pascalhowlett - Tumblr blog

pascalhowlett · 2 days ago

Text

Ethereal Chapter 4

A/N: HELLO HI VERY IMPORTANT! This chapter has some triggering scenarios when it comes to r!pe and non-consensual relationships between Geta and Cecilia. If that is something that triggers you, I ask you please do not read this chapter!

If you prefer to read on AO3, that can be found here!

Warnings: Mentions of r*pe, implied r*pe, graphic depictions of violence, major character death, smut

Summary: After the Roman Empire takes over Numidia, Cecilia is purchased by Emperor Geta as a pawn in his attempts to take over Rome. What will happen when she meets General Marcus Acacius, the soldier who was responsible for the death of her lover, Atticus Claudius?

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x Original Female Character

This is Chapter 4! Find the rest of the chapters on my Tumblr here!

Word Count: 3k

That evening, Cecilia took her place beside Geta at the long dining table. Caracalla sat across from them, his expression a perpetual mask of discontent. The feast laid out before them was almost obscene in its abundance—a spread that could have easily satisfied a dozen soldiers, yet it was prepared for only the three of them. Golden loaves of bread still warm from the oven, succulent porchetta glistening with herbs and juices, bowls of vibrant fruits bursting with color, and pitchers of red wine stood in silent testament to the brothers’ grotesque privilege.

Despite the abundance of Roman delicacies, Cecilia could barely touch the slice of bread resting on her plate. Her stomach churned, not with hunger, but with unease. She knew she had to sing a different tune with Geta now in order to make him believe she had become smitten.

“I cannot believe the General,” Geta suddenly muttered, his voice thick with disdain as he speared a piece of meat. “Running off like a coward and leaving us to fend for ourselves. Taking my wife like she is more important than us”

Caracalla snorted in agreement, his grip tightening on his glass. “The man deserves nothing less than execution for such betrayal. Beheading would be a mercy for General Acacius.”

Cecilia hesitated, her fingers brushing the rim of her cup. She noticed that their words about the General angered her in a way they had not before. “He was shocked, that’s all,” she said softly, willing her voice to remain steady. “I’ll make sure he understands his duty—to protect the both of you—next time.”

“Next time?” Geta shot her a sharp look, his brow furrowing. “Where did he even take you, Cecilia? I pray there will not be a next time.”

“He… he just brought me back to the palace,” she replied, forcing a smile that she hoped seemed genuine as she picked at her food. “I stayed in our room until you both arrived.”

Geta seemed satisfied with her answer, nodding as he resumed eating, though Caracalla’s narrowed eyes lingered on her a moment longer. Cecilia lowered her gaze to her untouched bread, her heartbeat quickening. Lies came easier with practice, but the weight of them never lessened.

She still was shaken up from the news of Atticus. She felt betrayed, like he had been lying to her. What would she have done if Acacius hadn’t told her? She asked herself.

Breaking the tense silence, she looked to Geta, her voice trembling despite herself. “Geta, my love?”

Her words felt foreign, unnatural, as if they belonged to someone else. She cringed inwardly, but there was no turning back now.

“Speak, little dove,” Geta commanded, putting down his utensils to drink his wine.

“I…I just wanted to apologize for my behavior at the games today,” she swallowed, she felt like her throat was swelling as she forced the words, “I love you, and I shouldn’t speak unless spoken to.”

For a moment, silence once again enveloped the room, broken only by the faint crackle of the torches mounted on the walls and the clinks of dishes as they were passed about the table. Geta leaned back in his chair, studying her with a faint smirk curling his lips.

“Well, well,” he mused, swirling his wine. “I suppose even a bird can learn its place with proper training.” He reached across the table and tilted her chin up with a finger, his grip deceptively gentle. “You’ll remember that next time, won’t you, my dear?”

“Yes,” she whispered, her heart pounding in her chest. “I will, your highness.”

Caracalla snorted softly but said nothing, his eyes flicking between Geta and Cecilia before returning to his plate. Cecilia lowered her gaze, her cheeks burning with humiliation. She fought to steady her breathing, desperate to hold onto the mask she wore.

Beneath it all, her mind churned, replaying the words of General Acacius. Atticus had known of the plans that were made for her. He’d lied. The sting of it was almost unbearable, but now was not the time to unravel. If she crumbled in this room filled with watchful eyes, she would lose more than her pride.

She forced herself to lift her goblet, the wine sloshing slightly as her hands trembled. “To your honor both of you,” she said to the brothers, her voice thin but clear.

Geta raised his cup, his smirk broadening. “To mine.”

As they drank, Cecilia’s thoughts swirled with growing clarity The room buzzed with conversation again, but Cecilia’s mind was already elsewhere, turning over the plans she barely dared to entertain. If she wanted to survive, she would need more than apologies and submission. She would have to give him what he really wanted.

“Will the games continue tomorrow?” she asked, assuming she could speak.

Geta paused, his goblet midway to his lips. His dark eyes fixed on her, narrowing slightly, as though weighing whether her question warranted his breath. “They will,” he finally said, his tone clipped. “Why do you ask?”

Cecilia hesitated, feeling the weight of Caracalla’s gaze settle on her like a predator studying prey once more. She licked her lips, trying to keep her tone neutral. “I was just curious,” she replied. “The people seemed so lively today. I thought they might want more.”

Caracalla let out a sharp laugh, setting his goblet down with a thud. “The people always want more,” he sneered. “Blood and spectacle—that’s all they understand. That’s all they’re good for. But I must say, I find pleasure in it as well.”

“Enough,” Geta said, raising a hand to silence his brother. He turned his attention back to Cecilia. “If you must know, tomorrow’s games will be grander. More beasts, more gladiators, more death.” A thin smile played on his lips. “I imagine you’ll enjoy it, little dove.”

Cecilia forced a small smile, though her stomach twisted at the thought. She nodded, lowering her eyes to her plate. “Of course, my love,” she said softly, “I am sure whatever you two have planned will be a spectacle.”

“What I have planned, little dove,” Geta corrected her, “Caracalla is no use when executing the games. He does no more than pleasure himself to the sight of the gladiators’ bloodshed.”

Caracalla’s goblet clinked against the table loudly as he set it down with deliberate force. “Careful, brother,” he said, his voice low but dangerous. “Your tongue wags a little too fiercely.”

“Oh, does it?” Geta replied, leaning back in his chair with a smirk. “Tell me, what exactly do you contribute, Caracalla? Besides criticism and the release of your desires?”

The tension between the brothers thickened, and Cecilia sat frozen, her pulse quickening. The air felt charged, like a storm waiting to break. She did not realize how much they argued, purely to see who was more powerful than the other.

“I contribute more than you could ever hope to understand,” Caracalla shot back, his eyes narrowing. “While you play your games and parade your purchased wife like a pompous fool, I see the bigger picture. The games are nothing without the politics behind them, the alliances they secure. The relationships they create. Perhaps you should pay attention to the matches rather than your trophy of a woman.”

Geta’s smirk faltered for a moment, but he quickly recovered, waving a dismissive hand. “Politics,” he scoffed. “You mean the web of lies you so enjoy weaving? Spare me.”

“Enough,” Cecilia interjected softly, surprising even herself with her words. Both men turned to her, their sharp gazes cutting like knives deep into her soul. Her heart pounded, but she kept her voice steady. “Please, this is dinner, not a battlefield.”

For a moment, neither brother spoke. Then Geta chuckled, breaking the silence. “You see, Caracalla? Even my little dove has more sense than you.”

Caracalla’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing, reaching for his goblet instead as he shot daggers at Cecilia. She exhaled quietly. The tension had momentarily diffused, but she knew it was far from gone. The animosity between the brothers was a fire constantly smoldering. She took a sip of her wine. If she could navigate their rivalry, perhaps there was a way to exploit it. If they were too busy fighting each other, they might overlook her. And if they overlooked her, she could crumble the two of them from within.

The conversation moved on without her, Geta and Caracalla discussing the logistics of the games and the political power they wielded through them. Their voices faded into a dull hum in her ears as she stared at the table, her mind elsewhere.

Tomorrow. The games would be bigger, louder, bloodier. She would be expected to sit there, to smile and applaud like a devoted wife. But the thought of it churned her stomach. Tomorrow would come, and with it, more pointless death. But perhaps, it would also bring a chance to tip the scales.

The only comfort she could find as she tried to prepare herself for the games was the idea of General Acacius. Even if she had to act like she enjoyed the horrid events, she would have the General to guide her, to ground her. Even amidst the looming dread of faux smiles and forced applause, the idea of his presence brought a sense of peace. She thought about his embrace that seemed to pull her in when she felt she was drifting away. The same embrace that kept her sane when her world had changed forever just mere hours ago. In that moment, as her world had tilted and fractured, his touch had grounded her, keeping her from drifting into the darker corners of her mind.

The memory was bittersweet. She thought about his broad stature, the way he exudes a commanding yet understated allure, a quiet confidence that draws the eye without demanding one’s attention. She thought of his bold attributes—sharp cheekbones softened by a well-kept, gray beard. His face carried a weathered charm, as if etched by the passage of time and the weight of countless decisions. His gaze is always one full of thought, one that always peered into his soul.

There’s a sense of quiet passion about him, an intensity that suggests he loves with the same fierce devotion he brings to his duties. The thought of that overwhelms her, a crimson blush painting her cheeks as she brings herself back to the dinner table. There was comfort in the thought of Acacius, but also an uneasiness that ebbed and flowed along with it. She knew her reliance on him was growing into a…dependence. That scared her, especially after the news of Atticus’ dishonesty.

