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[softpascalito]

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Dulcissima I Marcus Acacius x Vestal!Reader I Chapter XIX - Dulce

Summary: Set before and during Gladiator II. General Acacius finds himself entranced by a highly valued priestess of Rome – A Vestal Virgin. But you both have taken vows that make sure your paths may never cross. Until they do.

Aka a fix-it fanfic where Acacius survives the Colosseum.

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x Vestal Virgin Reader Rating: Explicit / MDNI Word count: 57k+ Tags: Secret Relationship, Vestal Virgins, Religious Guilt, Gladiator fights, Gladiator II compliant (more or less), Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Ancient Rome, Age Difference, Slow Burn (ish), Injury, Kissing, Historical Inaccuracy, (Attempted) Sexual Harassment, Smut, First Time, Oral Sex (f receiving), Vaginal Sex, Unprotected Sex, Slight Breeding Kink, Semi-Public Sex, Pining, More tags to be added

AO3 // Series Masterlist // Masterlist // Fic Playlist // Ko-Fi

notes: hi! this one took a little longer but i've been so swamped with my other work that i didn't get to uploading until now. as always, comments and support are greatly appreciated ♡

(art by Gökberk Kaya)

Chapter XIX - Dulce

Acacius’s cubiculum is off to the other side of the landing above the atrium and you let him take the lead, allowing the gentle pull of his hand to drag you behind him. You have half a mind to cast a glance around the quiet space, checking whether or not your sudden rush has any witnesses. But you seem to be alone.

“Here,” he hums as he lets go of your hand and stops in front of the door, pushing it open to reveal a bedroom not unlike yours. The curtains that frame the windows have the same color, the same airiness to them that seems to carry throughout the whole villa. The walls that may have once been white are more of a comfortable creamy color now, several alcoves decorating them. They’re not too big, raised a few feet off the floor and barely big enough to fit a small statue. But the largest of them, the one beside the bed, is decorated with a mosaic.

A woman facing away from her viewer, her garments floating around her while she holds a fresh bundle of flowers in one arm, the other outstretched to touch those that still rise from the ground, maybe not quite tall enough for picking. Her form is such a stark contrast against the deep green and blue tiles that are all around her, filling the rest of the alcove from top to bottom, that it makes you pause for a moment, stepping closer to the piece of art as Acacius locks the door behind you.

“She is beautiful,” you hum softly, catching his attention. You listen to his footsteps coming up behind you and then his hands settle on your waist once more and he hums in agreement, resting his chin on your shoulder.

“She reminds me of you.”

“Why?” You ask bluntly. For the woman does not wear a veil or carry a flame. “You cannot even see her face.”

“I do not need to.” Acacius explains simply. “I know beauty and brains when they find my presence. Even if they are turned away. Even if they are veiled.”

“Acacius–” You start but he tuts softly, shaking his head.

“Allow me.” He whispers, nudging you until you turn to face him instead of the nameless woman on the wall. He has put the wine onto the table beside the bed– and you find that he is holding something else, a package shaped like a small square that fits perfectly into the palm of his hand. “I know I have hurt you.”

“I already told you, you are forgiven,” you repeat quietly but you can tell he’s not satisfied with tha. Which, really, who would not be satisfied with the forgiveness of a Vestal so easily given?

“I wish for you to have this,” his eyes flicker back and forth between both of yours and you can tell he is nervous. “My hope is that it will show you where my … true intentions lie. Where they have been.”

You take the small parcel from him, the size of a small honeycake wrapped into brown, worn paper, held together with red string. Carefully, you begin to open the present, making sure to neatly unwrap it. Your mind is already going miles and miles an hour, wondering what exactly he can mean. You thought you knew where his priorities lied and it clearly was not you. Not fully, anyway.

The skillfully melted gold, that seems to lighten up the room with a dim glow the moment you unwrap it, makes your breath catch in your throat. So does the green stone that sits on the side of the bracelet.

But not because of their worth, even though you are sure they could not have come cheap. But because of where they are from.

The shop he found you in in Beneventum. You were holding this very bracelet when Acacius stormed in with panic in his eyes and hurried you back to the villa and into the confines of your new guard before you had a chance to protest. You still remember the tremble you thought you saw in his hands that day, when he left you to be in your room. And it raises the one question.

“You went back to buy it?” You whisper, only able to raise your gaze from the bracelet resting in your hand with immense willpower.

“The same day, yes.” He confirms quietly and now you understand why he wanted you to have this. Because it shows that he did care. “I meant to give it to you. I thought it may lighten your mood but when I came to the villa in the morning, you were nowhere to be found.”

“I was with Rusticus,” you quickly explain. “He allowed me to visit the temple to say my prayers.”

“Yes. I saw you return with him.”

It’s like reading a book you loved as a child after you’ve become older, after you’ve turned wiser. You let the morning pass through your mind once more. The temple, the old man with his cart, buying baked goods. Laughing with Rusticus on the way back to the villa. Of course that is the part that Acacius would have seen.

“Either way–” He starts again and you’ve been quiet long enough that you know Acacius has understood where your thoughts have gone. And his eager attempt to distract from them only solidifies your belief that you are right in thinking that he did not enjoy seeing you with the other man. “I meant to give it to you. But I was not sure how.”

“I have it now,” you offer weakly, a smile playing around your lips as you put the paper and string to the side and push the bracelet against your free hand.

“May I?” Acacius hums and you nod, stilling as he carefully takes the bracelet from you. One hand comes to steady your arm. “The woman refused to sell it to me at first. I think I came off a little … strong when I came into her shop.” With seemingly no effort, the gold slips over your knuckles and onto your arm, the cool metal sending a small shiver through your body.

“You were worried,” you defend him quietly, even though you know he is right. And you were livid. But that night, you imagined how you’d have felt if you had shown up to the villa to find him missing. You believe your reaction would have been similar. “You paid her handsomely, I hope.”

“More than.” Acacius nods but unlike yours, there is no joy in his voice. You’re not sure how or why but you can tell you have hit a nerve. You quirk an eyebrow in question and he sighs in response, unfastening the leather pouch he used to pay the lady earlier from his belt and throwing it for you to catch. You just barely manage to, your hands weighed down with how heavy it is. And when you loosen the string that holds it together and peek inside, you almost gasp.

“These are all–” You press out, taking one of the gold coins out to inspect it. “This is half a fortune, Acacius.”

You are no stranger to money, not in your position. It is something you have to understand, both for yourself and the many people the Vestals have business with. But this is … a lot, even for you.

“I do not care for the gold,” Acacius says quietly and you watch as he lowers himself onto the bed, propping his elbows up on his knees and brushing his hands over his face. “It is cursed.” It is just a whisper, one slipping between the fingers covering his face.

“Why?” You question softly, like you are scared he may take offense to your question.

“It is gold I get paid for sending young men to their deaths.” A sad smile plays around his lips. “Like I said. Cursed.”

You sigh as well, slowly padding over to him and getting on your knees in front of him. You reach for his hands, drawing them away from his face and into yours instead. “I do not believe in curses, my General.”

His smile changes, from sad to something you can’t quite name. “I know you said you did not wish for grace or gifts tonight,” Acacius hums, his eyes fixed on yours, his thumb stroking your fingers in the gentle motions you’ve become so accustomed to. “I am sorry I failed you on at least one of those accounts.”

“You did not fail me,” you whisper, bowing your head to press your lips against the back of his hand. You place a gentle kiss onto his skin and whisper your words against it, like they will travel into his body this way. “You are here now. That is what matters.”

You can tell he does not fully believe you but he nods anyway, his voice cracking slightly. “Come here, anaticula.” He pulls you up and into him so that you’re perched on his thigh, not unlike the way you were below the pavilion in his gardens so many moons and suns ago.

Acacius takes a deep breath, filling his lungs with air and with you, pressing his nose into your shoulder while his arm wraps around your waist to make sure you won’t fall. Slowly but surely, you find yourself able to relax, much more than you have in the last few weeks. Even when there has not been actual danger to your life, quite literally having no one to lean on has been rough.

“Have you been on a ship before?” He muses, posing the question without judgement. You shake your head, your right hand tracing the fine golden lines on his toga, those that form tiny leaves.

“No. But I have seen them in the colosseum. And at Ostia, of course.” You dimly remember visiting the port of Ostia a few times as a child, before you were chosen. But the visits were brief and while impressive, you were not too occupied with the ships lining up along the shore.

