqq*

morocco by sharon337*

egyptian palace gardens by weekendbuilder

moroccan riad by weekenbuilder

egyptian bathhouse by beccatownsims

egyptian cocktails by camillevalentine

egyptian pyramid home by buddaguitarz

egyptian pyramid by oscarella

egyptian pyramid by kimmyal

ancient egyptian tomb by cutelilycat333

egyptian house alone by bankbest19482

super mansão marroquina by ac sims (dl here)

moroccan dream home by mr olkan (dl here)

moroccan oasis by amaranth sims stop motion (dl here)

maroccan riad by nolanasims

maroccan riad spa by nolanasims

maroccan house by nolanasims

maroccan souk by nolanasims

maroccan hammam hotel by nolanasims

maroccan house by nolanasims

arabian villa by the grim simmer (dl here)

tunisian house by simday

dream arabic villa by marmelad (dl here)

oasis retreat by sati sim

mansão marroquina by game simms (dl here)

the pyramids by sarahamina

ancient pyramid by virtualfairytales*

buy mode

egyptian stuff by sims 4 fun

egyptian relics by thejim07

a cat haiku by pforestsims

hair

hathor hair by sehablasimlish*

sahara sunset collab by savvysweet (part) /crypticsim/simtric

amani hair by alladin

monica hair by alladin

candice hair by alladin

ivy hair by simkatu

makeup & tattoos

egypt eyeliner by ngsims3*

treasures of hateshepsut by joliebean

grave digger - zobie facepaint by imtater

zombie stitches by pipco*

zombie skin overlay by imtater

princess ahmanet by overkillsimmer

agnes facepaint by magichand*

clothing

egyptian dress by tatyana name*

missandrei dress and cape by simmring

missandrei outfit by sifix

missandrei dress by sifix*

nemesis dress by sifix*

necklace top and panneled skirt by bustedpixels

cleo de nile outfit by colores urbanos*

mummy outfit 2 by pipco*

terses outfit by natalia auditore

pharaoh outfit 2 by natalia auditore

clothing for men ancient egypt by mara

mummy outfit by plumbobs n fries*

toddler egyptian formal dress by bekahluann*

egyptian robe for kids by bekahluann*

pyramid pals: egyptian kids set by clepsydra

accessories

spring/summer 2021 earrings by sentate

twisted alongated hoops by feyona*

keondra earrings by feyona*

medusa earrings by bluecraving

ariana earrings by solistair

coil necklace by bokchoijo*

egyptian collar necklace & males by bokchoijo*

egyptian bead collar necklace by bokchoijo*

keondra plate necklace by feyona*

helena necklace by feyona*

serpentine necklace by icecreamforbreakfast

leaves necklace by valley tulya

egypt snake upper arm tires by specialany

egyptian bangles by bokchoijo*

keondra cuff bracelets by feyona*

serpentine bracelet by icecreamforbreakfast

ds cuff bracelet by darknightt*

urmia rings by madlen

bandage set by nell

mummeh set by pinkpatchy

shoes

adriana feet by madlen*

life's a beach ibiza sandals by lvndrcc*

volos shoes by madlen*

babylon shoes by madlen*

gaspare sandals by madlen*

niella platform sandals by darknight*

gladiator sandals by clepsydra

jw sandals by mauvemorn*

premade sims

nikare & cat by jazmilia

egyptian cat by ratatanpan

[bitter69uk]

Born on this day 96 years ago: that wondrous physical specimen, 1950s beefcake Adonis Ed Fury (né Rupert Edmund Holovchik, 6 June 1928 - 24 February 2023). Fury also occasionally acted (his filmography includes Abbott and Costello Go to Mars (1953) and Wild Women of Wongo (1958)). He’s also one of the bevy of semi-nude muscle men who cavort in tiny flesh-coloured shorts with Jane Russell in her “Ain’t There Anyone Here for Love?” musical number in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes (1953). Later, he triumphantly transitioned to Italian “sword and sandal” or “peplum” gladiator films like Colossus and The Amazon Queen (1960) and Ursus (1961). Fury also, of course, posed “undraped” for male pinup photographers like Bruce of LA and Bob Mizer of Athletic Model Guild.

[jungle-angel]

First Day Funny Business (Rhett Abbott x Reader)

Summary: You had hoped that even though it was Amy's first day of school, that she would sleep in

A set of tiny little feet padded their way into your shared bedroom, hurrying with excitement. Rhett was still snoring the morning away covered only by the thin bedsheet and the turned down covers at his feet.

Amy bounded into the room, practically jumping right on top of Rhett and eliciting a groan from the deeply sleeping cowboy. "Daddy! Daddy! Uppie!" she cried. "Uppie! It's almost time for school!"

"Don't wanna go to school, Pumpkin," he groaned. "Ten more minutes."

"Mommy says you gotta get up," Amy informed him.

Rhett jokingly laid his dead weight into the mattress as Amy tried to pry him off of it, herself in turn, rolling off the bed with a yelp and a loud thump onto the floor, taking most of the bedsheet with her.

"Shit!" Rhett hissed when the cold air from the air conditioning hit him along with the realization that he was still in his tight black boxers. Thank God he hadn't been naked......that would have had Amy either asking questions or running around telling the differences between men and women.