“Little dove,” Geta said, bringing her back to reality, “are you ready for bed?”

Her stomach churned, not for sleep, but for the forced implications of laying with the emperor. “Yes, my love,” she stated, standing from the table and bidding goodnight to Caracalla.

Caracalla smirked at the two of them. “You should send her my way sometime, brother,” he nearly laughed, “we always enjoyed each other’s company at the brothel.”

Cecilia froze, Caracalla’s suggestive words hung in the air. Her face burned with humiliation, though she refused to look at Caracalla. She was always disgusted with him, but he was always the highest bidder, of course. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, hidden by the folds of her dress.

Geta’s expression darkened, an arm wrapping around his wife as he spoke. “Watch your tongue, Caracalla,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “She’s mine now, and I don’t share.”

Caracalla chuckled, raising his goblet in mock surrender. “Of course, brother,” he said, his voice laced with amusement. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” But the glint in his eyes suggested otherwise, a deliberate taunt that left the tension evident. Caracalla was a disgusting man. She knew Caracalla probably did dream of her, her image radiating in his disturbing fantasies. Emperor Caracalla did not care if Cecilia was wed to his brother, he would have her either way.

Cecilia forced herself to move towards her shared bedroom with Geta, her legs stiff as she stepped away from the table. Every step felt like she had bricks tied to her ankles. As she reached the doorway, she dared a glance back to look at her husband. Geta was looking at her hungrily, his eyes full of lust and desire.

There was no denying that Geta considered Cecilia one of the most beautiful women in Rome. She had heard him boast about her beauty countless times to senators, dignitaries, and even his own brother. But to her, his admiration felt hollow, empty and seated only in expected desire. She wasn’t his equal, nor his partner. She was his possession—a living, breathing trophy he displayed to assert his dominance in comparison to his older brother.

Her fingers tightened around the doorknob as she tried to collect herself. She had learned long ago how to endure, how to play the role of a pleasured woman. But tonight, as the memory of Caracalla’s taunt echoed in her ears and the weight of her husband’s gaze lingered on her skin, she felt her act begin to diminish.

For now, all she could do was walk forward towards the mountain of sheets, step by agonizing step, toward a night she wished she could escape. As Geta locked the door, he turned to kiss her. She forced herself to stay still, her lips barely responding to him as his lips pressed against her own. When he finally pulled away, his gaze lingered on her, searching for something she wasn’t sure she could give. “You’re mine, little dove,” he murmured, “Don’t forget that.��

Cecilia managed a faint nod, her throat tight as if the words she wanted to say were caught there. “Of course, all yours…your highness,” she whispered, the lie slipping from her lips with practiced ease.

Geta smiled, seemingly satisfied, and moved to the edge of the bed, removing his ornate outer garments. Cecilia stood frozen in place for a moment, her hands trembling at her sides as she urged her body to do something…anything. She felt trapped, suffocated by the weight of his high, impractical expectations for her. She moved toward him, her mind racing for ways to endure another night of this charade.

Just before the rise of dawn, she met Acacius in the alcove just as they had promised one another the afternoon prior. Acacius had beat her there, and was welcoming as she entered their small hideaway. His broad frame was bathed in the faint glow of the first hints of morning light, his silhouette calm and steady as he leaned against the wall, posed just like the support she needed him to be. When he saw her approach, his face softened, and he straightened. He stepped toward her with a warm smile.

“Cecilia,” he said, his voice low but filled with adoration, “You made it.”

“I couldn’t stay another moment in that room,” she replied, but still managed to smile at his comforting gaze. The tension she had carried all night was still coiled tightly in her chest, but something about Acacius’ presence began to ease it. She started to feel like she could breathe again.

As she stepped fully into their little hideaway, he reached out, his hands brushing her arms in a gesture that was both protective and grounding. “You’re safe here,” he murmured, reminding her gently. “What happened?”

Her throat tightened as she looked up at him. The words threatened to spill out, but she hesitated, unsure of where to begin or how much to say. She did not like speaking about it. She felt she could never truly tell him, as the reminder stirred feelings deep within her that caused terror. “It’s…it’s nothing new,” she finally managed, “Just more of the same.”

Acacius’ jaw clenched, his hands briefly tightening on her arms before he let out a controlled breath. “You don’t deserve this,” he said, his voice rough with restrained anger. “Any of it.”

Cecilia shook her head, tears pricking at her eyes. “I don’t have a choice, Acacius. Atticus signed me up for this pain, and I must follow through.”

“Atticus wronged you,” he said firmly, his tone leaving no room for doubt. “But I won’t let you be.”

His words wrapped around her like a balm, soothing the raw edges of her hurt. She let herself lean into him, her forehead resting against his chest. She knew he was right. Atticus had wronged her, and she had needed someone else to tell her that. For a moment, the world outside the alcove faded away, leaving only the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

Acacius wrapped his arms around her, pulling her closer as though he could shield her from the weight of the world. His touch was firm yet tender, his hands settling on her back with a protective instinct that warred against the fire steadily growing within him. He knew he shouldn’t let himself feel this way about her. She was young, fragile. But she was also forbidden to him, bound to a man unworthy of her. Yet, no matter how fiercely he tried to fight it, his feelings for Cecilia only grew stronger with each stolen moment they shared in the small hideaway. Every glance, every word, every touch chipped away at his resolve, leaving him powerless against the tide of emotions he felt soon he would be no longer able to control.

Acacius closed his eyes, his cheek brushing the top of her head as he tried to bring himself back down to earth. Her presence was intoxicating—a bittersweet ache that made his heart race. He wondered if she could feel his heart rate quicken as he held her. He wanted to fight it, to push her away for both their sakes, but every time she sought him out, every time she looked at him with those pleading, vulnerable eyes, he was a goner.

“Cecilia,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion, “I wish I could take you far away from here. Away from all of this.”

She pulled back just enough to look up at him, her gaze filled with a mix of gratitude and sorrow. “If only it were that simple,” she whispered.

He reached up, his hand brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. His fingers lingered, his touch gentle as though she might break under his touch. “One day,” he said quietly, the words more a vow than a hope. “One day, I’ll find a way. You will not live in this reality forever. I promise.

For a long moment, neither of them moved, the weight of their unspoken feelings hanging heavily in the air. Acacius knew the dangers of this attachment. He knew it could cost them both dearly, but in that moment, with her in his arms, he couldn’t bring himself to care.

13 notes · View notes

pascalhowlett · 3 days ago

Text

Ethereal Chapter 3

A/N: Hi! Thank you so much for all of the love and support on Ethereal so far! If you would like to read this on A03, you can find that here! Things are finally going to start moving a little this chapter. :)

Warnings: Mentions of r*pe, implied r*pe, graphic depictions of violence, major character death, smut

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x Original Female Character

This is Chapter 3! Find the rest of the chapters on my Tumblr here!

Word Count: 3k

General Acacius took Cecilia back to the palace, leading her through winding corridors until they reached a discreet alcove hidden behind a thick stone wall. A small, almost imperceptible gap revealed a hidden door. It was dark and dimly lit within.

The air there was cooler, tinged with the scent of aged wood and damp stone, a stark contrast to the warmth of the main hall. Soft, muted light filtered in from a single narrow window high up on the far wall, its panes obscured by thick ivy that grew wild and untamed, casting shifting patterns of shadow across the floor. The light wasn’t harsh, but gentle, as though it respected the privacy of this hidden corner.

The alcove’s stone walls, worn smooth by centuries of neglect, were lined with shelves, some holding dust-covered books, others bare except for the occasional forgotten object—an old sword, a tarnished goblet, a broken shield. On the far side, a wooden bench sat against the wall. The bench, though simple, was worn from years of use. It was a place meant for solitude, for reflection, and perhaps even for an escape.

It was quiet, almost sacred, as if it had been forgotten by all but the stone itself. There was no sound here except the occasional rustle of the ivy outside brushing against the window. If you listened closely, sometimes you could hear the soft murmur of distant voices from the main hall.

It was a sanctuary of sorts, hidden from view, a place for secrets, for whispered conversations, or simply a refuge for one who needed a moment of peace away from the weight of the world. The alcove seemed to hold its breath, offering a stillness that stood in stark contrast to the ever-moving world beyond its walls.

“What is this place?” Cecilia asked Acacius in disbelief. Not only was this alcove a safe spot from the threats outside, but it was a small armory, stocked with weapons from swords, daggers, and crossbows to even rations of food and water.

“It is a safe place, unknown to the emperors,” Acacius explained, “a refuge of sorts. This… this is where I gather, train, rest, and try to come up with plans.”

Cecilia's eyes widened. "And you," she said, “you discovered this place?”

Acacius nodded, his gaze fixed on the shadows that danced in the flickering torchlight. "I have kept it hidden for years," he admitted, "I believe it was built by the previous emperor. It’s quiet, a place I come to…escape. ”

“I do not recommend escaping with your thoughts,” Cecilia said, running her hand over the stone wall, “especially not with what you have witnessed as a seasoned General.”

Acacius looked at her, a flicker of something akin to gratitude passing through his eyes. "Perhaps you are right," he conceded, a weary sigh escaping his lips. "Maybe it is time to share this burden."

“Acacius,” she said, begging him, “I need to know more about your connection to Atticus. I must know why I am here and how you know him .”

Acacius looked at her, his eyes filled with a mixture of sympathy and passion. "You are here," he said, his voice low and grave, "because of Atticus."

"What do you mean?" she whispered, her heart pounding.