Acacius nods and you can almost see the thoughts swirling in his eyes. “We will leave in a few days time, when everything is prepared. These waters are not as dangerous but it is naive to think any waters can not be deadly if treaded the wrong way.”

“Well, I am sure it will be an interesting experience. It must be fascinating, seeing no land. Being so far away from everything.” In truth, you have been looking forward to this part of the journey, something that you are certain not many of your kind have gotten to witness.

“Beautiful and treacherous,” Acacius agrees quietly. “I assume you know how to swim?”

You can practically watch the surprise spreading over his face when you shake your head again. “No. It was not exactly on the curriculum for a Vestal. I used to step into the river, play on the bank. Then one time, I stepped too far in and the current took me.”

Acacius has tensed slightly below you and you think you feel his grip tighten even more at hearing your story. “And then?”

“And then my father was there. He did not even yell. He just pulled me out and carried me back to land.” It feels so far away, like it was a completely different lifetime and you realize that you haven't thought about that day in a long while. “After that, I never strayed very far from the bank. And then I was chosen and life changed.”

“Let me teach you,” he says suddenly and you frown, needing a few seconds to figure out what he means.

“Teach me to swim?” You echo to make sure you’ve understood him correctly. And he nods, like it is the most natural thing in the world for a Roman General to take a day off his duties to teach a priestess how to keep herself above water. “Our dancing may have gone undiscovered but I doubt a swimming lesson would.”

He laughs softly at that, a brown strand of hair falling in front of his face as Acacius shakes his head. “No. No, I do not intend to teach you here. But there is a place that would work.” The familiar concern is back in his eyes but you find that it doesn’t bother you as much anymore. Not if he is allowing you to help him soothe his worries.

“Very well. Tomorrow, then?”

“Tomorrow,” Acacius hums in agreement, his eyes following you as you stand and step back from him, your form throwing a soft shadow into his direction, the windows to your back. His hand is still in yours, his arm outstretched so that you will not pull away.

“Is there anything else, my General?”

He almost growls at the way you address him, his fingers tightening around yours. “There is indeed.” His eyes seem to follow your curves once more. “I like how you think I would let you sleep in your own bed after tonight.”

You know very well that it is an empty threat, that Acacius would escort you back to your own bed yourself if you made it clear that was your wish. But the way he’s looking at you right now, combined with the idea of spending the night with him– it is almost too good to be true. “You consider it unsafe then, I take it?”

Your words are merely a breath spoken into the quiet room but you see the smirk that spreads over the mans face, more than ready to play the game you just started. “I do.” In one quick motion, he pulls you into him. Before you even know what has hit you, you’re straddling him while he sits on the edge of his bed, legs spread. “What if Rusticus decided to ask for another dance?”

His hand trails over your leg, fingers ghosting under the hem of your stola that has already ridden up quite a bit thanks to your position on top of the General. “You really hate his guts, don’t you?”

The hand on your thigh squeezes down at that and Acacius tuts softly. “No, I don’t. I just don’t like when others touch what is mine.”

A rush of warmth spreads through your body at his words, at his implication. For a moment, you consider if it’s nerves or if he’s being too much for you, especially after so many weeks of being apart from him. But then you feel your core clench around nothing and a frustrated whine escapes your throat, making you realize that it is not too much– it is not enough.

“I am yours?” You breathe, your hands wandering over his body, one cupping his cheek. Chocolate brown eyes watch you as he nods softly, his other hand cupping the curve of your ass.

“As far as I am concerned,” Acacius hums and you see him almost holding his breath at the question that follows. “Is that alright, dulce?”

“More than,” you agree immediately, leaning in to chase his lips. You don’t even have to. He meets you halfway, his mouth on yours in the blink of an eye. And it’s like all the worries, all the hardships fall off your shoulders when you are so close to him; when you have his hands on your skin and his lips on yours.

“Hold on–” Acacius rasps when you both break the kiss for a few moments and you withdraw reluctantly, wrapping your arms around his neck in silent protest to not let him leave. You hear him grunt at that and after a moment, you’re up in the air as he carries you through the room and to the windows. “Will you open one of these for me?”

You nod and do as told, extending one arm to the small piece of wood that keeps the windows closed at wish. A wave of cold air rushes in as soon as you do and with it the voices from the people below, some evidently still dancing around the piazza. “You enjoy hearing the sounds of the night?”

Acacius shifts you in his arms, shaking his head. “I will not deny that I do. But more than that–” He groans slightly as he lowers you back onto the bed, two arms caging you in on either side, his teeth scarping over that sensitive part of your ear. “I enjoy letting them hear you.”

[softpascalito]

Dulcissima I Marcus Acacius x Vestal!Reader I Chapter XIX - Dulce

Summary: Set before and during Gladiator II. General Acacius finds himself entranced by a highly valued priestess of Rome – A Vestal Virgin. But you both have taken vows that make sure your paths may never cross. Until they do.

Aka a fix-it fanfic where Acacius survives the Colosseum.

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x Vestal Virgin Reader Rating: Explicit / MDNI Word count: 57k+ Tags: Secret Relationship, Vestal Virgins, Religious Guilt, Gladiator fights, Gladiator II compliant (more or less), Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Ancient Rome, Age Difference, Slow Burn (ish), Injury, Kissing, Historical Inaccuracy, (Attempted) Sexual Harassment, Smut, First Time, Oral Sex (f receiving), Vaginal Sex, Unprotected Sex, Slight Breeding Kink, Semi-Public Sex, Pining, More tags to be added

AO3 // Series Masterlist // Masterlist // Fic Playlist // Ko-Fi

notes: hi! this one took a little longer but i've been so swamped with my other work that i didn't get to uploading until now. as always, comments and support are greatly appreciated ♡

(art by Gökberk Kaya)

Chapter XIX - Dulce

Acacius’s cubiculum is off to the other side of the landing above the atrium and you let him take the lead, allowing the gentle pull of his hand to drag you behind him. You have half a mind to cast a glance around the quiet space, checking whether or not your sudden rush has any witnesses. But you seem to be alone.

“Here,” he hums as he lets go of your hand and stops in front of the door, pushing it open to reveal a bedroom not unlike yours. The curtains that frame the windows have the same color, the same airiness to them that seems to carry throughout the whole villa. The walls that may have once been white are more of a comfortable creamy color now, several alcoves decorating them. They’re not too big, raised a few feet off the floor and barely big enough to fit a small statue. But the largest of them, the one beside the bed, is decorated with a mosaic.

A woman facing away from her viewer, her garments floating around her while she holds a fresh bundle of flowers in one arm, the other outstretched to touch those that still rise from the ground, maybe not quite tall enough for picking. Her form is such a stark contrast against the deep green and blue tiles that are all around her, filling the rest of the alcove from top to bottom, that it makes you pause for a moment, stepping closer to the piece of art as Acacius locks the door behind you.

“She is beautiful,” you hum softly, catching his attention. You listen to his footsteps coming up behind you and then his hands settle on your waist once more and he hums in agreement, resting his chin on your shoulder.

“She reminds me of you.”

“Why?” You ask bluntly. For the woman does not wear a veil or carry a flame. “You cannot even see her face.”

“I do not need to.” Acacius explains simply. “I know beauty and brains when they find my presence. Even if they are turned away. Even if they are veiled.”

“Acacius–” You start but he tuts softly, shaking his head.

“Allow me.” He whispers, nudging you until you turn to face him instead of the nameless woman on the wall. He has put the wine onto the table beside the bed– and you find that he is holding something else, a package shaped like a small square that fits perfectly into the palm of his hand. “I know I have hurt you.”

“I already told you, you are forgiven,” you repeat quietly but you can tell he’s not satisfied with tha. Which, really, who would not be satisfied with the forgiveness of a Vestal so easily given?

“I wish for you to have this,” his eyes flicker back and forth between both of yours and you can tell he is nervous. “My hope is that it will show you where my … true intentions lie. Where they have been.”

You take the small parcel from him, the size of a small honeycake wrapped into brown, worn paper, held together with red string. Carefully, you begin to open the present, making sure to neatly unwrap it. Your mind is already going miles and miles an hour, wondering what exactly he can mean. You thought you knew where his priorities lied and it clearly was not you. Not fully, anyway.