"Alright Doodlebug," Rhett yawned. "C'mon downstairs and eat."

A madly giggling Amy raced down the steps with Rhett trailing slowly behind until he found himself in the kitchen with you. "Good morning Frankenstein," you joked, turning over the apple cinnamon pancakes you had been cooking.

Rhett grunted in response, doing his best Frankenstein impression before rubbing the grog off his face. He kissed your lips before grabbing a plate and sitting next to Amy.

"You excited sweet pea?" he asked, digging into the pancakes.

"Yeah," she chirped happily.

You listened to Rhett going back and forth with Amy, the two boys in your belly kicking up a storm at the scent of the pancakes and the chatter in the kitchen. Hannah, your two year old, came waddling in a minute later with her pink blankie and her hair sticking up at weird angles. Rhett lifted Hannah into his lap and kissed her pretty little cheeks, making her giggle as the stubble from his jaw tickled her sensitive skin.

"Alright, Doodlebug," Rhett said when he noticed the time on the digital stove clock. "Eat that last bite and then go get dressed."

Amy scarfed down the last bite of her pancakes and hurried upstairs to go get herself dressed. Sure as shit, she had picked out one of the outfits you and Rhett had gotten for her, a pretty little dark grey t-shirt with a big turquoise butterfly on it and the cute little denim shorts with the lacy trim around the legs. Amy even managed to get her little brown gladiator sandals onto her feet which flapped all over the hardwood floors in the halls.

"C'mon princess," Rhett told her, opening the door to the truck and buckling her in. He set her backpack down on the seat beside her, happy that her blanket and her circus clown plushie were already in her bag.

Rhett helped you in a minute later once Cecelia had come to look after Hannah. She gave Amy a kiss and wished her good luck and so didn't Royal, snapping a few pictures before the three of you had to be off. Amy waved to her grandparents until you had gotten all the way to the bottom of the driveway and turned onto the road that would only be a short, fifteen minute ride to the school.

"You good to go for today?" Rhett asked you.

"As far as lessons go? Yes," you told him. "Physically and mentally? That's debatable."

Rhett chuckled a little, finally pulling into the little Waldorf School that lay right in the middle of the woods, just up the path from the main school where you taught. Rhett had known almost every single teacher at the place whether it was from having to repair farm equipment, deliver calves and foals in the middle of the night or even from bartering with one another, Rhett knew almost the entire teaching faculty.

Rhett parked in the dirt lot and helped you out first, making sure you weren't hindered by your bump. Amy jumped out once she was unbuckled and the three of you walked right up the path to the little building where Claire O'Donnell was waiting for her.

"Good morning Miss Amy," Claire greeted cheerfully, shaking Amy's little hand. "How are you this morning?"

"Good," Amy chirped.

"Come on in sweetheart," Claire told her, shooing her inside the building to see her other teachers and classmates who were just beginning to arrive. "Now here's two other faces I haven't seen all summer."

"Claire, how are ya?" Rhett greeted, shaking her hand.

"Wonderful, wonderful," she laughed. "Listen, Rhett, Brian was asking if your father still had a gas can for us to use? The tractor has no fuel and we couldn't get downtown to get any yesterday."

"Yeah, stop on by whenever ya'll get a chance and we'll lend you some," Rhett answered. "Chances are, it'll either be me or Wes Redwood ya'll see out front."

"Oh thank you, you're an absolute lifesaver," Claire answered. "And just know that if you or your family need anything from us in return, just ring the doorbell and we'll do the same."

You and Rhett both bid her farewell before saying one last goodbye to Amy, Rhett and her forming a little heart with their hands before he walked you up the path to where the grade and high schools were located.

"Don't work too hard sweetheart," he said before he kissed you.

"You know I won't," you teased him before heading off.

The realization that Amy was finally in preschool didn't hit him until Rhett was driving home and Cecelia saw him step outta the truck with tears in his eyes.

"You ok Grumpy?" she asked him.

"Can't believe Doodlebug's growin up," he croaked, hugging his mother.

"I know sweetie, I know," Cecelia chuckled. "First days are always toughest."

Rhett laughed and followed his mother into the house to gather up whatever he needed for the day and to go help Wes. He left the house, heading for the truck once more to make his way over to the Granite Trail Reservation, turning only to see his mother and Hannah standing in the window, waving goodbye. Rhett didn't need to really hold back his emotions, but felt immense pride in his family, just as he was always meant to.

[islwyn-the-heartless]

The Call to Battle

A/N: Just a little something... A while ago I was thinking about him and wrote an izzy fic of him killing someone when he was still a gladiator

---

Title: The Call to Battle

Summary: Islwyn Blackrock is a gladiator known for his ruthless fighting style. He enters the arena to cheers from the crowd and is determined to keep his place.

Words: 2,461

CW for violence, and izzy literally killing someone ig

The deafening roar of the crowd echoed through Islwyn's thoughts as he strode onto the arena floor. Coarse sand crunched beneath his sandals, sending trails of dust swirling around him. Towering stone walls rose high above, their monolithic forms casting long shadows that stretched across the expansive battleground. Islwyn let his gaze wander over the faces in the stands, taking in the mix of emotions flickering across spectators from all walks of life.