Acacius hesitated, his gaze now fixed on her.. "The prophecy," he began, his voice dropping to a hushed whisper, "it speaks of a time of great darkness, a time when the Empire will crumble from within."

He paused, his eyes searching her face for some sort of emotion. "Atticus believed in this prophecy. He saw the signs, the cracks in the foundation of this empire before he fled to Numidia. He believed in the people, in their ability to rise up and fight for freedom."

"And he believed in me?" she asked, "but how would he know I would make it here? Let alone be chosen to wed Emperor Geta?"

Acacius's eyes hardened. "Geta's marriage to you was part of Atticus' plan."

Cecilia gasped, her blood running cold. "What do you mean?" she whispered, fear gripping her. How could Atticus put her through such trauma? Was he ever made aware of the consequences, the pain she had suffered with no warning?

Acacius looked at her, his eyes filled with a mixture of grief and pure confusion. "Atticus believed that by marrying Geta or Caracalla, you would be able to infiltrate the heart of the Empire, to gain their trust, and ultimately bring them both down from within."

"But how did he know the lenos would choose me out of all the other women at the brothel? " Cecilia asked, her voice trembling with a mixture of fear and disbelief. "They were far prettier than me, much kinder, and more willing…"

Acacius's eyes met hers. "The lenos are my former soldiers," he said, firmly, "They were made aware of this plan and given the gold to purchase you far before you even set foot on Roman territory."

The realization that her being, her very existence, had been manipulated was unbearable. Atticus, her beloved Atticus, had sacrificed himself to ensure her safety. But, he also had signed her up for a cause bigger than life.

"I do not like this," she said, her voice rising in anger. "Why are men toying with my fate? A fate I was not even aware of?"

Acacius reached out, his hand gently resting on her arm. "Believe me, Cecilia," he said, his voice laced with a sincere apology, "this was not done lightly. Atticus would never have wanted to see you hurt.”

Tears welled up in her eyes, blurring her vision. "He sacrificed himself," she whispered, her voice choking with emotion. "He knew what would happen. He knew your army was coming to attack, didn’t he? He knew he was going to die?”

"He knew, and he knew the risks," Acacius said, "But he also knew that the fate of the Empire could rest on your shoulders."

Cecilia sat down abruptly, the weight of his words crashing down on her. She thought this was a nightmare, but it was a plan. A carefully orchestrated plan, all created and developed in the hands of silly men.

“He believed in you, Cecilia," Acacius added , "He believed in your strength. He believed you could be the one to lead us."

“What if I do not want this? What if I want to be left alone?” she asked.

Acacius regarded her with a mixture of sympathy and unwavering resolve. "You may not want this now," he acknowledged, "but I believe, deep down, you will. Atticus saw something in you, something special."

“Atticus is a liar!” she yelled, “a dirty fool who used me!”

Acacius was taken aback by the ferocity of her outburst. He had not expected this reaction. "Cecilia," he began, his voice calm but firm as he tried to quiet her, "I understand your anger, but…"

"Understand?" she scoffed. "How can you possibly understand? He was my love, my life! And used me, he used his death to manipulate me!"

Acacius reached out to touch her arm, but she flinched away, her eyes wide with panic. He realized that he had misspoken, that his attempt to comfort her had only served to further alienate her.

“I hate him!" she screamed, pacing around the small room, her fists clenched. "I hate him! I don't care what he wanted! We were happy." Tears streamed down her face, hot and angry. "We were planning our future, a life together, away from this… this madness. Or at least I thought...”

She crashed into his chest, sobbing violently, her body wracked with grief and anger. "I hate him!" she repeated, burying her face in Acacius’ chest. The only thing grounding her was his scent, a sweet musk that filled her nose.

Acacius held her close, his arms wrapping around her protectively. He said nothing, simply allowing her to release the torrent of her emotions. He understood the depth of her pain, the raw, unfiltered grief that consumed her in this moment of shock.

As he held her, a strange comfort settled over him. He had always admired Atticus, his courage, his compassion, his unwavering belief in justice. Now, holding Cecilia in his arms, he felt a strange kinship with the man. He felt the weight and the responsibility to protect her.

He looked down at her, his gaze lingering on her tear-stained face. Cecilia, in her grief, was more beautiful than ever. Her spirit, though wounded, remained unbroken. He knew, with a certainty that surprised even himself, that he would do anything to protect her, to help her fulfill the destiny that had been thrust upon her.

He gently stroked her hair, his thumb tracing the delicate curve of her cheek. "Cecilia," he whispered in a desperate attempt to calm her, “I will help you through this. You are not alone.”

Cecilia looked up at him, her eyes red-rimmed. "Neither are you, General.”

The words hung between them, fragile as the night air. His hand remained on her cheek, warm and steady, grounding her, as if he could erase the weight of her sorrow with a simple touch. She drew in a shaky breath, her heart pounding not from the grief that had been consuming her, but from the unexpected tenderness of his presence.

She’d known him as a leader, a warrior—a man of strength and coldness who had killed hundreds. But that night, in the quiet of the room, he was simply… human. A quiet warmth spread through her chest. Here, now, he was a man vulnerable in his own way, reaching out to her, offering something more than just protection—he was offering a connection that she thought she would never need again after Atticus.

As they sat there in the darkness, two souls now becoming bound by grief and a shared purpose, Acacius did not let go of her. He allowed her to cry, doing his best to wipe away the tears that seemed to overflow, one after another, as if each drop carried with it a lifetime of sorrow. He could feel her tremble in his arms, the fragile sound of her sobs breaking his heart piece by piece.

He didn’t speak, knowing there were no words that could fill the empty space between them, no promises that could erase the weight of her loss. There was absolutely nothing he could do to fix what she had experienced in mere hours, and he knew that. The only thing he could offer was his presence—his unwavering support in this fragile moment. His hand gently stroked the back of her head, his fingers threading through her tangled, now unkempt hair, as if he could somehow steady her with the rhythm of his touch.

"Cecilia," he murmured softly, "you don't have to carry this alone."

But she shook her head, the motion small and defeated. "I do," she whispered back, her voice breaking. "I have to. There’s no one else left." Her words were sharp, like jagged glass, and they sliced through the air, leaving a bitter taste between them. "You don’t understand…"

Acacius’s heart tightened. He could feel the weight of her isolation, the way the burden of everything she had lost and experienced pressed down on her. It was too heavy to bear alone. The silence between them stretched, thick and heavy, as he simply held her, his chest rising and falling with each breath. He knew her pain all too well. He, too, had lost so much. The endless battles, the years of fighting, the faces of those who had fallen—he carried them with him, like shadows that never left.

But this—her—was different. She was different.

"You’re not alone anymore," he whispered, his voice raw and vulnerable. His arms tightened around her, as though his embrace could offer some measure of protection from the storms raging inside her. "Not as long as I’m here."

Cecilia wiped her tear-streaked face with the back of her hand, trying to steady herself. "I don’t deserve this," she whispered hoarsely. "I don’t deserve your kindness, Acacius. I am not the chosen one. I called you a killer, I drew conclusions before you could tell me the truth.”

Acacius’s heart ached at the fragility in her voice. He reached out and gently cupped her cheek once more, tilting her face up to meet his. There was a softness in his eyes now, a quiet resolve that seemed to melt through the tension between them.

"You do," he said firmly. "You deserve peace." His thumb traced the outline of her jaw, the touch so tender it almost felt reverent. "Let me help you. I’m not asking for anything in return, I owe this to you. I’m not going anywhere. Not now, not ever."

For the first time since he had met her, there was no battle or tension between them. No politics, no war, no secrets. Just two people trying to navigate a situation that neither of them had asked for. And in that silence, a deeper connection formed between them, one from the raw, untamed human need for comfort and understanding.

Acacius broke the quiet first, his voice unexpectedly steady, as though he'd found a place of calm amid the storm of his thoughts. "I don't know what comes next," he said, his eyes scanning the room as if looking for answers in the shadows. He exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face in frustration. "I’ve spent my life fighting, Cecilia. I’ve learned how to strategize, how to lead armies, how to survive." He paused, almost as if reconsidering his own words. "But I do not know where to begin with this, I am at a loss.”

“We start with what must be done,” she said, slowly releasing herself from his grip to speak, “I will begin listening to Emperor Geta. I will follow his orders, be a wife.”

The words hung in the air between them. For a moment, Acacius didn’t respond, his mind whirling with the implications of what she was saying. He understood the necessity behind her words, but the resignation in her voice struck him deeper than he expected. He could see it in her—the way she held herself in check, as if bracing for the weight of something she could no longer avoid.

"You don’t have to do this,” he said softly, his eyes searching hers, trying to read the resolve behind them. “If you don’t trust him, we can find another way. There are other alliances, other ways to fight this. You do not need to go through any more pain.”

She shook her head slowly, the motion faint but definitive. "It’s not about trust anymore," she replied, her gaze unwavering. "It’s about deception. If I want any chance of influencing Geta, of keeping a hand on this, I need to play my part. I need to be his wife, fulfill his desires, at least in the eyes of those who still believe in him."

Acacius knew she was right, but his heart ached for what she would have to endure under those conditions.This was not a fight she could win with strength alone. This was the quiet war of submission, of manipulation, of being forced into a role she never asked for. And worse, she was choosing it, for the sake of a cause greater than her own freedom.

His gaze softened as he watched her, her expression resolute, the flicker of uncertainty buried deep beneath the surface. He could see it in the tightness of her jaw, the way her eyes held a distant, haunted look, as if she were already mourning the part of herself she would have to sacrifice in order to follow through.

"I know you think this is the only way," Acacius said quietly, his voice low with emotion. "But it doesn’t have to be. You don’t have to do this, Cecilia."