The skillfully melted gold, that seems to lighten up the room with a dim glow the moment you unwrap it, makes your breath catch in your throat. So does the green stone that sits on the side of the bracelet.

But not because of their worth, even though you are sure they could not have come cheap. But because of where they are from.

The shop he found you in in Beneventum. You were holding this very bracelet when Acacius stormed in with panic in his eyes and hurried you back to the villa and into the confines of your new guard before you had a chance to protest. You still remember the tremble you thought you saw in his hands that day, when he left you to be in your room. And it raises the one question.

“You went back to buy it?” You whisper, only able to raise your gaze from the bracelet resting in your hand with immense willpower.

“The same day, yes.” He confirms quietly and now you understand why he wanted you to have this. Because it shows that he did care. “I meant to give it to you. I thought it may lighten your mood but when I came to the villa in the morning, you were nowhere to be found.”

“I was with Rusticus,” you quickly explain. “He allowed me to visit the temple to say my prayers.”

“Yes. I saw you return with him.”

It’s like reading a book you loved as a child after you’ve become older, after you’ve turned wiser. You let the morning pass through your mind once more. The temple, the old man with his cart, buying baked goods. Laughing with Rusticus on the way back to the villa. Of course that is the part that Acacius would have seen.

“Either way–” He starts again and you’ve been quiet long enough that you know Acacius has understood where your thoughts have gone. And his eager attempt to distract from them only solidifies your belief that you are right in thinking that he did not enjoy seeing you with the other man. “I meant to give it to you. But I was not sure how.”

“I have it now,” you offer weakly, a smile playing around your lips as you put the paper and string to the side and push the bracelet against your free hand.

“May I?” Acacius hums and you nod, stilling as he carefully takes the bracelet from you. One hand comes to steady your arm. “The woman refused to sell it to me at first. I think I came off a little … strong when I came into her shop.” With seemingly no effort, the gold slips over your knuckles and onto your arm, the cool metal sending a small shiver through your body.

“You were worried,” you defend him quietly, even though you know he is right. And you were livid. But that night, you imagined how you’d have felt if you had shown up to the villa to find him missing. You believe your reaction would have been similar. “You paid her handsomely, I hope.”

“More than.” Acacius nods but unlike yours, there is no joy in his voice. You’re not sure how or why but you can tell you have hit a nerve. You quirk an eyebrow in question and he sighs in response, unfastening the leather pouch he used to pay the lady earlier from his belt and throwing it for you to catch. You just barely manage to, your hands weighed down with how heavy it is. And when you loosen the string that holds it together and peek inside, you almost gasp.

“These are all–” You press out, taking one of the gold coins out to inspect it. “This is half a fortune, Acacius.”

You are no stranger to money, not in your position. It is something you have to understand, both for yourself and the many people the Vestals have business with. But this is … a lot, even for you.

“I do not care for the gold,” Acacius says quietly and you watch as he lowers himself onto the bed, propping his elbows up on his knees and brushing his hands over his face. “It is cursed.” It is just a whisper, one slipping between the fingers covering his face.

“Why?” You question softly, like you are scared he may take offense to your question.

“It is gold I get paid for sending young men to their deaths.” A sad smile plays around his lips. “Like I said. Cursed.”

You sigh as well, slowly padding over to him and getting on your knees in front of him. You reach for his hands, drawing them away from his face and into yours instead. “I do not believe in curses, my General.”

His smile changes, from sad to something you can’t quite name. “I know you said you did not wish for grace or gifts tonight,” Acacius hums, his eyes fixed on yours, his thumb stroking your fingers in the gentle motions you’ve become so accustomed to. “I am sorry I failed you on at least one of those accounts.”

“You did not fail me,” you whisper, bowing your head to press your lips against the back of his hand. You place a gentle kiss onto his skin and whisper your words against it, like they will travel into his body this way. “You are here now. That is what matters.”

You can tell he does not fully believe you but he nods anyway, his voice cracking slightly. “Come here, anaticula.” He pulls you up and into him so that you’re perched on his thigh, not unlike the way you were below the pavilion in his gardens so many moons and suns ago.

Acacius takes a deep breath, filling his lungs with air and with you, pressing his nose into your shoulder while his arm wraps around your waist to make sure you won’t fall. Slowly but surely, you find yourself able to relax, much more than you have in the last few weeks. Even when there has not been actual danger to your life, quite literally having no one to lean on has been rough.

“Have you been on a ship before?” He muses, posing the question without judgement. You shake your head, your right hand tracing the fine golden lines on his toga, those that form tiny leaves.

“No. But I have seen them in the colosseum. And at Ostia, of course.” You dimly remember visiting the port of Ostia a few times as a child, before you were chosen. But the visits were brief and while impressive, you were not too occupied with the ships lining up along the shore.

Acacius nods and you can almost see the thoughts swirling in his eyes. “We will leave in a few days time, when everything is prepared. These waters are not as dangerous but it is naive to think any waters can not be deadly if treaded the wrong way.”

“Well, I am sure it will be an interesting experience. It must be fascinating, seeing no land. Being so far away from everything.” In truth, you have been looking forward to this part of the journey, something that you are certain not many of your kind have gotten to witness.

“Beautiful and treacherous,” Acacius agrees quietly. “I assume you know how to swim?”

You can practically watch the surprise spreading over his face when you shake your head again. “No. It was not exactly on the curriculum for a Vestal. I used to step into the river, play on the bank. Then one time, I stepped too far in and the current took me.”

Acacius has tensed slightly below you and you think you feel his grip tighten even more at hearing your story. “And then?”

“And then my father was there. He did not even yell. He just pulled me out and carried me back to land.” It feels so far away, like it was a completely different lifetime and you realize that you haven't thought about that day in a long while. “After that, I never strayed very far from the bank. And then I was chosen and life changed.”

“Let me teach you,” he says suddenly and you frown, needing a few seconds to figure out what he means.

“Teach me to swim?” You echo to make sure you’ve understood him correctly. And he nods, like it is the most natural thing in the world for a Roman General to take a day off his duties to teach a priestess how to keep herself above water. “Our dancing may have gone undiscovered but I doubt a swimming lesson would.”

He laughs softly at that, a brown strand of hair falling in front of his face as Acacius shakes his head. “No. No, I do not intend to teach you here. But there is a place that would work.” The familiar concern is back in his eyes but you find that it doesn’t bother you as much anymore. Not if he is allowing you to help him soothe his worries.

“Very well. Tomorrow, then?”

“Tomorrow,” Acacius hums in agreement, his eyes following you as you stand and step back from him, your form throwing a soft shadow into his direction, the windows to your back. His hand is still in yours, his arm outstretched so that you will not pull away.

“Is there anything else, my General?”

He almost growls at the way you address him, his fingers tightening around yours. “There is indeed.” His eyes seem to follow your curves once more. “I like how you think I would let you sleep in your own bed after tonight.”

You know very well that it is an empty threat, that Acacius would escort you back to your own bed yourself if you made it clear that was your wish. But the way he’s looking at you right now, combined with the idea of spending the night with him– it is almost too good to be true. “You consider it unsafe then, I take it?”

Your words are merely a breath spoken into the quiet room but you see the smirk that spreads over the mans face, more than ready to play the game you just started. “I do.” In one quick motion, he pulls you into him. Before you even know what has hit you, you’re straddling him while he sits on the edge of his bed, legs spread. “What if Rusticus decided to ask for another dance?”

His hand trails over your leg, fingers ghosting under the hem of your stola that has already ridden up quite a bit thanks to your position on top of the General. “You really hate his guts, don’t you?”

The hand on your thigh squeezes down at that and Acacius tuts softly. “No, I don’t. I just don’t like when others touch what is mine.”

A rush of warmth spreads through your body at his words, at his implication. For a moment, you consider if it’s nerves or if he’s being too much for you, especially after so many weeks of being apart from him. But then you feel your core clench around nothing and a frustrated whine escapes your throat, making you realize that it is not too much– it is not enough.

“I am yours?” You breathe, your hands wandering over his body, one cupping his cheek. Chocolate brown eyes watch you as he nods softly, his other hand cupping the curve of your ass.

“As far as I am concerned,” Acacius hums and you see him almost holding his breath at the question that follows. “Is that alright, dulce?”

“More than,” you agree immediately, leaning in to chase his lips. You don’t even have to. He meets you halfway, his mouth on yours in the blink of an eye. And it’s like all the worries, all the hardships fall off your shoulders when you are so close to him; when you have his hands on your skin and his lips on yours.