Some watched with gleaming eyes, practically vibrating in their seats with pure excitement. For them, the arena was more than just entertainment - it was primal, it was visceral. It allowed them to escape, if only for a moment, from the rigours of everyday life in a rapidly changing world. Others observed with practised nonchalance, as if the violence on display meant little more than a distraction from tedious matters of politics and commerce. A few among the nobility even looked bored, regarding the proceedings as little more than primitive savagery unworthy of their scholarly minds.

And scattered throughout were those whose frenzied anticipation bordered on bloodlust, hanging on the warriors' every clash of steel with a hungry fixation. Islwyn felt a pang of disgust at their unbridled thirst for mayhem, but he brushed it aside. This was his arena, where he had built a reputation as one of the deadliest fighters to ever grace the sands. Today, that reputation would be put to the test like never before.

The metallic screech of gates being drawn open pulled Islwyn's attention back to the matter at hand. His opponent had arrived, and by the escalating roar of the spectators, this was no ordinary challenger. Muscles tensed in anticipation, Islwyn turned to face the shadowy entranceway, bracing himself for what was to come.

A hulking silhouette emerged from the gloomy passageway, its sheer mass blocking out what little sunlight filtered in from overhead. Islwyn stiffened as inch by inch, the figure stepped into the light - and it was all he could do to stop his hands from trembling at the sight. This warrior wasn't just legendary, he was downright monolithic, a veritable mountain of corded muscle and scar tissue.

Grimmjaw the Ruthless lived up to his moniker, radiating an aura of brutal prowess that caused even the boldest onlookers to shrink back in their seats. A bristling mane of dark hair framed a face that was all harsh angles and cruel sneers, bearing the marks of countless violent encounters. And in his massive palms rested an axe the size of a grown man, its chipped edge glinting hungrily.

If the roar of the crowd had been deafening before, it was now approaching apocalyptic levels. Men and women alike screamed themselves hoarse, some calling for Grimmjaw in savage devotion while others remained loyal to Islwyn's cause. Money and jewellery changed hands wildly as last-minute bets were placed, gambling on which warrior would emerge the victor from this epic clash.

Islwyn took a deep, steadying breath as Grimmjaw joined him in the centre of the combat zone. They circled slowly, sizing one another up while thousands of rapt onlookers hung on their every motion. Islwyn's eyes roved over his hulking adversary, analysing every inch for potential weaknesses to exploit. But Grimmjaw was a perfect specimen, without any discernible flaws to target. His rugged physique rippled with coiled power, giving the impression of a wild beast barely kept in check by its own flesh and sinew.

Their eyes met, and Islwyn saw nothing but cold calculation behind Grimmjaw's predatory gaze. Whatever humanity may have once existed in the man had long since been beaten out of him, leaving only a remorseless engine of destruction hungry for bloodshed. Grimmjaw's lip curled in barely restrained malice, as if daring Islwyn to make the first move and hasten his demise.

Islwyn schooled his features, refusing to give his opponent the satisfaction of seeing fear. He knew Grimmjaw, like any true warrior, fed off the vulnerability of others. But Islwyn had faced too many challenges, endured too much pain, to crumble under mere intimidation. His hands tightened around the shaft of his morningstar, fingers calloused and thickened from countless battles. This would be his greatest test yet, but fall he would not.

The deafening clamour of the spectators swelled like a physical force, pressing in from all sides as the warriors continued their tactical gauging. Behind Grimmjaw's impassive mask, Islwyn sensed a well of simmering violence barely contained, the primal urges of a killer through and through. But underneath the facade of ruthless ferocity, he glimpsed another emotion - one that caused his stomach to twist uncomfortably.

Loathing, bare and vengeful, simmered just below Grimmjaw's cold eyes. Whatever personal history lay between them, matters of past wrongs and perceived slights, it lent an extra layer of toxicity to their imminent duel. This fight would be about more than pride or victory - for Grimmjaw, it was personal.

And in that moment, Islwyn knew true fear. Grimmjaw fought not just to win, but to destroy completely. Any mercy or restraint would be nonexistent in the barbarism to come. Only one of them would walk away intact, while the other left broken and defeated. Yet despite the terror writhing in his gut, Islwyn straightened to his full height and stared his foe down, letting no weakness show. This was it - the moment of truth before an onslaught that would test his limits like never before.

The two combatants tensed, coiled springs waiting to unleash pent-up violence. Breaths slowed as focus intensified, tuning out the screams and cheers of the bloodthirsty audience. Time itself seemed to slow to a crawl, the whole arena holding its collective breath. In the space between one heartbeat and the next, some unseen signal passed between grizzled opponents.

As one, they lunged with savage grace, Islwyn whirling his spiked flail while Grimmjaw swung his mammoth axe in a punishing arc. The impact shook the arena to its foundations, a colossal BOOM that silenced even the rowdiest spectators in stunned disbelief. Then pandemonium erupted as their gleaming weapons sang in a lethal dance, carving arcs of silver through the muggy air.