She turned to him, her face a study of quiet strength, but beneath that, he could feel the conflict, the raw fear of her situation. She wasn’t doing this for the emperor. She wasn’t doing it for power. She was doing it because there was no other choice left. She was choosing to endure the cage so that others could have a fighting chance.

"I’m not doing it for anyone," she replied, her voice tight. "I’m doing it because we need to know what he's planning, how far these emperors are willing to go to hold onto their power. I’m doing it because I need to know… how far I can go.

She was right—this was their way in. Their best chance of finding out what Geta was really after. But the cost... the cost was too high.

"I can’t bear the thought of you playing that role," he said, his voice rough. "Not when I know the kind of man Geta is, what he’s capable of. He’ll use you, Cecilia. He’ll twist everything about you, every part of you that makes you …you. You’ll be nothing more than a pawn in his game, and I can’t let that happen to you."

She looked at him then, her expression softer than before, but still filled with a quiet determination. "I’ve already been a pawn in this game, Acacius. We all have been. The only difference now is that I’m choosing my role, choosing how I play."

He wanted to say more, to argue, to tell her she didn’t have to do this, but the truth was, she was right. They didn’t have the luxury of time or perfect choices. They couldn’t wait for another opportunity to fall into their laps. She had made her decision, and there was no turning back now. Any time wasted at that point was the lives of innocent individuals.

"We will meet here every morning," Acacius said, "As the sun rises. I will have an update for you every day as I build the rebellion."

Cecilia nodded, absorbing the weight of his words, the quiet resolve in his tone reaching deep into her. She repeated his words softly, almost as a vow to herself, "Every day before dawn."

Acacius’s gaze softened for a moment, but the intensity in his eyes remained unshaken. "You will not suffer much longer, my lady," he said, his voice low but firm. "I make an oath to you on that."

His words hung between them, heavy with promise. But there was fear too, creeping into both of their thoughts like the chill of the night air. What if it didn’t work?

And yet, there was something in Acacius’s voice, something in the way he spoke with such unwavering certainty, that made her wonder if perhaps—just perhaps—they might succeed.

"I trust you," she whispered, her voice barely above a breath, the weight of the statement more than just words. "And I will wait for you."

"I will not ask you to wait forever, Cecilia," he said quietly, stepping closer, his presence like a steadying force. "I will not let them take any more from you than they already have."

And for the first time since they had met, Cecilia believed him.

22 notes · View notes

pascalhowlett · 4 days ago

Text

𝐏𝐄𝐃𝐑𝐎 𝐏𝐀𝐒𝐂𝐀𝐋 as 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐋 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐔𝐒 𝐀𝐂𝐀𝐂𝐈𝐔𝐒

Gladiator II (2024). Acacius' ceremonial armor and cloak.

1K notes · View notes

pascalhowlett · 5 days ago

Text

Ethereal Chapter 2

A/N: Hello everyone! This is my first time posting a novel length fan fiction on Tumblr, so be patient with me! If you would like to read this on A03, you can find that here!

This is chapter TWO, you can find chapter one HERE.

Warnings: Mentions of r*pe, implied r*pe, graphic depictions of violence, major character death, smut (eventually)

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x Original Female Character

This is Chapter 2! Word Count: 3k

All Parts Here

The air was thick with the scent of jasmine and the distant trickling of the Moulouya River. Cecilia lay sprawled on the bank of the river. Beside her, Atticus traced lazy patterns on her back, his green eyes gazing at her lovingly.

"Tell me a story, Atticus," she pleaded, her voice a soft murmur.

He smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "A story?" he smiled, his voice a low, hypnotic rhythm as he tucked a loose strand of hair away from her face.

“Once…there was a flightless bird, who dared to defy the gods..."

He wove an intricate tale of a mythical bird, imprisoned in a gilded cage, who yearned for freedom. He spoke of courage, of resilience, of the power of love. As he spoke, Cecilia felt a sense of peace course through her, a sense of possibility and hope.

"Who inspired this little bird?" she asked Atticus softly, her voice barely a whisper.

Atticus looked at her, his gaze filled with a tenderness that took her breath away. "Perhaps a lady," he said, his voice husky, "a certain young woman, with eyes as bright as the stars."

Cecilia, blushing, playfully pushed him away. "Atticus!" she chuckled, but her heart soared. Atticus always knew what to say, even if it made her cringe. He knew her, truly knew her. Atticus saw the fire within her, the spirit that rumbled.

He leaned closer, his breath warm on her cheek. "You are more than just a woman, Cecilia," he whispered, his voice soft, reassuring, and loving. "You are a force of nature, a storm waiting to break free. My darling, I thank the gods everyday that I fled Rome. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here with you.”

Cecilia smiled, leaning over and pressing a soft kiss to his lips. His words made her stomach flutter as he fortified a confidence in herself that she hadn't known she possessed. She ran her fingers through his silky black hair, her other hand resting on his broad chest, tracing the contours of his muscles beneath the thin fabric of his tunic. His salt and pepper beard tickled her skin, showing his age. But she did not care, for she loved him all the same. In fact, the lines etched around his eyes, the silver strands in his hair, only served to deepen her affection. They spoke of a life lived, of experiences shared, of a wisdom that came with age.

A low growl rumbled in his chest, a sound that sent shivers down her spine. He deepened the kiss, his hands moving to cup her face, his thumbs gently stroking her cheeks. Cecilia surrendered to the kiss, pulling him closer in a haze of desire and need.

The memory, vivid and poignant, washed over her. She could almost feel the warmth of the sun on her skin, Atticus’ lips against hers. Then, with a jolt, she was brought back to the present, the rustling of the bed sheets bringing her back to reality.

She rolled over in the bed, seeing Emperor Geta sleeping soundly and reminding her of the harsh reality she was facing.. She was bare, cold and shivering from the events of the night. The scent of his cologne, a cloying, nearly sickening mixture of musk and spice, clung to the air, a constant reminder of the violation she had endured. Every inch of her skin seemed to burn with a feeling of regret, a feeling of guilt for something that wasn’t even her doing.

Geta awoke shortly thereafter, blinking against the morning light. He looked around the room, his gaze finally settling on Cecilia, who lay beside him, seemingly asleep. A slow smile spread across his face. He loved seeing her like this, vulnerable, bare, and defenseless.

He leaned closer, pressing a kiss to her cheek. "Good morning, my dove," he murmured, his voice a low caress. He was attempting to be romantic, as there was still a glimmer of hope in him that Cecilia would fall for it somehow.

Cecilia feigned sleep, her heart pounding against her rib cage. She could feel his gaze upon her, a predatory glint in his eyes as he mapped out her naked body. He reached out, peeling the covers back to expose her as he traced the curve of her waist.

"You are so beautiful, little dove," he whispered, his voice husky with desire. He leaned down, his lips brushing against her ear. "Time to awaken," he murmured, his voice a purr. "The day awaits."

"I wish not to go with you today, Geta," she murmured, her voice muffled by the pillow.

Geta knew what she was referring to – the games. In celebration of General Acacius' conquest over Numidia, Rome was holding a special series of events at the Colosseum. A spectacle of brutality and bloodshed designed to impress the masses and solidify Roman dominance. In Cecilia’s opinion, a waste of time, money, and precious resources.

"You must go," Geta said, his voice unrelenting, "they will expect to see the Empress there."

She shook her head, her back still turned to him. "I will not support pointless bloodshed, nor will I be considered an empress."

Geta rolled his eyes and took a deep breath, clearly annoyed with her petulance. "You will go, little dove," he said, stroking her back gently, "this is not up for debate."

"And if I don't?" she asked bitterly.

Every action or breath that came from Geta only made her defy him even more. There was no love present, just his drive to conquer. Geta's smile vanished. "Then," he said, his voice a low growl, "you will learn the true meaning of regret."

"I already know the meaning of regret," she said, silent tears forming and hitting her pillow, "for I have to lay with you."

Geta was taken aback by her words. He had expected defiance, perhaps even a plea for mercy on her soul. But this…this was different. This was a raw, unfiltered expression of her pain. He saw the tremor that shook her body, the way her shoulders slumped in despair. For a fleeting moment, a flicker of something akin to remorse crossed his features. But it was quickly extinguished, replaced by a calculating resolve.

"You will learn to enjoy it, little dove," Geta said, his voice hardening as he pulled her close to his chest, "or you will learn to suffer the consequences."

She closed her eyes, letting more silent tears fall as her body was pressed tightly against his. She craved comfort, the arms of someone who actually cared for her. A handmaiden entered the room, bearing their tunics and robes for the day. Geta, startled by the interruption, released Cecilia abruptly, a flicker of annoyance crossing his features.

Cecilia, seizing the opportunity, quickly slipped out of his grasp, her eyes fixed on the floor. She felt a surge of relief, a momentary escape from his suffocating presence. She thanked the handmaiden, taking their clothes and handing Geta his cloaks.

Geta’s eyes roamed her body once more before he took his clothing and muttered, “get dressed. We must be at the Colosseum within the hour.”

Cecilia, shivering despite the warmth of the room, quickly pulled her gowns over her body. She felt violated, not just physically, but emotionally. He had used her, not just as a political pawn, but as a doll for his deepest desires.

————

They sat in the box on the south side of the colosseum upon their arrival. Along with them sat the Imperial court and General Acacius.

General Marcus Acacius sat behind her as Geta and Caracalla addressed the people. Cecilia sat in her chair, unable to comprehend the vastness of the crowd that had gathered. These people had come to watch others die in celebration of a forced wedding and the killing of innocent people. And she, Cecilia, was a part of it.