“Hold on–” Acacius rasps when you both break the kiss for a few moments and you withdraw reluctantly, wrapping your arms around his neck in silent protest to not let him leave. You hear him grunt at that and after a moment, you’re up in the air as he carries you through the room and to the windows. “Will you open one of these for me?”

You nod and do as told, extending one arm to the small piece of wood that keeps the windows closed at wish. A wave of cold air rushes in as soon as you do and with it the voices from the people below, some evidently still dancing around the piazza. “You enjoy hearing the sounds of the night?”

Acacius shifts you in his arms, shaking his head. “I will not deny that I do. But more than that–” He groans slightly as he lowers you back onto the bed, two arms caging you in on either side, his teeth scarping over that sensitive part of your ear. “I enjoy letting them hear you.”

[softpascalito]

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@screechingalpacaarcade @rainalchemistguardian @vampyyweek @leanbh-eanair ]

Dulcissima I Marcus Acacius x Vestal!Reader I Chapter XVIII - Promitto

Summary: Set before and during Gladiator II. General Acacius finds himself entranced by a highly valued priestess of Rome – A Vestal Virgin. But you both have taken vows that make sure your paths may never cross. Until they do.

Aka a fix-it fanfic where Acacius survives the Colosseum.

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x Vestal Virgin Reader Rating: Explicit / MDNI Word count: 55k+ Tags: Secret Relationship, Vestal Virgins, Religious Guilt, Gladiator fights, Gladiator II compliant (more or less), Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Ancient Rome, Age Difference, Slow Burn (ish), Injury, Kissing, Historical Inaccuracy, (Attempted) Sexual Harassment, Smut, First Time, Oral Sex (f receiving), Vaginal Sex, Unprotected Sex, Slight Breeding Kink, Semi-Public Sex, Pining, More tags to be added

AO3 // Series Masterlist // Masterlist // Fic Playlist // Ko-Fi

notes: hello babes ♡ i hope you all are well and i am so excited for this chapter hehe. as always, feel free to leave a comment and let me know how you liked it :)

promitto - promise

Chapter XVIII - Promitto

He wishes the night would never end.

It feels like heaven, having you so close, being able to let his thumbs caress the back of your fingers to the rhythm of the music. After a second round of the wine, he even gets bold enough to wrap one arm around your waist. He still keeps a watchful eye for his soldiers or others he may know but the spot at the bottom of the stairs is secluded enough for the two of you not to stand out too much.

It’s been a week since he snuck into your tent after hearing some noise, one that he later chalked up to his tired brain. But the looming threat of an imagined danger served him well as an excuse. Giving him a reason to slip through one of the openings at the side, pushing the heavy fabric of the tent walls apart. There was no danger, no intruder or wild animal waiting patiently for him so that he could fend them off, could defend you in a way that would be more noble than keeping himself from looking at you for too long during the day. And yet, he felt drawn to the side of your bed, his eyes softening as they fell onto your sleeping form.

So peaceful, and so alone. Miles and miles from home and, with it, everything you know.

It should have been different. The trip should’ve made those things possible that were not possible in Rome. Like seeing each other every day. Finding quiet moments beside each other. Holding you every night.

It pains him in his chest, every time he remembers how lonely you must be. Especially for someone used to living in a house full of women practically all your life, speaking to citizens in the temple every day. Maybe he shouldn’t have been so hard on you in Beneventum. But the panic that rose in him, that still does whenever he believes there is even the smallest threat posed to you– it is consuming.

Which is why, when he spots Rusticus descending the stairs, the man's eyes fixed on the two of you, he tenses ever so slightly. He doesn’t trust any other man more to fulfill his duty and fulfill it well, but his plan of having you guarded at all times to help his conscience and maybe even allow you to have someone to talk to that you like more than him has turned out to have a major flaw.

He doesn’t want anyone else talking to you. At least not a man who is strong and broad, that has full dark hair and an impressively good aim. Acacius knows that he is the one who caused the unlikely match in the first place– but it doesn’t do one bit for the jealousy in his chest.

“Enjoying the festivities, General?” Rusticus calls as he descends the last few stone steps, a genuine smile on his face. “If you had told me to lead our priestess out for a stroll through town, I would have happily obliged.”

Acacius forces himself to smile, not wanting to give Rusticus the satisfaction. He’s not sure if the man actually suspects him or if he is just being his usual loose-tongued self but either way, the idea of anyone else taking you for an evening stroll along the sea that includes honey cakes seems absurdly wrong.

“Oh, Rusticus!” The excitement in your voice is more than noticeably and you let go of Acacius to hurry over to the bags he placed off to the side earlier. “We bought some of those … figurine things.” Like a child showing its first drawing, you proudly hold up the woolen pieces, turning them in your hands as the man comes to a halt in front of you, nodding at the craftsmanship.

“They’re well worked. Why do you have three?” The small frown on his face makes Acacius certain that your new acquaintance does not know how deep your compassion actually runs.

“One for Acacius, one for me and this one–” You hold one of the male figurines out to him. “This is for you. I have to protect my protector, no?”

He wants to fucking scream.

The only reason Rusticus is your protector is because Acacius hired him. The only reason he guards your door or your tent is because Acacius ordered him there. It is the one thing he knows, maybe the only one he does. He protects the things he loves. At all costs.

The other man sends a short glance his way, taking the figurine from you and extending you his other hand. “If I may, my lady. A dance with your protector?”

You barely spare Acacius a look, instead putting the other figurines back and allowing Rusticus to lead you a few steps into the open space of the street. He watches on as foreign hands hover above your waist, like they have any right to be there. Like he has any right to touch you.

“That is close enough, Rusticus,” Acacius says sharply, prompting the man to look at him, a brow raised ever so slightly.

“Of course, General.” His voice, normally so gruff and worn, is so smooth that Acacius wonders if he’s had one too many of the honey cakes. You send him a silent glare, one that lets him know he may not have been as unapparent as he hoped to be.

He lasts exactly one song. During which he reaches for the wine and watches you dance with another man. Acacius recognizes the song, even if he’s not sure where he has heard it before. But he knows when it is close to ending and gathers up the remaining bags, stepping over to you and Rusticus.

“I will see the Lady to her quarters now. It is getting late,” he makes sure to send the dark-haired man another pointed look as the two of you step apart. “You will not be needed for the night. The villa is safe.”

“As you wish, General. Good night, my lady. It was an honor.” At least he’s smart enough not to argue.

You, on the other hand, look about ready to go to trial against Acacius for daring to interrupt your dance. “I do not–”

He doesn’t even let you get your point across. This is not a conversation he needs witnesses for, not Rusticus of all people anyhow. Acacius nudges your hand and coaxes you into following him up the stairs, past the people of the town still dancing and celebrating. “We can pass through here.”

He already has his hand on the small metal gate when you let out a hurried noise and shake your head. “Wait, we almost forgot.” Acacius stands still while you reach for the bag with the leftover honey cake and fumble with the pastry, the thick golden liquid running onto your fingers.

There is an altar set up at a crossroads only a short distance away and he watches as you hurry over, place the treat on it beside many others, bow your head and then return to his side.

The gate creaks slightly when he pushes it open, letting you both into the gardens of the villa. They’re arranged a bit below the height of the atrium so that the large windows loom above you to one side and the sea sits dark and quiet on the other, framed by a few large trees.

The noises of the people celebrating die down slightly as you round the corner, the small clearing sitting seemingly shut off from the rest of town. A quiet space that is used by whichever high-ranking officials may come through town and demand for some peace from the common folk.

Acacius watches you draw your shawl a bit tighter around yourself against the cold, a soft shiver running through your body. A few torches and the lights of the sky above are all that allow him to see your form illuminated in the faint light, shadows playing around you like a too large coat on a child in winter.

“We always seem to end up in gardens,” you say quietly and he can tell it’s supposed to be a joke but neither of you laugh. It doesn’t feel very funny.

“You have to be more careful,” Acacius states bluntly, ignoring your quip entirely. He doesn’t want to talk about his reaction, his jealousy, his need to protect you. So the offensive is the way to go. It’s the same way they capture the cities they land in.

“You’re impossible.” Your voice is only a whisper but one that is loaded with an entire array of emotions.