Blow met block in a cacophony of clanging steel, the force of each collision jolting bone-deep. Islwyn pivoted and spun in a graceful whirlwind, morningstar lashing out with the speed of a striking snake. Grimmjaw lumbered behind his shielding axe, meeting each strike head-on with shocking resilience. Their battle was a skillful display that enthralled the masses, two masters pushing each other to new limits through violence alone.

Blood began to flow as nicks and cuts accumulated, sprinkling the sands below in droplets that darkened the ground. Islwyn felt a sting along his ribs that heralded the first touch of Grimmjaw's axe, slipping past his guard for just a moment. A strangled grunt escaped at the sharp sting, but he didn't slow, retaliating with a two-handed swing that jolted Grimmjaw's shoulder with an audible crack.

The larger man roared in pain and fury, a blood curdling sound that lifted the hairs on Islwyn's nape. Pure animosity radiated from Grimmjaw's bulging frame as he redoubled his assault, axe moving with inhuman speed. Islwyn retreated step by step, parrying and weaving around the barrage as best he could. Sweat poured in rivulets down his corded muscles from the concentrated effort, making his iron grip slippery.

Their dance of destruction carried them across the ring, tracing chaotic patterns through the dust. Grimmjaw crowded Islwyn towards the chain link fence separating spectators from combat, manoeuvring to pen him in. But Islwyn proved as agile as any cornered animal, using the barrier to launch himself sideways in a spinning manoeuvre. His morningstar whistled through the air and slammed into Grimmjaw's unprotected flank with a meaty crunch, tearing scarlet furrows in his flesh.

Grimmjaw bellowed in agony, features twisting into something downright demonic. Blood streamed from the ragged gashes, already staining the sand crimson beneath his boots. Yet through sheer force of will, he refused to fall, counter attacking with a two-handed overhead smash meant to cleave bone. Islwyn snapped his weapon up just in time, the jolting impact sending spikes of pain shooting up both arms.

Locking eyes, they saw only merciless reflections of themselves - savage killers intent on spilling the other's lifeblood, no matter the cost. This wasn't a simple battle any longer, but a clash of wills, a test of which held the firmest grip on survival. Around them, the spectators were reduced to an incomprehensible din, their frenzied vibrations blending into the primal rhythm dictating the warriors' movements.

Time and again steel met with ear-splitting clangs, a blistering exchange that left no room for rest or recovery. Battered and heaving, Grimmjaw and Islwyn poured all their strength, skill and concentrated Islwyn and Grimmjaw continued their brutal clash, pushing past surging waves of fatigue as their limbs grew leaden. All reason had fled in the throes of battle madness, primal instincts taking over completely.

Grimmjaw snarled and snapped like a feral beast, crimson spittle flying from his lips with each crazed swing. His muscles spasmed and buckled, yet still he fought on through sheer willpower alone. Across from him, Islwyn panted heavily, vision tunnelling down to Grimmjaw's form. Every jarring impact left him reeling, yet he could not - would not - back down.

Their circling footsteps traced a frenzied spiralling pattern through the sand-strewn arena floor. At the centre, spatters of blood mingled amid the dust to form a macabre whirlpool of violence. Spectators screamed themselves hoarse with each blow exchanged, some standing on precarious perches atop the barrier walls to get a better view of the savage spectacle unfolding below.

Gambling fortunes changed hands faster than ever amid a dizzying blur of activity. Nobles shouted colourful insults and encouragement down at the fighters, caught up in carnal thrills untouchable in more civilised circles. Common folk waved banners and tossed coloured powders into the air, representing their favoured warrior in a riotous display.

Through it all, the combatants plunged ever deeper into a private hell forged from steel and sweat, every remaining shred of thought drowned out under an overwhelming flood of instinct. Survival itself had become the sole motivating force, primal directive screaming louder than any rational voice left in their frayed minds.

Something had to give. After what felt like an eternity, Grimmjaw slipped - just slightly, a twitch of his boot sole in drying sand. But it was all the opening Islwyn needed, summoning his last vestiges of strength for a decisive counter. His morningstar whipped through the air in whistling arcs, all his remaining weight behind the swing. It connected with a nauseating crunch, bone splintering under the force of multi-pronged metal.

Grimmjaw reeled backwards with an agonised roar, dropping his axe to clutch his blood-spurting skull. Islwyn snarled and followed through, swinging his spent weapon again and again in a brutal onslaught. Each hit struck like thunder, pulverising Grimmjaw's massive frame. The larger man wavered on his feet, bulk trembling on the verge of collapse.

Then finally, after one last devastating blow, Grimmjaw's knees buckled. He crashed face-first into the pulpy sand, still as death. An unnatural stillness fell over the arena in his abrupt cessation of movement, shock stealing words from thousands of throats at once. Islwyn stood over the prone form, heaving for breath as his morningstar slipped from nerveless fingers.

For a suspended moment, nobody dared make a sound. Then as one, the spectators found their voices once more in an explosion of noise that nearly shook dust from the rafters high above. The roar was deafening - part hysteria, part admiration, colliding into an overwhelming din that lifted Islwyn's fatigue if only for an instant. He tossed his head back and let loose a primal howl of triumph, claiming victory in the only language that truly mattered within these bloodstained walls.