"Welcome to the games! A grand tournament," Caracalla announced, his voice booming across the colosseum, "a contest of champions! The victor will be rewarded with riches beyond measure, and perhaps, freedom!”

A roar of approval erupted from the crowd. This was not a celebration; it was a barbaric spectacle for unsolicited entertainment.. The tournament, with its promise of wealth and power, would undoubtedly attract the most ruthless and ambitious gladiators in the Empire.

Geta sat down next to Cecilia as the match began. "Wipe the frown off your face," he whispered in her ear, "you will smile and acknowledge the people in such places as the colosseum."

She sat up a little straighter and tried to plaster on a fake smile. She turned around and locked eyes with Acacius once again. He didn't say anything, but his gaze was warm and inviting, just like the looks they shared the evening prior.

"I've never been to the games before," Cecilia said to Acacius, trying to avoid looking down at the gladiators who were about to be slain.

Acacius’ face contorted at her words as he turned to Geta. "Perhaps this isn't the best place for the lady if this is her first viewing of a fight."

Geta frowned at her, then back at the General. "She'll be just fine. I'm sure she's seen far worse in the brothels."

Cecilia looked at Acacius, shame overcoming her emotions as the truth behind Geta's words stung. She really was born from nothing, and had nothing to show for the life she once lived in Numidia. She had been used, exposed for the pleasure of any man with gold in his pockets. The truth stung, it made her realize how different she was than the people sitting around her.

"They might be able to put the finest gowns on me," she said to Acacius, her voice low, "but they will never change what I am."

She could have sworn she saw a small smile spread across Acacius’ lips.

Emperor Geta slapped her for her smart remark. "From now on you will not speak unless you are being spoken to."

Acacius looked surprised at the act of sudden aggression. Her face stung, a burning ember hue shining where Geta's hand had struck. She simply nodded and turned back around, focusing on the gruesome spectacle unfolding before her. The roar of the crowd, the smell of blood and fear, it was all too much for her ro handle.

“I am speaking to her,” General Acacius spoke out to Geta, his voice firm yet laced with a hint of concern.

Geta, his face a mask of fury, scoffed. "You have no business speaking to my wife, Acacius."

Acacius' eyes met hers, a flicker of something else unreadable passing through them. "Are you alright, flower?" he asked, his voice low and gentle, a stark contrast to the brutality of the arena. He gently touched her cheek. Cecilia flinched at first, but then found solace in the warmth and unexpected kindness of his touch.

"A slap gives no pain like what I endured last night, General," she murmured, her voice barely audible.

Acacius's hand tightened slightly on her cheek, a muscle in his jaw twitching. He knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, the depths of what she had been through in one night with the Emperor. He had seen things that would curdle the blood of the strongest men, but somehow he knew whatever she had been through was much worse.

He looked away, his gaze sweeping across the arena, where the gladiators battled for their lives. "You are stronger than you think," he said, his voice low and gruff. "You have survived this long. Most could not."

Cecilia looked at him, a flicker of hope igniting within her. Perhaps, just perhaps, this man was someone who held her ideals.

"Just think," Geta smiled at her, bringing her attention away from Acacius, "your family died for you to be sitting here with royalty. You've been blessed by the gods, little dove."

Cecilia clenched her jaw. "Sounds more like a curse to me," she muttered.

Geta smacked her once more, and she sighed, holding her cheek that now felt like it was on fire. "Lose the attitude before I throw you into this match myself," Geta said.

Acacius handed her a glass of wine in a desperate attempt to remedy the situation. "Thank you," she murmured to him, taking that as her signal to straighten up and watch the match.

The fights were brutal. Cecilia had never seen so much pointless bloodshed in her life. Bouts of men fought for the entertainment of bloodthirsty politicians. Geta shared drinks with his brother as Cecilia sat in her chair, posed like a doll, a grim spectator to the carnage. Cecilia could have sworn she saw Emperor Caracalla gaining immense, intimate pleasure with himself as the fights ensued.

"Watch your breath around your husband," Acacius whispered in her ear, his voice low and cautionary.

"I'd rather die than conform to his beliefs like a puppet," she replied.

Acacius's eyes met hers, a flicker of passion passing through them. "Then don't conform," he murmured, his voice low and encouraging.

Cecilia felt a surge of unexpected warmth. "I won't," she vowed, her eyes fixed on the gladiators, but her gaze burning with a fierce determination.

"Meet me at the east corridor tonight," Acacius said matter-of-factly.

"Are you trying to lay with me, General? I may be from a brothel, but I am married now, General," she smirked softly, trying to play around with him.

General Acacius liked her attitude and her clear distaste for tyranny. He smiled at her wit. "Not lucky, my lady. I just want to help you."

Cecilia nodded at him as Geta interrupted and pushed her face forward towards the match, an aggressive hold on her cheeks. "Look at them, dove," Geta chuckled, "a fight. Bloodshed, celebrating Rome."

Match after match went on before her, all to please the hungry crowd that continued to cheer it on. The General was the only man who seemed to see the uselessness of it all. "I would like to go to our quarters, please, Emperor," she said quietly to Geta after she felt she had seen enough.

He chuckled, "Not in the middle of a match, little dove. You must stay for the entirety of the games.”

Cecilia sighed, running her fingers over the rigid pattern carved into her wine glass as a sort of grounding mechanism. The glass alone cost more than anything she had ever owned. It was hard to comprehend how these cynical men had everything while people were dying from starvation and illness in the streets of Rome. Not only that, but the poor were the same men they were pitting against each other for entertainment.

"Another glass, my lady?" Acacius asked, his fingertips brushing against hers as he took the cup from her.

"Please, General," she murmured, gratefully accepting the drink.

If she couldn't go to bed, she wanted to drink away the memory of all this useless, pointless death. Acacius filled her glass, still not breaking his eye contact with her.

"May I sit with your Empress, Emperor Geta?" Acacius asked, motioning towards the empty seat next to his own.

Geta, engrossed in the battle, waved Cecilia off to sit with Acacius, not even realizing what he had agreed to. Cecilia let out a small sigh of relief as Acacius took her hand gently, helping her into the chair that was next to him.

"Thank you," she whispered. She realized she found herself thanking the General an awful lot.

"I don't like it either…the games," General Acacius said, "it's not worth the men we lose, potential soldiers if you ask me."

"Soldiers for your army of killers?" she sipped her wine, her voice low.

"I do not expect you to understand, my lady," Acacius said, "but this, the territory Rome conquers, is bigger than you could ever imagine it to be."

"Perhaps you could show me. Maybe you could show me what my lover died for," she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm and challenge.

Another soft smile spread across his lips. "East corridor, flower. Don't forget."

Each time he mentioned the corridor, he spoke quietly, more secretively. Cecilia dared not breathe a word about it to Geta.

"East corridor," she whispered back to him as he clinked his wine glass to hers, giving her a swift wink.

General Acacius was intriguing to her, even with her knowledge of who he was. He was like a game she wanted to play, a puzzle begging to be solved. All the while, he was also warm, inviting, something she had never experienced from a man before. Well, something she had never experienced in someone besides Atticus.

Around the time their glasses met, an arrow went flying between the two of them, landing in the pillar that rested behind their chairs. Screams erupted from the crowd as General Acacius pushed Cecilia down towards the floor, taking her arm to quickly escort her out of the arena.

“General!” Geta yelled, his voice filled with rage. “You do not protect her, you protect me and my brother!”

But his fit was no use. Acacius was already leading Cecilia away, his gaze unwavering as he navigated through the panicked crowd. He had anticipated the danger, it seemed.

Emperor Geta, left alone with his brother, could only watch as Acacius disappeared into the throng, taking Cecilia with him. Cecilia, heart pounding, clung to Acacius's arm. She had never felt so grateful to anyone in her life. He had saved her, just as he had promised.

"You have paid your debt, General," Cecilia told him as he continued to escort her away from the Colosseum, her chest heaving. "Although I am still unsure as to what that debt is."

Acacius paused, his gaze fixed on the chaos unfolding behind them. "Let's just say," he said enigmatically, "I will never be able to pay off the debt I owe to this man.”

Cecilia felt a shiver crawl down her spine. His words were chilling, the implication clear. She was not simply a woman in need of rescuing, Acacius had known she was more than that from the moment they met.

“Who do you owe this debt to?" she asked, her voice quivering, her heart pounding in her chest. She feared she knew the answer, the breath leaving her lungs.

Acacius pulled her into a shadowed alleyway, away from the chaos of the fleeing crowd. "I owe a debt to Atticus Claudius," he admitted, his voice low and somber.

Cecilia froze, her blood running cold. She shook her head, "How... how do you know him?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper, disbelief washing over her. She pushed Acacius as she sobbed violently, "How dare you speak his name?"

Acacius's eyes hardened. "Atticus," he began, the word catching in his throat, "was a close friend before he fled Rome. We served together. We faced down barbarian hordes together." He paused, his gaze fixed on the gravel below. "He was a good man, a brave man. He would have hated this."

Cecilia shook her head. Atticus, her beloved Atticus, had served alongside this man, and had faced war together. But it all didn’t make sense. She knew Atticus had fled Rome, but not that he was an experienced soldier, a soldier strong and memorable enough to have known the General.

"Then why did you let your people kill him?!" Cecilia cried, her voice rising in anger as she pounded against the General’s chest plate.

Acacius flinched, his face hardening as he grabbed her hands gently. "It was war, Cecilia," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "War is messy. There are always casualties."