“I am trying,” he groans, shaking his head in disbelief. “I am trying to keep you safe and still let you see the town, I even bought you those stupid figurines–”

“They’re not stupid,” you respond defiantly, stepping toward him and building yourself up to your full height which still falls a bit short beside him. “They protect us. They protect me. And since you clearly care so much for my protection, I am surprised you did not have them hung up the moment we stepped foot into this town!”

“This is not about some woolen protection,” Acacius groans exasperatedly. It’s like he can feel something building up inside of him, threatening to spill all the secrets he’s been holding inside for weeks. To give him away with a slip of a tongue.

“Clearly. Because you would not drag me away like this when the night is far from over just because of some stupid figurines.” He watches you take a quick breath. “So what is it, then?”

“You cannot go around dancing with Rusticus,” Acacius finally says, his voice weak, his gaze tracing your face to try and find what emotions he can see there. “He was damn near touching you and, veil or not, that is deemed inappropriate for–” He shakes his head again. “For a number of reasons! He does not get to touch you–”

“What, because he’s not you?” You shoot back and he’s not sure if it’s the wine or your nature but he suddenly realizes you will not back down this time. “He doesn’t get to touch me?!” You ask again, more heatedly now.

And Acacius is tired. He’s tired of pretending. In front of his soldiers and the Emperors and Rusticus. He’s been playing this game all his life. He knows the rules, he knows how to stay inside the invisible lines. But they don’t apply when it comes to you.

He wants you safe. But he also wants to stop pretending with you. Because you have already crossed the lines together, arguably much more than you should have, but you did. And he knows you get him in a way only a handful people do. Maybe, just you do.

“Yes,” he whispers, his shoulders dropping slightly at his inner surrender.

“Yes, what?” Your features have arranged themselves into a frown, confusion filling them.

“He’s not me.”

Acacius sucks in a sharp breath as his hand flies up to pinch the bridge of his nose and he closes his eyes for a few moments, mentally testing the waters. Because he knows that he is about to dive in headfirst.

“You said people only see your veil. That you are a Vestal to them more than you are yourself.”

The change in the mood is noticeable and he watches you shift from one side to another as you nod slowly. “I did. They do.”

“And you took it off for me. Twice.” Acacius sighs, tracing your hair where the fabric usually covers it. “So if I were to ask the woman under the veil what she wants. If she will–” It takes him a few moments to find the right words and even then, he still cringes slightly, his cheeks tinged with pink. “If she will have me. What would she say?”

For a few moments, he thinks you will go back to yelling at him, back to cussing him out for daring to bring the topic up, for asking a question so bluntly. But instead, he watches your features go soft and your lips curling into a smile. And then, they’re on his.

He doesn’t give a damn that Rusticus or any other servant could be watching from behind the thick trees or the windows above you. All he cares about is his hands sneaking around your form, his calloused fingers brushing over the red stola that already leaves little to his imagination and his lips on yours.

Your bodies melt together just the way he remembered it, if not better. And when you pull back enough to catch some air, your noses rub against each other. Your voice is just a whisper, words that are meant solely for him. “She would say that it took you long enough.”

Acacius hums into the next kiss in agreement, not daring to argue. Hell, being apart from you while you were in such close proximity every day has been hard on both of you. One of his hands trails up your back, following the small, hollow line of your spine and he feels you shiver under his touch, even when it is still so simple and innocent. He cups your neck, letting his thumb rub circles into the soft skin there. “Forgive me.”

He doesn’t even realize that a tear has slipped from your eyes–not until it falls onto his arm, making him turn his attention back to your face. It breaks his heart because he is certain it is far from the first tear you’ve shed over him.

“Dulcissima–” He rasps, his voice strained with the effort to keep it from quivering. “I was scared. But I never should have let you go–”

“Promise me,” you choke out and now it is your turn to cup his face, your soft hands settling on his beard, making him look at you. He is still terrified. Of messing up, of putting you in danger. But he’d rather be terrified with you than anyone else. “Promise me you won’t leave again, Acacius.”

“Promitto,” he hums, using his thumb to brush away another stray tear that is attempting to make its way down your face. Here he is, making you miserable and lonely for weeks and you are still looking at him like he created the worlds. “Until the day the gods take me and even then. I would do as Virgil told. I would return from the gates of hell. I would come back to find you, Dulcissima.”

A small smile decorates your face and you nod weakly, your hand settling over his, linking your fingers together. “There is this part where he says–” You clear your throat before reciting, “then dire debate and impious war shall cease, and the stern age be soften’d into peace: Then banish’d Faith shall once again return, and Vestal fires in hallow’d temples burn.”

“You were not joking when you said you read Virgil,” Acacius mutters, recalling the way he himself read those lines many years ago. “And you are certain? About this?”

“More than anything.”

Acacius nods and sighs softly. “It is late.” He doesn’t even need to finish his thought before you are already nodding, squeezing his hand and leading the way through the small gardens and up to the villa.

(art by Gökberk Kaya)

[softpascalito]

Dulcissima I Marcus Acacius x Vestal!Reader I Chapter XVIII - Promitto

Summary: Set before and during Gladiator II. General Acacius finds himself entranced by a highly valued priestess of Rome – A Vestal Virgin. But you both have taken vows that make sure your paths may never cross. Until they do.

Aka a fix-it fanfic where Acacius survives the Colosseum.

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x Vestal Virgin Reader Rating: Explicit / MDNI Word count: 55k+ Tags: Secret Relationship, Vestal Virgins, Religious Guilt, Gladiator fights, Gladiator II compliant (more or less), Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Ancient Rome, Age Difference, Slow Burn (ish), Injury, Kissing, Historical Inaccuracy, (Attempted) Sexual Harassment, Smut, First Time, Oral Sex (f receiving), Vaginal Sex, Unprotected Sex, Slight Breeding Kink, Semi-Public Sex, Pining, More tags to be added

AO3 // Series Masterlist // Masterlist // Fic Playlist // Ko-Fi

notes: hello babes ♡ i hope you all are well and i am so excited for this chapter hehe. as always, feel free to leave a comment and let me know how you liked it :)

promitto - promise

Chapter XVIII - Promitto

He wishes the night would never end.

It feels like heaven, having you so close, being able to let his thumbs caress the back of your fingers to the rhythm of the music. After a second round of the wine, he even gets bold enough to wrap one arm around your waist. He still keeps a watchful eye for his soldiers or others he may know but the spot at the bottom of the stairs is secluded enough for the two of you not to stand out too much.

It’s been a week since he snuck into your tent after hearing some noise, one that he later chalked up to his tired brain. But the looming threat of an imagined danger served him well as an excuse. Giving him a reason to slip through one of the openings at the side, pushing the heavy fabric of the tent walls apart. There was no danger, no intruder or wild animal waiting patiently for him so that he could fend them off, could defend you in a way that would be more noble than keeping himself from looking at you for too long during the day. And yet, he felt drawn to the side of your bed, his eyes softening as they fell onto your sleeping form.

So peaceful, and so alone. Miles and miles from home and, with it, everything you know.

It should have been different. The trip should’ve made those things possible that were not possible in Rome. Like seeing each other every day. Finding quiet moments beside each other. Holding you every night.

It pains him in his chest, every time he remembers how lonely you must be. Especially for someone used to living in a house full of women practically all your life, speaking to citizens in the temple every day. Maybe he shouldn’t have been so hard on you in Beneventum. But the panic that rose in him, that still does whenever he believes there is even the smallest threat posed to you– it is consuming.

Which is why, when he spots Rusticus descending the stairs, the man's eyes fixed on the two of you, he tenses ever so slightly. He doesn’t trust any other man more to fulfill his duty and fulfill it well, but his plan of having you guarded at all times to help his conscience and maybe even allow you to have someone to talk to that you like more than him has turned out to have a major flaw.

He doesn’t want anyone else talking to you. At least not a man who is strong and broad, that has full dark hair and an impressively good aim. Acacius knows that he is the one who caused the unlikely match in the first place– but it doesn’t do one bit for the jealousy in his chest.

“Enjoying the festivities, General?” Rusticus calls as he descends the last few stone steps, a genuine smile on his face. “If you had told me to lead our priestess out for a stroll through town, I would have happily obliged.”

Acacius forces himself to smile, not wanting to give Rusticus the satisfaction. He’s not sure if the man actually suspects him or if he is just being his usual loose-tongued self but either way, the idea of anyone else taking you for an evening stroll along the sea that includes honey cakes seems absurdly wrong.