All around, cheers rang out with abandon. Betting sums exchanged hands at breakneck speeds, fortunes made and lost on this singular battle's outcome alone. Colourful celebratory powders rained down in hued torrents, bathing Islwyn and the still form at his feet in bizarre rainbow hues. Hands pounding against the barrier walls sent vibrations through solid stone like thunder without end.

Islwyn drank it all in, fatigue burning away under exultation's glow. This was what he lived for - the thrill, the adrenaline, the savage glory of emerging on top against impossible odds. Nothing compared to standing in triumph over a seemingly unconquerable foe, with thousands chanting your name in awe and fervour. Here, in this arena, he had truly lived.

As the adrenaline began to fade, weariness swept over Islwyn in a crushing wave. His battered muscles trembled with exertion, knees threatening to give out at any moment. Only his iron will held him upright as the deafening cheers of the crowd washed over him.

He took a final moment to bask in the adulation, letting the roar of the spectators rush through his veins like the richest vintage. Victory was as sweet as the finest nectar, reaffirming his place at the pinnacle of the gladiatorial world. But now, the time had come to exit this brutal stage.

With an almighty effort, Islwyn dragged his morningstar from the ground and lifted it high, eliciting another surge of hysterical cheering. Sand peeled away in grimy flakes as he turned to take his leave, the effort staggering on legs that wanted only to buckle. Each step felt like wading through quicksand, and dark spots swam before his vision. Only decades of hard knocks kept him moving forward through sheer force of will alone.

Finally, blessedly, the entrance gates loomed ahead like the gates of paradise itself. Islwyn stumbled through with a last surge, immediately sagging against the stone walls of the passage beyond with a grunt. Shadows embraced him kindly, masking his weaving form from thousands of still-baying spectators. But the roar followed, echoing endlessly down the tunnel long after the massive gates rumbled closed, sealing him in privy silence at last.

In the dim light, Islwyn allowed his façade to crack, slumping fully against the wall. His heaving breaths echoed raggedly off lacquered stone, mingling with the throbbing din inside his skull. Every muscle screamed for respite after the brutal ordeal, wracked with tremors that betrayed his humanity laid bare once more. Blood seeped from various abrasions to stain his tanned skin, glistening wetly in shafts of sunlight.

How long he remained thus, Islwyn couldn't say - time held little meaning squeezed within the passageway's womb-like embrace. But slowly, his harsh pants eased to a less laboured rhythm. Shudders subsided, leaving him limp and drained yet somehow at peace. Victory's afterglow suffused his weary flesh with a comforting warmth, dulling the sharper pains that clamoured for attention.

[uncleasad]

Randomly while mowing the lawn this evening, I suddenly had the opening scene for my Hosie gladiator/Roman Republic AU pop into my head, fully formed (like Athena from Zeus!)—as well as some of the backstory.

I have no idea what the proximate cause was, but I’m pretty sure chatting with @evilpenguinrika last night about our shared Classics background got something bubbling in my subconscious.

(It, uh, took me waaaay to long to write out said scene tonight…796 words in about 2 hours…I should have stuck to notes/sketches instead of veering off into researching and actually writing 😳)

“Carthago delenda est! Carthago delenda est! Carthago delenda est!”

A crowd one-hundred fifty thousand strong was chanting that vile phrase over and over as Hope Mikaelson, former Carthaginian princess and current Roman captive, was led into the Circus Maximus in chains. Daughter of Prince Klaus Mikaelson, one of Carthage’s ruling oligarchs, she had been captured by Scipio’s forces in the Roman general’s destruction of her homeland. Dressed in sandals and a silk stola befitting of her former station, the princess’s fiery auburn hair was woven in a long braid, and her head was topped with a wreath of laurel.

The chanting finally quieted as a Roman official began to speak. The man, whom Princess Hope had come to know as Alaricus Saltzmanus—a man who had declared himself a sworn enemy of her father and who was most likely responsible for her current situation—welcomed the assembled Romans to the climax of the day’s festivities—festivities that had seen dozens of her countrymen slaughtered for entertainment of the masses, the famed track of the Circus Maximus stained red with their blood.

As Saltzmanus introduced the day’s final contest, the chants of “Carthago delenda est!” began once more. Carthage had already been destroyed by these monsters, burned, sacked, looted, and its fields salted so that the grand civilization may never be reborn, but Hope knew that the chants now were calling for the destruction of every last vestige of Punic glory; to the Romans, Carthage could not be considered destroyed while a single Carthaginian still lived, and at this hour, for Carthage to be destroyed, Princess Hope Mikaelson must be slaughtered.

The crowd cheered as the Roman champion, a man known only as Ferus—wild, savage—entered the Circus, sword and shield in hand. The assembled people of Rome—patricians and plebeians, citizens and non-citizens alike—began chanting the man’s name, “Fer-us, Fer-us, Fer-us!” Bowing to the adoring crowds, the bear-like man reveled in their devotion. His toned chest bore the scars of his victories—undefeated in more than 100 fights.