"But you could have stopped it!" she argued, her voice trembling with rage. "You could have refused the order, you could have…"

She trailed off, the weight of her own grief and anger momentarily overwhelming her. Atticus, her beloved Atticus, died at the hands of the very man who now claimed to mourn his loss.

Acacius remained silent, his gaze fixed on her as he held her wrists. He knew she was right. He could have protested, he could have refused to participate in the slaughter. But ambition, duty, and the weight of his own ambition had clouded his judgment.

He looked at her, his eyes filled with a mixture of guilt and regret. "I… I failed him," he admitted, his voice barely a whisper. "I failed them all."

Cecilia, seeing the genuine remorse in his eyes, felt a surge of unexpected sympathy. He was not just a ruthless general; he was a man haunted by his own failures, a man who carried the weight of his past on his shoulders.

"We both failed him," she said softly, her voice filled with a shared grief. "We both failed to stop this madness."

As Acacius released his grip on her wrists, her hands fell to rest on his chest. She let out a quiet sob, leaning into his broad figure. She found a strange comfort in the hardness of his chest against her bruised cheek. “What must we do, General?” she cried, “how does one stop this pain?”

It was a comfort born from shared grief, from a recognition of the shared pain they both carried. Acacius, surprised by her sudden embrace, hesitated for a moment, then gently wrapped his arms around her, offering a silent comfort.

"We fight back," he said, his voice low and grim. "We find allies, we build a resistance, we expose the corruption that lies at the heart of this empire."

He pulled back slightly, his eyes searching hers. "Are you with me, my lady?"

Cecilia, her heart pounding, met his gaze. "I am," she whispered, a newfound resolve hardening her voice.

"We find others who see the injustice of it all," he said, "People who are tired of this bloodshed, tired of living in fear. We build a resistance, a network of those who believe in a better future."

Cecilia, looking into his eyes, saw a flicker of passion she once saw in Atticus. In that moment, she realized this was about something bigger, about fighting for a better future, a future where people were not mere pawns in a deadly game played by ruthless men such as the Emperors.

He took her hand, his grip firm and reassuring. "We may be few, but we are not alone. There are others out there, others who see the rot at the heart of this empire. We'll find them, I'm sure of it."

23 notes · View notes

pascalhowlett · 5 days ago

Text

ETHEREAL CHAPTER LINKS AND AO3

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

AO3 (pascalquinns) : Ethereal

#marcus acacius fanfiction #pedro pascal #fanfic #gladiator ii #gladiator 2 #marcus acacius smut #marcus acacius x reader #marcus acacius #gladiator movie #gladiator fanfiction #pedro pascal gladiator #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal fandom #pedro pascal characters

17 notes · View notes

pascalhowlett · 5 days ago

Text

babe wake up, new marcus acacius pics dropped on the tl

2K notes · View notes

pascalhowlett · 6 days ago

Text

Ethereal (Chapter One)

A/N: Hello everyone! This is my first time posting a novel length fan fiction on Tumblr, so be patient with me! If you would like to read this on A03, you can find that here!

Warnings: Mentions of r*pe, implied r*pe, graphic depictions of violence, major character death, smut

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x Original Female Character

This is Chapter 1! Word Count: 5k

More parts will be added as I edit them. Please let me know what you think! :)

Numidia, a small territory on the coast of Africa, was her home. Quaint and full of life, settled on the Moulouya River, it had everything she needed. Numidia was home to her entire family, amongst them her beloved Atticus.

Her life was idyllic until Rome decided to invade the land. The attack, a nightmare that replayed in her dreams every night, remained vividly etched in her memory. The Romans burned down their homes, cast their belongings into the river, and herded them onto their boats like cattle. Some whispered that those who died had been granted a mercy that was denied to those who were taken captive.

She vowed never to forgive the man who had killed Atticus. He had been trying to save her brother, a young boy no older than ten, who had wandered too close to the burning structures. Atticus, seeing the fear in her brother’s eyes, had rushed forward, shielding him with his own body. The Roman soldier, a young recruit, panicked and fired an arrow. It found its mark, piercing Atticus's chest with a sickening thud.

Cecilia, witnessing the scene from a distance, felt the world tilt on its axis. Atticus, her lover, her protector, lay sprawled on the ground, his blood staining the earth a crimson hue. His eyes, wide with disbelief, met hers before the light faded from them. The sight of Atticus, his lifeblood ebbing away in the dust, was a wound that would never heal. The image of his lifeless body, the terror in his eyes, haunted her dreams, a constant reminder of the brutality of the Roman invasion.

"It's not your time, flower," Atticus had told her as she held his limp body close, "the sun always rises after the darkest night."

Atticus, a poet in his own right, had always possessed a way with words. Even in death, his words continued to resonate within her, an indelible mark upon her soul.

But, my dear Atticus, when will that sun rise? She asked herself that question every night.

Once the people of Numidia were taken to Rome, she was sold into slavery. No one else from her family had survived the journey. She was sold to the lenos of Rome's biggest brothel, becoming a slave to the highest bidder. She wasn't proud of the things she had done, and would do. Even now, she couldn't fully reconcile with her actions that kept her alive.

When the girls of the brothel were informed that Emperor Geta was seeking a wife, the news spread like wildfire. Every single woman who was unmarried and childless was vying for the position. Except for her. Cecilia’s thoughts never left Atticus. She was convinced she could never love another man. Marriage, especially to the murderers of her beloved, was the furthest thing from her mind. However, it seemed Emperor Geta was drawn to those who didn't immediately fall at his feet.

"Geta has ordered that we present him with our finest woman," the men discussed as they pulled Cecilia aside, their eyes leering over her body like vultures circling prey. "And who better than our youngest, newest acquisition? She's fresh meat, still trembling. He'll love that.”

“Besides," one of them added with a cruel smirk, "the other lupanars always get the best ones. It's time we showed them what we have."

Emperor Geta arrived at the brothel that evening. All the girls greeted him, flaunting their breasts and wearing nothing to attract his attention. Geta ignored them, marching straight forward to where she rested on the large bed in her gown.

"She's our best one, your highness," the lenos told Emperor Geta as he entered the room, "you won't find another like her anywhere else."

Geta's eyes met hers, and a chill ran down her spine. He was a bloodthirsty, cynical man. His eyes made that abundantly clear. Like those of a predator sizing up its prey, his eyes lingered on her lips, then slowly traced the curve of her neck, a chilling smile playing on his lips.

Geta leaned closer, his voice a low growl, “Speak.”

“I have no name for you,” she spat back, her voice trembling with defiance.

“Her name is Cecilia,” the lenos corrected, their eyes wide with a mixture of fear and anticipation.

For a fleeting moment, she swore she saw a glimmer of adoration in Geta's eyes, as if he cared or even liked her, just for a brief instant. But that was quickly replaced by a proud snarl.

"Look at me," Geta commanded, placing his hand on her chin, "you shall be my wife. This is an honor. I paid an awful lot for you."

"I am no empress. Nor will I ever be your wife," she declared, "perhaps death would be a higher honor."

He laughed at that, sliding her gown off her shoulders. "You will be my wife. I would watch my tongue, darling. There are many women who would kill to be here in your position."

"Pick someone else," she told him, his hand roaming across her chest.

"No," he drawled, his finger tracing up to her jawline once more, "I don't think I will."

She felt herself shiver, both from the sudden chill of exposed skin and the fear that was slowly consuming her.

"I like this one," Geta said to the lenos, "I like women with a little bit of fight in them. But nonetheless, she will be tamed."

Even his hand was icy as it slid across her skin, pulling her gown completely away. She was accustomed to such exposure, but his gaze made her feel anxious, unsafe. He smiled as he touched her, as if he derived pleasure from her reluctance. "You'll do just fine," he observed, his eyes lingering on her body, "the Roman people will love you."

She remained silent. He saw her not as a woman, but as an object, a prize to be displayed, a tool to be used. He saw her as a symbol of his power, a testament to his dominance. And that, perhaps, was the most terrifying aspect of it all. She remained silent, her gaze fixed on the floor, her mind racing as she tried to ignore what was happening. Escape seemed impossible, a distant, impossible dream. But she would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her fear, of seeing him break her.

Then, she looked up at him, her eyes blazing with defiance. "I will not rest," she said to him, her voice low and lethal, "I will fight you and your ideals until the day I die."

Geta, taken aback by her unexpected defiance, was momentarily speechless. He had expected her to cower, to submit. Instead, she met his gaze with a fire that mirrored his own, a fire that ignited a strange, unsettling thrill within him. This was no ordinary woman. This was a caged bird, desperate to break free, and she would not go down without a fight. He found himself strangely intrigued, drawn to this woman who dared to defy him, who dared to challenge his authority.

His touch lingered over her breast, then moved to run a finger over her lips. “You’re a charming little dove, aren’t you?” He asked, his voice a low growl, "But doves are meant to be caged, caged and admired."

Cecilia felt another shiver crawl down her spine, not from the cold, but from the chilling amusement in his eyes. His words, though simple, held a sinister undertone. She knew, with vast certainty, that he was not merely admiring her. He was assessing her, sizing her up, seeing just how much she could handle.

Geta leaned closer, his breath against her neck as he placed a tantalizing kiss there. "You have a spirit," he murmured, "a spirit that needs to be…refined." He ran a finger along the peak of her breast, his touch a burning brand against her sensitive skin. "You will learn to appreciate your place, Cecilia."

She closed her eyes, the image of Atticus, his blood staining the dust, flashing before her.

"You will learn to obey," Geta repeated, his voice hardening.