“Oh, Rusticus!” The excitement in your voice is more than noticeably and you let go of Acacius to hurry over to the bags he placed off to the side earlier. “We bought some of those … figurine things.” Like a child showing its first drawing, you proudly hold up the woolen pieces, turning them in your hands as the man comes to a halt in front of you, nodding at the craftsmanship.

“They’re well worked. Why do you have three?” The small frown on his face makes Acacius certain that your new acquaintance does not know how deep your compassion actually runs.

“One for Acacius, one for me and this one–” You hold one of the male figurines out to him. “This is for you. I have to protect my protector, no?”

He wants to fucking scream.

The only reason Rusticus is your protector is because Acacius hired him. The only reason he guards your door or your tent is because Acacius ordered him there. It is the one thing he knows, maybe the only one he does. He protects the things he loves. At all costs.

The other man sends a short glance his way, taking the figurine from you and extending you his other hand. “If I may, my lady. A dance with your protector?”

You barely spare Acacius a look, instead putting the other figurines back and allowing Rusticus to lead you a few steps into the open space of the street. He watches on as foreign hands hover above your waist, like they have any right to be there. Like he has any right to touch you.

“That is close enough, Rusticus,” Acacius says sharply, prompting the man to look at him, a brow raised ever so slightly.

“Of course, General.” His voice, normally so gruff and worn, is so smooth that Acacius wonders if he’s had one too many of the honey cakes. You send him a silent glare, one that lets him know he may not have been as unapparent as he hoped to be.

He lasts exactly one song. During which he reaches for the wine and watches you dance with another man. Acacius recognizes the song, even if he’s not sure where he has heard it before. But he knows when it is close to ending and gathers up the remaining bags, stepping over to you and Rusticus.

“I will see the Lady to her quarters now. It is getting late,” he makes sure to send the dark-haired man another pointed look as the two of you step apart. “You will not be needed for the night. The villa is safe.”

“As you wish, General. Good night, my lady. It was an honor.” At least he’s smart enough not to argue.

You, on the other hand, look about ready to go to trial against Acacius for daring to interrupt your dance. “I do not–”

He doesn’t even let you get your point across. This is not a conversation he needs witnesses for, not Rusticus of all people anyhow. Acacius nudges your hand and coaxes you into following him up the stairs, past the people of the town still dancing and celebrating. “We can pass through here.”

He already has his hand on the small metal gate when you let out a hurried noise and shake your head. “Wait, we almost forgot.” Acacius stands still while you reach for the bag with the leftover honey cake and fumble with the pastry, the thick golden liquid running onto your fingers.

There is an altar set up at a crossroads only a short distance away and he watches as you hurry over, place the treat on it beside many others, bow your head and then return to his side.

The gate creaks slightly when he pushes it open, letting you both into the gardens of the villa. They’re arranged a bit below the height of the atrium so that the large windows loom above you to one side and the sea sits dark and quiet on the other, framed by a few large trees.

The noises of the people celebrating die down slightly as you round the corner, the small clearing sitting seemingly shut off from the rest of town. A quiet space that is used by whichever high-ranking officials may come through town and demand for some peace from the common folk.

Acacius watches you draw your shawl a bit tighter around yourself against the cold, a soft shiver running through your body. A few torches and the lights of the sky above are all that allow him to see your form illuminated in the faint light, shadows playing around you like a too large coat on a child in winter.

“We always seem to end up in gardens,” you say quietly and he can tell it’s supposed to be a joke but neither of you laugh. It doesn’t feel very funny.

“You have to be more careful,” Acacius states bluntly, ignoring your quip entirely. He doesn’t want to talk about his reaction, his jealousy, his need to protect you. So the offensive is the way to go. It’s the same way they capture the cities they land in.

“You’re impossible.” Your voice is only a whisper but one that is loaded with an entire array of emotions.

“I am trying,” he groans, shaking his head in disbelief. “I am trying to keep you safe and still let you see the town, I even bought you those stupid figurines–”

“They’re not stupid,” you respond defiantly, stepping toward him and building yourself up to your full height which still falls a bit short beside him. “They protect us. They protect me. And since you clearly care so much for my protection, I am surprised you did not have them hung up the moment we stepped foot into this town!”

“This is not about some woolen protection,” Acacius groans exasperatedly. It’s like he can feel something building up inside of him, threatening to spill all the secrets he’s been holding inside for weeks. To give him away with a slip of a tongue.

“Clearly. Because you would not drag me away like this when the night is far from over just because of some stupid figurines.” He watches you take a quick breath. “So what is it, then?”

“You cannot go around dancing with Rusticus,” Acacius finally says, his voice weak, his gaze tracing your face to try and find what emotions he can see there. “He was damn near touching you and, veil or not, that is deemed inappropriate for–” He shakes his head again. “For a number of reasons! He does not get to touch you–”

“What, because he’s not you?” You shoot back and he’s not sure if it’s the wine or your nature but he suddenly realizes you will not back down this time. “He doesn’t get to touch me?!” You ask again, more heatedly now.

And Acacius is tired. He’s tired of pretending. In front of his soldiers and the Emperors and Rusticus. He’s been playing this game all his life. He knows the rules, he knows how to stay inside the invisible lines. But they don’t apply when it comes to you.

He wants you safe. But he also wants to stop pretending with you. Because you have already crossed the lines together, arguably much more than you should have, but you did. And he knows you get him in a way only a handful people do. Maybe, just you do.

“Yes,” he whispers, his shoulders dropping slightly at his inner surrender.

“Yes, what?” Your features have arranged themselves into a frown, confusion filling them.

“He’s not me.”

Acacius sucks in a sharp breath as his hand flies up to pinch the bridge of his nose and he closes his eyes for a few moments, mentally testing the waters. Because he knows that he is about to dive in headfirst.

“You said people only see your veil. That you are a Vestal to them more than you are yourself.”

The change in the mood is noticeable and he watches you shift from one side to another as you nod slowly. “I did. They do.”

“And you took it off for me. Twice.” Acacius sighs, tracing your hair where the fabric usually covers it. “So if I were to ask the woman under the veil what she wants. If she will–” It takes him a few moments to find the right words and even then, he still cringes slightly, his cheeks tinged with pink. “If she will have me. What would she say?”

For a few moments, he thinks you will go back to yelling at him, back to cussing him out for daring to bring the topic up, for asking a question so bluntly. But instead, he watches your features go soft and your lips curling into a smile. And then, they’re on his.

He doesn’t give a damn that Rusticus or any other servant could be watching from behind the thick trees or the windows above you. All he cares about is his hands sneaking around your form, his calloused fingers brushing over the red stola that already leaves little to his imagination and his lips on yours.

Your bodies melt together just the way he remembered it, if not better. And when you pull back enough to catch some air, your noses rub against each other. Your voice is just a whisper, words that are meant solely for him. “She would say that it took you long enough.”

Acacius hums into the next kiss in agreement, not daring to argue. Hell, being apart from you while you were in such close proximity every day has been hard on both of you. One of his hands trails up your back, following the small, hollow line of your spine and he feels you shiver under his touch, even when it is still so simple and innocent. He cups your neck, letting his thumb rub circles into the soft skin there. “Forgive me.”

He doesn’t even realize that a tear has slipped from your eyes–not until it falls onto his arm, making him turn his attention back to your face. It breaks his heart because he is certain it is far from the first tear you’ve shed over him.

“Dulcissima–” He rasps, his voice strained with the effort to keep it from quivering. “I was scared. But I never should have let you go–”

“Promise me,” you choke out and now it is your turn to cup his face, your soft hands settling on his beard, making him look at you. He is still terrified. Of messing up, of putting you in danger. But he’d rather be terrified with you than anyone else. “Promise me you won’t leave again, Acacius.”

“Promitto,” he hums, using his thumb to brush away another stray tear that is attempting to make its way down your face. Here he is, making you miserable and lonely for weeks and you are still looking at him like he created the worlds. “Until the day the gods take me and even then. I would do as Virgil told. I would return from the gates of hell. I would come back to find you, Dulcissima.”

A small smile decorates your face and you nod weakly, your hand settling over his, linking your fingers together. “There is this part where he says–” You clear your throat before reciting, “then dire debate and impious war shall cease, and the stern age be soften’d into peace: Then banish’d Faith shall once again return, and Vestal fires in hallow’d temples burn.”