One of the men holding Hope drew his sword and deftly sliced the shoulders of her stola, causing the fine garment to tumble to bloody ground around her feet. Rather than the traditional underclothes, she had been dressed in a skirt fashioned from strips of leather, the lower ends of each strip triangular-shaped. The former princess had also been fitted with a small leather breastplate, which provided some measure of modesty while still emphasizing her ample assets. With a thumbs up and a thumbs down, the man made a show of asking the crowd whether the auburn-haired captive should retain that bit of dignity or be made to fight bare-chested as the men. Despite the overwhelming cheers in favor of the Carthaginian being stripped of the garment, the man made no move to remove it. Hope breathed a sigh of relief; thank the Gods for small mercies. Still, the crowds had spoken, so the last daughter of Carthage knew it was in play.

The man then kicked Hope’s knees from behind, forcing her to kneel before those who had vanquished her and her homeland. She struggled to regain her stance, but the attending men (and their ropes) managed to keep her on her knees. The man finally yanked the laurel crown off her head, completing the show of stripping the Carthaginian of all symbols of her (former) status. The crowd cheered the man’s actions humbling the former princess before once again breaking into chants of “Carthago delenda est!”

Saltzmanus finished his speeches, propitiating the Gods and currying favor with the crowds, his every word calculated to advance his political career, and reminded the assembled masses that this was a battle to the death…“for the Glory of Rome.”

The crowd began chanting “for the glory of Rome!” repeatedly, and the men guarding Hope knew this was their cue to release their captive. Two men removed the manacles from her wrists and ankles, quickly scurrying away upon completion of their task. The remaining men had formed a circle around the princess-cum-gladiator, their spears keeping her at bay for these actions. In an instant, the men pivoted and reformed their circle, their bodies and spears now facing outward in defense of themselves, and they made a swift and practiced retreat to the safety of arena gates. Hope Mikaelson may have been a princess, but she was every bit her father’s daughter, a danger to anyone within reach….

As Saltzmanus tossed a sword and shield to the ground in front of him, the crowd again switched to chanting for Hope’s death, their thunderous cries echoing across the Circus Maximus. “Carthago delenda est! Carthago delenda est! Carthago delenda est!”

[mariacallous]

(JTA) — How often do men think about the Roman Empire? It’s a question that’s been hard to avoid lately, after a woman on TikTok asked it of her husband and he answered immediately: “Every day.”

Since then, the hashtag #RomanEmpire has raked in millions of views across multiple social media platforms, with men admitting that, yes, they do think a lot about the Roman Empire. Some suggested it was the fascination with military conquest, others the appeal of gladiators (and the 2000 movie “Gladiator”) and still others a love of history. On the less savory side, some men seem drawn to the patriarchal nature of Roman society and the idea that Rome was the foundation of Western (read, “white”) civilization. 

Like a lot of cultural phenomena that flow from the strange, turbid waters of TikTok, the question soon spread beyond social media. And also like a lot of what catches on there, it can be easy to dismiss the whole thing — along with its peculiar, gendered valances, its memes and counter-memes — as a brief, hot-burning fever of the terminally online. 

Yet I have found myself pondering the question more than I would have expected. And the reason is that as with almost everything — at least in the eyes of Jews who are inclined to look, as I as a rabbi find myself to be — Jewish tradition has a lot to say about how often we should contemplate the world of caesars and praetorians. 

Probably the most obvious reason why a good Jew thinks often about the Roman Empire is, of course, historical trauma. In one way or another we recall the destruction of the Second Temple at the hands of the Roman emperor Hadrian — a national and spiritual disaster of the highest order — at weddings and in daily prayer, on Tisha B’Av and on Yom Kippur. We leave symbols of the destruction on the walls of our homes. Its memory deforms a large swath of our summer, robbing us of music, swimming pools, haircuts and joy.

For the ancient sages, all of this is rooted in thinking about the Roman Empire. Their thoughts turned to the empire often, and their thoughts were dark. They equated pre- and post-Christian Rome with Esau, Isaac’s wayward son, and they equated Esau with all that was evil and through the power of the literature they left behind they ensured that generations of Jews would do the same.

But, on a very basic level, it’s also worth remembering that the ancient rabbis — the progenitors of the Mishnah and the Talmud upon whose visionary creativity all subsequent Jewish history and religious culture is based — were deeply enmeshed in ancient Roman society. Though not quite citizens, they were acculturated and literate. They incorporated Roman traditions into a variety of Jewish practices, including how we light Hanukkah lights and how we experience the seder. 

Through a stroke of luck, history has preserved a marvelous epistolary exchange between the great Roman statesman Seneca and his father. In a letter, Seneca informs his old man that he has decided to become a vegetarian. His father, in his response, tells Seneca that this simply won’t do because as a vegetarian he would not be able to eat from the sacrifices to Zeus and consequently everyone would think he was a Jew. 

What is remarkable and important about this exchange is not his father’s Jew-hatred — the presence of casual antisemitism everywhere is wholly unremarkable, as every Jew knows — but rather that Seneca’s father’s admonition, even as it otherizes the Jews, belies the fact that the Jews of ancient Roman Palestine, the rabbis and their followers, appeared very Roman indeed. After all, if not for their bizarre abstention from eating Roman cult sacrifices, they looked just like Seneca! They were, to put it succinctly, toga- and sandal-wearing, lettuce-dipping, symposium-loving Romans.