Cecilia opened her eyes, meeting his gaze with a defiant stare. "Never," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Geta's eyes narrowed, a dangerous glint entering their depths. "We shall see about that," he hissed, his grip tightening on her arm. The air in the room crackled with tension. The music, once a vibrant backdrop to the festivities, had faded into an eerie silence. All eyes were fixed on the Emperor and this defiant woman, their faces a mixture of fear and morbid curiosity.

Cecilia, trapped in his iron grip, felt a surge of adrenaline. This was a battle she knew she could not win.

She was taken to the palace the next morning. They dressed her in silk white tunics, preparing her for her marriage to Emperor Geta. A handmaiden bathed her, dressed her, and braided her hair before adorning her with gold jewelry.

She barely recognized herself in the mirror as Emperor Geta stood behind her.

"You look beautiful, Cecilia," Geta smirked, wrapping his arms around her waist.

"I feel like a doll," she gritted her teeth, attempting to lean away from him.

"Perhaps you are a doll, dulcissima," he whispered in her ear, "You're a puppet, my puppet. Don't forget that."

The smile he gave her in the mirror was nauseating. His words sounded like an unwanted oath, a promise to torture her for the rest of her days.

"I want you to know one name before we wed, Geta," she said to him, their eyes meeting in the mirror.

He remained silent, awaiting her response.

"Atticus," she said, "that was the name of my lover, before you sent your men to kill him."

"You dare mention your past lover to me?" Geta asked, his voice laced with momentary anger.

“You will never be him, nor will you ever have my love the way he did,” she said.

Geta's face contorted in a mask of fury. His grip tightened around her waist, his knuckles white. "You will not speak that name in this palace," he hissed, his voice low and menacing.

Cecilia met his gaze unflinchingly, a defiant spark igniting in her eyes. Geta's fury escalated. He released her abruptly, his eyes burning with rage. "You will learn to obey," he growled, his voice echoing through the room. "You will learn to fear me."

Cecilia watched him storm out of the room, his footsteps heavy and menacing. She sank to the floor, the weight of her despair momentarily crushing her. She prayed for peace, for just one beacon of hope in the unrelenting darkness that seemed to be her new life.

The wedding was a spectacle of Roman opulence, a grand display of power and wealth. Cecilia, adorned in a heavy silk gown that felt more like a prison than attire, stood before Geta, her heart a hollow ache. The ceremony was a blur of Latin incantations and the clinking of gold. Geta, his face a mask of forced amusement, placed the heavy gold band on her finger, the touch of his skin sending a wave of disgust through her.

As Geta leaned in, Cecilia felt nausea wash over her. His breath, heavy with wine and the scent of expensive perfumes, reeked of power and entitlement. Closing her eyes, she braced herself for the inevitable. His lips met hers, a forceful, demanding kiss that tasted of metal and regret. His lips on hers felt more like a death wish than a promise to a lifelong commitment. She felt that he had won before she even had a chance to fight.

Cecilia's body recoiled instinctively, but she remained frozen, a captive bird caught in a hunter's snare. Every fiber of her being screamed in protest, yet she was utterly powerless. The taste of him, the metallic tang of his wine, invaded her senses, a grotesque parody of intimacy that was on display for the people of Rome.

A single, silent tear escaped her eye, tracing a path down her cheek. It was a tear of disgust, of despair, of a love lost and a life stolen. Pure helplessness. In that moment, Cecilia felt a profound sense of violation, her spirit crushed beneath the weight of her gilded cage. Emperor Geta noticed her tear, a small smirk plastered across his face at the sight of it.

He whispered, pressing a kiss to her cheek, “caged, little dove. Caged.”

She was no longer just a pretty face, but one of politics and cynical tyranny.

As the celebrations commenced, Cecilia stood apart, observing the many people who congratulated Geta. She watched the revelers with a detached gaze, their laughter and cheers sounding hollow and meaningless. Then, she saw him.

General Marcus Acacius stood apart from the throng, his gaze fixed on the festivities with an air of weary amusement. He was a striking figure, tall and imposing. His face was etched with the lines of battle, and he adorned a pair of piercing brown eyes that seemed to hold the weight of the world. There was a melancholic air about him, a sense of quiet strength beneath the surface. Cecilia found herself inexplicably drawn to him.

To General Acacius, she stood apart from the other women, a solitary figure amidst the swirling gowns and leering faces. Her posture was defiant, her gaze distant. Her skin, pale as moonlight, was etched with a sadness that mirrored his own insecurities. Acacius had seen many women in his life, women of privilege and women of the streets, but none had affected him like this in a mere glance. There was an ethereal quality about her, a wildness that resonated deep within his soul. It was as if he was looking at a creature from another world, a creature both fragile and fierce. A creature that must be discovered.

He found himself drawn to her, a strange pull that defied logic. It was as if a dormant part of himself, a part he had long believed dead, was stirring to life. He watched her, mesmerized, as she moved through the crowd, a ghost of truth haunting the edges of the faux celebration.

Later that evening, while Geta was occupied with his guests, Cecilia found herself drawn towards the gardens, a place of peace and silence. She wandered aimlessly, the weight of her gilded cage heavy upon her. She took her brown hair out of the loosely woven braids, wiping the makeup from her face. And there, beneath the starlight, she encountered him again. General Acacius was gazing at the stars, a pensive expression on his face.

"A beautiful night," he remarked, his voice a low rumble to not draw attention to the two of them.

Cecilia, startled, turned to face him. "Indeed," she replied, her voice barely a whisper.

A comfortable silence fell between them. For the first time since her capture, Cecilia felt a sense of calm, a momentary respite from the suffocating weight of her guilt and fear. The one thing she had prayed for.

"You seem out of place here," Acacius observed, his gaze lingering on her.

Acacius, a man accustomed to observing behavior, recognizes this difference in Cecilia. He sees a lost spirit, a soul that yearns for something more. This, in turn, piques his interest and draws him toward her like a moth to a flame.

Cecilia managed a small smile. "I most certainly am, I did not ask for this."

As they spoke, Cecilia noticed a subtle shift in his gaze, a fleeting hardness in his eyes that was quickly masked by a practiced indifference. Something about him, a certain arrogance in his bearing, a cruel set to his jaw, seemed strangely familiar. Then, it hit her with the force of a physical blow.

The engraved insignia on his breastplate. She had seen it before. On the breastplates of the Roman soldiers who had pierced Atticus through the chest. It was the symbol of the Third Legion, the legion that had ravaged her homeland, the legion that had taken everything from her. Panic clawed at her throat as if it were swelling shut. This man, this man who had offered her a fleeting sense of solace, was the enemy. He was the embodiment of everything she hated, everything she had sworn to fight.

Her carefully constructed facade shattered. The calm she had fleetingly experienced evaporated, replaced by a sense of dread.

Acacius, oblivious to the turmoil raging within her, continued to speak, his voice a low, hypnotic drawl. "This city," he mused, "it suffocates the soul."

Cecilia forced herself to meet his gaze, her voice trembling slightly. "It certainly does."

But, she was unable to hide her fury. Cecilia had always been an impatient girl, who was never one to hold her tongue. “You’re the leader of the Roman army, yes?”

Acacius's eyes narrowed, the amusement fading from his expression. "And if I am?" he inquired, his voice indifferent.

Cecilia felt a surge of adrenaline. This was it. The truth was out. "The Third Legion," she hissed, "The one that destroyed Numidia. You were there, weren't you?"

Acacius's eyes narrowed further, a predatory glint entering his gaze. He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper. "You think too much, little bird. I am the General of the Roman Armies, of course I was there. I ordered the attack.”

Cecilia felt a chill crawl down her spine, loss still gripping her heart. The blood drained from her face, leaving her feeling faint. The man who had offered her a brief moment of solace, who had seemed to understand her pain, was the architect of her suffering. He was the monster who had taken everything from her. Anger, cold and furious, surged through her. She wanted to scream, to lash out, to tear him apart with her bare hands. But she knew better. This was not the time for defiance.

"Perhaps," Acacius continued, his voice a silken caress, "we should have a discussion.”

He reached out, his hand hovering over hers. Cecilia flinched, fear and uncertainty overtaking all of her other emotions. How could she trust him?

“A discussion of what, General?” her voice was bitter, “how your army killed everyone I loved? And destroyed my home?”

Acacius's smile faltered, a flicker of something akin to guilt crossing his features. He withdrew his hand, his gaze hardening. "Sometimes," he said, his voice low and seemingly insecure, "the ends justify the means."

Cecilia scoffed, the sound bitter and harsh. "What ends could possibly justify the slaughter of innocents? The murder of my lover?”

Acacius remained silent for a moment, his eyes fixed on the ground. Then, he looked up, but was still unable to meet her eyes. "The preservation of Rome," he said, his voice devoid of emotion, as if his words were rehearsed. "The expansion of our empire. These are noble goals."

"Noble goals?" she repeated, her voice dripping with sarcasm as she laughed. "Goals built on the bones of the innocent? On the tears of the bereaved?"

Acacius remained unfazed. "Sentimentality has no place in matters of state," he said coldly. "The weak must be sacrificed for the greater good."

However, Cecilia sensed a dissonance in his words, a disconnect between the icy facade he presented and the flicker of something akin to regret that had crossed his features. She sensed a warmness within him that she could not quite pinpoint. He was playing a role, reciting a well-rehearsed script as if he had known it his whole life. But beneath the surface, Cecilia sensed a deeper, more complex emotion, something that hinted at a man who was not entirely comfortable with the atrocities he had committed.