“You were not joking when you said you read Virgil,” Acacius mutters, recalling the way he himself read those lines many years ago. “And you are certain? About this?”

“More than anything.”

Acacius nods and sighs softly. “It is late.” He doesn’t even need to finish his thought before you are already nodding, squeezing his hand and leading the way through the small gardens and up to the villa.

(art by Gökberk Kaya)

[softpascalito]

tag list reblog ♡ [@sofiparallel @koshkaj-blog @guelyury @picketniffler @ashleyfilm

@tonystankhere @katw474 @layaispunk @just-mj-or-not @elegantduckturtle

@music-lover09 @kirsteng42 @curlyhaircrowley @lady-artemis27 @honeymarvel

@lupa-03 @the80smademedoit @mosssbawls @shantellorraine @1800-queen-trash

@captainfunnelcake-blog @palomavz @nooneher3 @d0uwannkn0w @blissful-starry-night

@boobfish @pimmyxyone @reallyidontcare @jensensational71 @theetherealbloom

@infin1ty-garden @labyrinthofheartagrams @yoppite @bunnyangel111 @jay-zzle

@florxdexcerezo @mkenziea @liciafonseca @chewie-bars @joelslegalwhre

@am34ho4 @wntersfire @desert-farm @alpuroamor @susp1r1a

@stellaiuna @cookieloveranddaydreamer @deenofreeno @sweetperfectioncloud @redandbluebowties

@screechingalpacaarcade @rainalchemistguardian @vampyyweek @leanbh-eanair ]

Dulcissima I Marcus Acacius x Vestal!Reader I Chapter XVII - Compitalia

Summary: Set before and during Gladiator II. General Acacius finds himself entranced by a highly valued priestess of Rome – A Vestal Virgin. But you both have taken vows that make sure your paths may never cross. Until they do.

Aka a fix-it fanfic where Acacius survives the Colosseum.

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x Vestal Virgin Reader Rating: Explicit / MDNI Word count: 52k+ Tags: Secret Relationship, Vestal Virgins, Religious Guilt, Gladiator fights, Gladiator II compliant (more or less), Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Ancient Rome, Age Difference, Slow Burn (ish), Injury, Kissing, Historical Inaccuracy, (Attempted) Sexual Harassment, Smut, First Time, Oral Sex (f receiving), Vaginal Sex, Unprotected Sex, Slight Breeding Kink, Semi-Public Sex, Pining, More tags to be added

AO3 // Series Masterlist // Masterlist // Fic Playlist // Ko-Fi

notes: sorry for the late update, i got hit with a suspected endo this week ♡ (i think the ao3 curse is real). please enjoy!

pontifex maximus - entryway (sort of) lares - gods of protection of certain places/families mania - goddess of the dead, spirits and chaos

Chapter XVII - Compitalia

You stand in front of your bed longer than you’d like to admit, pacing back and forth as you stare at the options for your evening dress. It shouldn’t be such a difficult decision but you feel torn. He said not to dress too highly, to not put everyone on your status right away. Your face is not known beyond the temple of Vesta. Only your clothes are.

But you also realize that you want to look good for him and as General, you’re certain Acacius must have more than a few women in lavish dresses and with perfect curls throwing themselves at him. You still feel a weird sense of ownership over him, one that you know is entirely false. You were never more than a fleeting moment, the way the ships that you can see in the distance are. They appear just enough for you to long after them. Then, they are gone. You’ve lost him before he even really became yours.

Your choice falls onto the same red stola you wore in Beneventum, the one that hugs you in all the right places. It makes you think back to the day Aquila gave it to you, so excited about your travels. If you’d only known. You may have never left your corner of the world.

But wearing the fabric that passed through your friends hands feels comforting, like you’re wearing a piece of Rome on your skin. The slightly tighter cut means that your usual undergarments would show so you opt for the ones that Aquila more or less forced on you, wrapping the linens around yourself with practiced ease. Then, you slip on the chosen stola.

When you stand in front of the mirror hung in one of the alcoves of the room, you turn this way and that, admiring the way the fabrics settle on your body, the red and gold shawl wrapped around your shoulders. Your hand reaches for a strand of your hair that is usually decorated with your infula, arranged to fit neatly below it. You’ve taken it off for him before. So why should you not take it off for yourself? Just for one night. No one would ever be the wiser. And even if Acacius does still despise you, you are certain he would not have you turned over to the Pontifex Maximus for a crime this small. Not when you both are guilty of much worse.

Your hands tremble ever so slightly as you arrange your hair without the veil, something you do so rarely you’ve almost forgotten how to. But after two failed attempts, you are successful in pushing a few parts back, securing them with a golden brooch and leaving the majority of your hair down.

“There we are,” you mutter to yourself, nodding in satisfaction when you give yourself one last once-over in the mirror.

It is already nearing sunset when you open the wooden door to peek down into the atrium, only to be met with the broad back of Rusticus. Of course. It would've been naive to think that Acacius has just relieved the soldier of his duties regarding your protection.

“Sir?” You ask softly, keeping the door open just enough to allow your voice to travel through the small slit. “May you tell the General I am ready?”

You hear rustling as the man turns around, pausing for a few moments as he tries to catch a glimpse of you. 

“I just need to finish my … hair,” you add weakly, hoping to explain away why you won’t face him.

“Very well. I’ll be only a moment,” the man grunts before heavy steps begin to travel down the hallway and die down in the distance of the atrium below.

You slip the door shut again and step back into your room, a spacious but comfortable space. The side across from the entrance is lined with windows that look out to the sea, framed by cream-colored drapings that are so light they move with every blow of the evening winds. You stand beside them, running a hand over the soft fabric that covers the stone columns and your eyes trail over the small roads below, one or two altars visible even from here. Children are sprinting up and down the street, giggling as the older citizens prepare the offerings to be given to the deities.

A knock on the door makes you turn, the voice behind the wood unmistakable even when muffled. “You may enter,” you call softly, folding your hands in front of you.

“My lady,” Acacius gives a small bow as he steps inside, pausing when his eyes wander over your form. “You–” You can tell that he tries very hard to look at your face and your face only. “You are dressed rather lightly. Are you sure you will not be cold? It will be dark soon.”

“I will be fine,” you reassure him quietly, watching as he slowly closes the distance between you. He’s laid off his armour, switching the gold and white chestplate for a toga and cape that are worked with fine details, though not overbearing. You wonder if he chose it himself or if Lucilla picked it out for him but you don’t think he would appreciate the question so you stay quiet.

You are already on the stairs, slowly descending into the sunlight filled atrium together, when his eyes go wide and he pauses. “You forgot your veil,” he mutters, turning on his heel. “I will fetch it for you.”

“There is no need,” you say quietly and you can watch confusion spread over his fate, followed by disbelief when you fail to elaborate further.

“Is that allowed?” He looks genuinely concerned and you can't help it– you have to laugh.

“What?” He asks, his eyes still wide at this sudden display of joy.

“I am not on duty. I may take it off.” You shrug weakly as you descend the last few steps on your own with Acacius following closely behind you. “It may be … frowned upon in Rome but no one here knows me. A priestess does not carry a halo.”

“What if someone does? If someone does know you?” He presses.

“I would find a way,” you hum, listening to his steps as he follows you and appears at your side once again. “I don’t wish to be a Vestal tonight.”

You can see his eyes jerk to each side, no doubt checking if anyone is listening in on your conversation. But with no hosts and neither of you requiring many servants, the house above the sea sits mostly vacant. “You should not speak like that.”

“I don’t wish for gifts and gratitude and grace tonight. It is what I’ve known all my life. People do not see me. They see Vesta and the veil. We are so far from Rome–” You shake your head softly. “Who is to say I could not be someone else in these lands?”

Acacius’s attention has returned to you and he looks like he wants to say something but doesn’t.

“The Compitalia is a day for all. Even slaves can act as free women and men tonight. How is it that a slave may do as they please but a Vestal may not?”

You watch his expression harden, his jaw twitching in the small way that you’re certain others wouldn’t even notice. It is the same expression you’ve watched him give his soldiers when they misbehave, the same one he had when he yelled at them for laughing at you the day you left Rome. But unlike them, you do not fear anything from him. He has already done what you feared most. No punishment could be worse, no sword could cut deeper than the words he spoke to you that night in the bathhouse.