So ironically, even as the main thrust of rabbinic tradition is starkly anti-Roman, the ancient rabbis were very much products of their times. They were about as Roman as I am American, which is to say almost but not quite and, in the end, it is the not-quite rather than the almost that is determinative. 

My view of the Roman Empire is informed by a frothing admixture of resentment, fear and admiration, a strange, Jewish brew that I inherited from my ancient ancestors. So how often do I think about the Roman Empire? I think about the Roman Empire all the time.

[magicalgirlartist]

[ID: 3 images with 2 full body characters (one higher to the left and facing left, the other lower to the right and facing right) each. The first has 2 young women. The higher one is thin with a short sleeveless blue wetsuit, an orange flower tucked behind one ear, and a translucent blue wrap draped around her waist. She has one hand on her hip and a shy expression. A text box beside her reads "HAHLI, assistant flax maker, never played a sport in her life, friendly, but shy, hates shoes, spends most of her time swimming or doing chores for Amaya." The lower one is chubbier with a bright blue halter top, dark blue crop leggings, and white sandals. She's standing on her tiptoes with her arms stretched behind her and smiling. A text box beside her reads "MACKU, left hand of Turaga Nokama, mega jock, sweet, outgoing, easily distracted, definitely not dating Hewkii." The second has 2 young men. The higher one is somewhat muscular, with dark tank top under red vest, yellow pants with a red waist tie, and red and yellow shoes. He has his hands on his hips and is frowning. A text box beside him reads "JALLER, captain of the guard of Ta-Koro, right hand of Turaga Vakama, chronically incapable of relaxing, only wears sleeveless shirts." The lower one is scrawny, with goggles, red t-shirt, red shirt tied around the waist, bright yellow cargo pants tucked into blue boots, and blue fingerless gloves. He's winking with his tongue out and flashing two peace signs. A text box beside him reads "TAKUA, Chronicler, professional responsibility avoider, "but I stay silly :3", friends with like half the island." The last has 2 young men. The higher one is beefy, with an open light brown robe and no shirt underneath, loose brown pants tied at the waist with an orange sash, and light brown gladiator sandals. He's waving and smiling. A text box beside him reads "HEWKII, celebrity athlete, right hand of Turaga Onewa, just a little too smart to be a True Himbo, definitely not dating Macku." The lower one is skinny, with a light brown tunic over loose black pants, and brown sandals. He has one arm behind his back and the other hand to his chest with a smug expression. A text box beside him reads "HAFU, master carver, left hand of Turaga Onewa, "ANotHEr hAFU ORigiNAL" (plain text: another Hafu original), smug and insufferable, the perfect man." End ID.]

Concepts for the Bionicle Sports Anime/MNOLGII comic!! I think Takua's is my favourite honestly lol. Gonna do the rest of the kohlii teams next and then some uniforms maybe!

Some notes about village fashions under the readmore!

[Commissions open!]

Ga-Koro Fashion: I figure Ga-Koro is warm and humid, but still can get cold at night. Ga-Koronans tend to wear warmer clothes for sleeping, but cooler clothes during the day. They also tend towards clothes that dry quickly, aren't super uncomfortable while wet, and/or can be removed easily before swimming, like Hahli's wetsuit/wrap combo. They also mostly wear sandals since it's not the end of the world if those get wet. Hahli prefers going barefoot since she's constantly in and out of the water gathering materials for Amaya anyway, and she's lost or destroyed so many sandals that way that it's just easier to not wear them at all.

Ta-Koro Fashion: Ta-Koro is fucking hot, but most of the people who live there are used to it. They generally dress in lighter fabrics, with short sleeves and sweatbands being common. The terrain is rocky as well, so shoes with decent soles are a must. As usual, the main outlier here is Takua, who doesn't handle Ta-Koro's heat as well as the others ~for some reason~ but also frequently mixes in clothing types from other villages due to how much he travels.

Po-Koro Fashion: Like Ga-Koro, Po-Koro is hot during the day and cold at night. It's a much drier heat, though, being a desert. Light, loose clothes are practically required, and often several layers of them are worn at night. Pants tend to have elastic, drawstring, or some other form of binding around the legs to help keep sand from getting in there. Sandals are best for Po-Koro as well, unless you're playing kohlii of course!

[mdemontespan1667]

Dipping my feet in writing again. It's just a few sentences.

Steve Rogers (POV) x Unnamed Female Character

Warnings: Angst and Cheating

Steve watched as she primped in the antique, gilded hallway mirror. 

Her dark chestnut curls glimmering in the filtered, globed light as she expertly slicked blood red gloss on her full lips. 

YOU SHOULD HAVE SEEN BY THE LOOK IN MY EYES, BABY, THERE WAS SOMETHING MISSIN’

“You're beautiful.”

Her reflection smiled back at him.

“Will you be late? I can wait up.”

YOU SHOULD HAVE KNOWN BY THE TONE OF MY VOICE, MAYBE, BUT YOU DIDN’T LISTEN

“I’m not sure.”