Suddenly, Geta appeared in the garden, a look of enraged fury on his face. He saw Cecilia standing with the General, his wife not among the revelers as she should be. His jealousy, like a venomous snake, coiled within him.

"Cecilia!" Geta growled, his voice echoing through the garden. "What in the name of the gods is the meaning of this?!"

Cecilia's heart pounded against her ribs. This was a disaster. Acacius, however, remained stoic. He turned to face Geta, a cool smile playing on his lips. "Enjoying the festivities, Emperor?" he inquired, his voice laced with a hint of bitterness.

The tension in the air crackled as Emperor Geta ignored General Acacius’ remark.

“My dear,” Geta said to Cecilia, “there is someone I want you to meet.”

In walked Emperor Caracalla, Geta’s older brother. If she thought Emperor Geta was mad and cynical, she had not yet felt the wrath of Emperor Caracalla. Caracalla’s face was etched with a brooding intensity as he strode into the room. He was a man of imposing stature, his eyes cold and calculating just like his brother, but in a more intense way. Caracalla surveyed the room, his gaze finally settling on Cecilia.

Geta, noticing the intensity of his brother's stare, giving Cecilia a possessive squeeze around the waist. "Caracalla," he said, "meet Cecilia, my wife."

Caracalla's gaze lingered on Cecilia, a predatory glint in his eyes. She was not sure if he wanted to touch her or kill her. He stepped closer, his voice a low growl, "So, this is the woman who has captivated my brother's attention?"

Cecilia forced herself to meet his gaze. Caracalla's eyes were unsettling, a chilling mixture of lust and desire. She felt a wave of apprehension wash over her. This encounter had the potential to be far more dangerous than she had anticipated. Caracalla did not care about weddings, he would have what he wanted.

Geta, misinterpreting her fear as shyness, chuckled. "Don't be intimidated, Cecilia," he said, his voice laced with a hint of mockery. "Caracalla is merely admiring your beauty."

Caracalla's smile was a wolfish grin. "Indeed," he murmured, his gaze sweeping over Cecilia's form with a predatory gleam. "You are a captivating creature."

Cecilia felt a surge of dread. This was the opening act of a dangerous game, a game where she was the prize. “I know all about you,” Cecilia said to Caracalla, “you came to the brothel every night. You’re a man of the streets, Emperor. You shared a bed with almost every woman in the lupanar.”

The room fell silent. Geta's jaw dropped, his eyes wide with disbelief. Caracalla, however, remained unfazed. A slow smile spread across his lips, revealing a set of sharp yellow teeth.

"Indeed I have," he acknowledged with a laugh, his voice a low growl. "I have my pleasures. And I have a keen eye for…interesting specimens." He stepped closer to Cecilia. "You, my dear, are quite intriguing."

Geta, furious, stepped between them. "Caracalla! This is my wife!"

Caracalla chuckled, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Relax, brother," he said dismissively. "I merely meant to express my admiration. We did share a bed a time or two at the lupanar.”

Geta's face contorted in a mask of fury, his eyes blazing with a dangerous light. Caracalla, sensing his brother's rage, leaned back, his eyes still fixed on Cecilia, a playful smirk playing on his lips.

Cecilia, meanwhile, couldn’t help but stifle a laugh. Although the air in the room seemed to thicken, the irony of the situation was too much to bear. She was caught in the crossfire of a deeply personal and potentially explosive conflict between the two brothers, the two emperors.

Geta stepped even closer towards Caracalla. "You dare to flaunt your…associations in front of my wife? Your associations with my wife?”

Caracalla, unfazed, raised an eyebrow. "And why not? After all, we both know the pleasures of the flesh, brother. You wouldn't deny it."

But Geta’s gaze lingered on Cecilia, a possessive gleam in his eyes. Cecilia could still feel the tension in the air, the atmosphere thick with unspoken threats. She had just thrown a match into a powder keg, and she had no idea what the consequences would be.

Acacius, observing the scene unfold, remained calm. He watched the brothers gripe with a grim satisfaction. He had expected this. These two brothers, bound by blood yet driven by insatiable ambition and incontinent desire, were a powder keg waiting to explode. Cecilia, with her defiant spirit, had just ignited the fuse.

He watched, his eyes narrowed as the brothers sparred. Acacius, a seasoned warrior, understood the dynamics of power. He had seen empires rise and fall, witnessed the corrosive influence of ambition on even the strongest men. Geta and Caracalla, with their unchecked power and ruthless ambition, were a ticking time bomb. Their sibling rivalry was fueled by jealousy and greed.

Acacius knew adding Cecilia to the mix was only going to cause their empire to crumble even quicker. He had no illusions about the brothers' intentions with her. They saw Cecilia as a prize, a symbol of their power and dominance. After all, an empress would fortify their power. But Cecilia, with her quiet defiance, was more than just a trophy. She was a catalyst.

Acacius, a man weary of war and the endless cycle of violence, saw an opportunity in this chaos. He could use this brewing conflict to his advantage, to further his own agenda, to perhaps even restore some semblance of order in a world consumed by greed and ambition. He knew that playing this game would be dangerous, a high-stakes gamble. But Acacius had always been a gambler, a man who thrived on uncertainty. And in this dangerous game of thrones, he was determined to play his hand.

Caracalla's smile vanished, replaced by a cold fury as he spoke to his brother. "She is a prize, Geta," he hissed, his voice dripping with venom. "And prizes are meant to be admired, to be…appreciated."

Geta's grip tightened on Cecilia's arm, his knuckles white. "She is my property," he snarled, his eyes blazing with rage. "And you will not touch her."

The tension in the room was palpable. Cecilia, caught in the crossfire, rolled her eyes. “I am owned by no one,” she said, yanking her arm away from Geta.

Geta staggered back, his face contorted in a mask of fury. He had never been defied like this, not by anyone. His eyes, blazing with rage, darted between Cecilia and Caracalla. "You will regret those words, woman," he spat..

Caracalla, however, found himself intrigued by Cecilia's defiance. He admired her courage, her refusal to be cowed by her captors. This was not the meek, submissive girl he had initially expected.

"Now this," Caracalla mused, a slow smile spreading across his lips, "is far more interesting."

Caracalla stepped towards Cecilia, his eyes gleaming with a predatory light. "You have a spirit, little bird," he purred, his voice a silken caress. "A spirit that needs to be… tamed."

Cecilia felt a shiver crawl down her spine. Caracalla's gaze, intense and unsettling, made her skin crawl. Geta, seeing the predatory gleam in his brother's eyes, knew he had to act. He stepped between them once again, his hand hovering near the hilt of his dagger. "This is enough," Geta growled, his voice thick with barely suppressed rage. "This is my wedding feast, not the gladiatorial arena."

Caracalla, however, ignored his brother. He reached out, his hand brushing against Cecilia's cheek. "You will learn to obey," he whispered, his voice a low growl. "I will teach you if my brother cannot."

Cecilia’s heart was pounding like a drum. She was trapped in a web of lies and deceit, a fresh target. And she knew, with an unwavering certainty, that this was only the beginning.

Suddenly, a voice cut through the tension, "Perhaps a little decorum is in order, brothers."

All eyes turned towards General Acacius, his face a mask of impassivity. His presence was radiating an aura of calm authority. Geta and Caracalla, momentarily stunned by Acacius's intervention, exchanged wary glances. Acacius, a respected military leader, held a certain respect even within the Imperial court.

"A wedding celebration should be a joyous occasion," Acacius continued, his voice low and measured, "not a display of…sibling rivalry."

He turned his attention to Cecilia, his gaze searching hers. "You seem distressed, my lady. Perhaps a moment of fresh air would do you good."

General Acacius offered her his arm, his gaze challenging Geta. Geta, still seething with anger, hesitated for a moment, then nodded reluctantly. Cecilia, seizing the opportunity, accepted Acacius's offer. She placed her hand on his broad arm, feeling a surge of odd relief in his touch. Acacius, she realized, might be her only hope.

As they walked away from the tense scene, Cecilia turned to Acacius, her voice barely a whisper, "Thank you."

Acacius smiled faintly. "Consider it a…favor."

He knew this was far from over for her. The brothers, their rivalry now further inflamed, would not easily forget this incident. But for now, he had provided Cecilia with a brief respite, a moment to gather her thoughts.

“You seem troubled,” Acacius said to her, not releasing her arm. Cecilia did not pull away, but seeked refuge in the feeling of his strong bicep.

“Very troubled,” she replied, “I did not ask for any of this. Death would be a privilege compared to what I will face tonight with Geta.”

Acacius's gaze softened. He understood the fear that gripped her, the brothers were relentless and would use her to please even their wildest fantasies. He had seen that same fear in the eyes of countless women who crossed their path.

"You are not alone," he said, his voice a low rumble, a promise whispered in the night. "I will not let them harm you."

Cecilia looked up at him, surprised. He was an enemy, a Roman general, yet he offered her an immeasurable amount of comfort, a promise of protection. It was a strange sensation, a flicker of hope in the midst of despair.

"Thank you," she whispered again, her voice barely audible.

Acacius turned his head to face her. "Consider it a…debt paid."

Cecilia's eyebrows arched. "A debt?"

Acacius's gaze met hers, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his eyes. "Let's just say," he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "I have my own reasons for wanting to keep the peace with you, at least for now."

#marcus acacius #pedro pascal #general acacius #gladiator 2 #gladiator ii #gladiator movie #marcus acacius x reader #marcus acacius fanfiction #marcus acacius smut #fanfic #pedro pascal gladiator #gladiator fanfiction #gladiator ii fanfiction #pedro pascal fandom #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #geta gladiator

27 notes · View notes