She adjusted the wide, gold herringbone chain Steve had given her for their 4th anniversary.

It mimicked the deep scooped neckline of her cream mini dress.

“I might crash at Ava’s.”

YOU PLAYED DEAD, BUT YOU NEVER BLED

“How ‘bout you and I go out tonight instead? We can go to that bistro you like then I’ll take you dancing.”

She turned, brushing past Steve, spike heeled gladiator sandals clicking on the hardwood floor.

“I’m not canceling on my girls.”

“You were out with them last weekend. I just thought we could spend some time together for a change.”

Whirling around, her eyes flared.

“Jesus Christ Steve, you’re really gonna lecture me about a girl’s night out when you spend half the goddamn time hanging out with Sam and Bucky? Seriously!”

INSTEAD YOU LAID STILL IN THE GRASS, ALL COILED UP AND HISSING

His friend’s accusations looped around his brain.

“She’s fucked half of Brooklyn.”

“The Bartender at REINE”

“The IT guy at her agency”

“The new partner at her sister’s law firm”

“The mechanic who worked on her corvette”

The

The

The

“Nat saw her with”

“Pepper recognized her car”

“Regular at that sleazy Fairmont motel”

He pushed the words down, burying them as he always did.

AND THOUGH I KNOW ALL ABOUT THOSE MEN, STILL I DON’T REMEMBER

Steve twisted the titanium band on his left ring finger, his gaze falling on the framed wedding photo.

CAUSE IT WAS US, BABY, WAY BEFORE THEM, AND WE’RE STILL TOGETHER

“It was only a thought, sweetheart.”

He kissed her cheek, careful to avoid mussing her meticulous applied makeup.

She smelled of oranges and cloves, the same perfume she’d worn at the altar when they’d sworn their vows.

AND I MEANT EVERY WORD I SAID. WHEN I SAID THAT I LOVE YOU, I MEANT THAT I LOVE YOU FOREVER

Lifting to her tiptoes, her lips brushed against his.

“Don’t wait up Baby. I’ll text if I'm not coming home.”

Steve watched her leave, frozen in place until he heard the corvette’s rumbling engine fade.

He made his way to the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of cheap tequila. 

For the millionth time he wished he could get drunk, craving oblivion.

Powering on his laptop, he typed in a series of commands.

Specially configured panoramic microscopic cameras embedded in his wife’s necklace and wedding set activated, bathing him in a blue glow.

AND I’M GONNA KEEP ON LOVING YOU. CAUSE IT’S THE ONLY THING I WANNA DO. I DON’T WANNA SLEEP. I JUST WANNA KEEP ON LOVING YOU

Keep On Loving You

REO Speedwagon 1980

[midwrites]

What if I requested a third armitozer gladiator au. What then

The villa is bathed in quiet and bright moonlight when Solomon leaves the main hall, the decadent noises of pleasure and merriment echoing throughout the marble hallways following him down the richly adorned rooms and inner gardens. None of the guards he passes seem thrilled to be on duty tonight, nor do any of them give him more than a passing glance, as if checking that he is not carrying a sword on his belt was enough to ensure that he doesn’t pose enough of a threat. Fools, that’s what they are, tired fools who’d rather be in bed than listening to the richest men of the city fuck nearby and who probably don’t know that Solomon has killed many men, just like them, with his bare hands.

Cornelius would thrive here, he thinks. The opulence and the deceit remind Solomon of him, the double crossing and hunger for power every conversation seems to carry bringing him memories of the first time they met in the cells of the arena, of the first time he sold his life to a rat for some small comforts and the certainty of surviving yet another day thanks to the machinations that happened far away from the dust, sweat and blood. Those comforts don’t look so small now, smelling clean and sated in more ways than he has daydreamt of being in the past two years, walking without chains holding him down or without the sun threatening to burn him down to a crisp.

It is then that Solomon spots him, tall and almost ethereal looking, like an elysian apparition taking long steps towards the fountain in the atrium, his light blue robe fluttering around him without all the silvery finish and pretty brooches he had been wearing in the arena when Solomon had first laid eyes on him next to his cage, the moment his blue eyes had taken his breath away. The boy is kneeling by one of the gurgling water fountains in the patio before he can think twice about following him, looking at the surface of the clear water as if searching for something, his black curls looking like impossibly woven obsidian under the pale light.

Solomon trips before he can get to him, tumbles of a loose tile, making his sandals slap against the polished floors. It makes the boy turn around, like a deer startled by a huntsman, his stance wavering just to make him topple.

Four fast steps is all Solomon needs to be on him, even less to tighten his hold over his wrist before he falls into the small pool underneath. For a moment, Solomon believes that he’ll scream, that the guards will be on them in a matter of seconds and that he’ll be kicked back into the colosseum’s holding cells before dawn. He gets a hesitating blink instead, the thick sound of the boy swallowing before he opens his mouth.

“Thank you, sire,” he whispers, his voice deeper and more unique than Solomon could have ever imagined, his cheeks warming into a beautiful pink, “If—if  you may let me go now we may avoid the guards taking notice of us,” he follows, stringing more words together than Solomon thought him capable of, “Wouldn’t want them to think you plan of stealing me away.”