“Do you wish to trade your place with that of a slave?” You expected him to be mad about defying him. Not about disrespecting those who are most disrespected in the Empire.

“No,” you admit quietly, bowing your head. “That is not what I meant.” The silence that follows your admission seems to settle onto the whole house and stretches uncomfortably. Acacius is the one to break it.

“Come. We do not want to miss the celebration.” He waits for you to step outside, closing the door behind himself and then resumes his place beside you. 

It is unlike any celebration of Compitalia you have ever seen. The streets are filled with people of all ages and backgrounds, men and women your age, parents, grandparents, children. An occasional stray slipping around people’s legs. The entrances to the villas lining the coastal town have decorations strung up above their doors; small woolen figures, some resembling men, others resembling women.

You nudge Acacius, nodding towards a house that has several of the figures dangling in the evening light. “What is their purpose?”

His eyes follow your gaze. “They represent those that live in the house. The figures are offerings, they are hung as a silent plea to the deities. The Lares and Mania spare those living inside and take their woolen versions instead. Do you see the cotton balls?” You nod and listen as he continues. In all honesty, you have not expected him to have such extensive knowledge of the customs in Brundisium. “They represent the slaves of the house, so that they may be spared as well.” The house and the figures fall away as you both fall quiet and continue down the small road, one that curves occasionally, looking almost like it is slipping through the legs of the buildings on either side the same way the animals are around your feet. Candles are being lit as the light begins to fade, the orange sky turning red. The busy street becomes less so and you relax your shoulders a bit, no longer trying to make your way through a crowd. And with your surroundings, it seems that the silence between you becomes more comfortable as well, less heavy than it was in the atrium.

“Do you miss Rome?” His question catches you off guard.

“No,” you respond before you can even really think it through. “I mean, a bit. I miss my friends. Severa most of all.”

“She is one of the other Vestals, correct?” Acacius hums, keeping his voice low enough that passersbys will not be alerted to your conversation unless they try very hard.

“How do you know that?” You blurt out, not bothering to hide the surprise on your face. “She has business with the Senators occasionally. So do I. I’ve crossed her path,” he explains quietly but you can tell there is something he is not telling you. One does not ask a Vestal her personal name just because she has business in the same room. You merely quirk your brow, signaling that you are waiting for him to continue. And to your surprise, Acacius sighs and obeys your silent ask. “I met her in the temple. When I was–”

“Praying?” You ask, ending the sentence for him. But he merely shakes his head, the smallest trace of a smile on your lips.

“I respect your goddess,” he starts quietly as the road takes another turn. “But Vesta is not who I came to see that day.”

He says it like it is passing news of an order fulfilled, not like he has just revealed to you that he was indeed looking for you the day you broke the water jug. You still remember the way he looked, the way he moved through a space that feels like the most intimate one in this world and all others. You were trembling with shock, with fear, that day. Not of him, even though you remember thinking it at the time. It was fear of the things that were happening inside you, the thoughts that he was prompting you to have.

“You said it would be a shame if you returned to Rome the same way you left it,” he says softly and you are thankful that the crowd has disappeared because you don’t think you could handle hearing these things from his lips while surrounded by people.

“I think there are experiences worth much more than gold to be had in other parts of the lands,” you agree. The small road has been leading down for a bit now and after another turn, it opens up to the sea on one side, the port and the ships anchored alongside it visible in the distance. They sway with the current, their masts and rolled up sails moving from one side to another in a steady, calming rhythm. The sun has just set and torches and fires are being lit along the coast, the people ready for celebration. “I think I could really be someone else here,” you repeat quietly.

“Then tell me; how does someone else feel about dancing?” It’s the second time tonight that his question catches you off guard.

“What?”

“Dancing. Moving your limbs around in a rhythm. Easier if there’s music,” he hums and you can tell he’s making fun of you. “The piazza at the end of Via Appia will be as alive as ever just about now. It is rather a sight.”

“Are you asking me to dance with you, General?” It is now your turn to smirk, waiting to see if your question will embarrass him. But if it does, he’s a master at hiding it.

“That seems to be the case, Dulcissima,” he whispers, his eyes following a woman pushing a cart into your direction. “Dear lady,” he calls out, stepping toward the woman with a smile on his lips.

“Forgot to bake your honey cakes, Sir?” She calls as the cart comes to a halt. Indeed, upon closer inspection you find the cart loaded with honeyed cakes, one or two large bowls filled with wool and a few bags of what you presume to be wine.

“Precisely.” Acacius gives her a broad smile, reaching for his coin purse and you watch as the woman begins to slip a few of the small cakes into a bag. A thought strikes you.

“Acacius,” you hum, stepping up behind him. “Do we need the woolen figures as well? If the Lares and Mania pass through the streets tonight.” You can tell by his expression that he may not pay the ritual as much value as you do but then his gaze softens and he nods, turning to the woman. “Do you sell figurines as well? Or only the wool?”

“You really are a forgetful one,” she laughs but nods, reaching into a wooden box. “Will it just be two?”

“Three,” you blurt out before Acacius can protest. “Two men and one lady. Please.” At his questioning gaze, you shrug. “Rusticus is staying in the villa too, right? You don’t want my personal guard at risk of causing upset to the deities?”

“Of course not,” he smiles at you as he hands the woman a few coins and you know that he is rather amused by your behaviour and your beliefs.

Acacius pays for the bags and the woman gives you a small smile. “Best remind your husband to get his protection for you on time next year.”

You chalk it up to years and years of smiling through uncomfortable conversations that you manage to stay serious and thank her. “Yes, I will make sure. He is just very forgetful sometimes. Age, you know.”

You feel Acacius stiffen beside you, his brow quirking ever so slightly as he sends a look your way. One that lets you know you will pay for your moment of fun sooner or later. The woman has returned to tending her cart, oblivious to what is happening in front of her eyes. “Here, have this. Enjoy the night.” She hands Acacius one of the flasks and he gives a small bow and another polite thanks before you move on, now loaded up with everything you could need for a proper Compitalia.

You can already hear the music from the piazza, the cheerful sound drifting over the water and onto the open sea, when Acacius steps to the side, fumbling with the bag and offering you a honey cake. “I seem to recall you like these?”

“I do,” you agree but don’t reach for it. “They are supposed to be given to the Deities. They’re not supposed to be for us mortals.”

Acacius makes a face, nudging the sweet treat into your direction. “We’ll save one and place it on one of the altars later. It is why I got two.” His hand is still outstretched, propping the honey cake up. When you still don’t move, he shrugs. “Please, if you won’t have it I will.”

Before you can protest again, he has raised the cake to his mouth and takes a bite, humming contently as the thick honey fills his mouth. “What a gentleman,” you mutter, reaching to take the treat from him. To your surprise, he lets go as soon as you’ve gripped it and you bring it to your own lips, watching as a fine string of honey extends from his mouth.

You watch him lick his lips and brush his thumb over the thick honey coating the corners while you take a bite. It makes you wonder if it is because of that detail that it tastes like the best honeyed cake you’ve ever tasted. “This is delicious,” you half-moan into your second bite and Acacius just nods in agreement. He waits patiently until you’re done, letting you chew in peace, both of you taking in your surroundings. The last rays of the sun have disappeared, leaving the sea to your right dark and quiet.

“She gave us wine?” You ask eventually, prompting to the flask he is holding and Acacius nods, handing it to you.

“She did. She also thought–” You know what he is about to say. You both do. And you haven’t had enough wine or honeyed cakes to have that conversation with him. Your fingers tremble as you open the flask.

“Well, she was wrong,” you state quickly, cutting him off before he even has a chance to say the words. “People make mistakes.” You tip your head back, allowing some of the wine to flow into your mouth, the bitter taste mixing with the sweetness the honey left behind.

That is, until your gaze lands on Acacius again. His smile has vanished. “Yeah. They do.”

You swallow and shake your head, silently offering him the wine. He drinks. Then, you both begin to walk again, heading closer and closer to the music.

Indeed, half the townsfolk seems to have gathered around the two columns, people sitting on the steps that lead down to the sea, altars set up around several of the crossroads. Women are twirling in their long gowns, laughter echoing around you. It is a beautiful scene.

“You promised me a dance,” you say softly and Acacius sighs, placing the bags and flask by the bottom of the stairs and offering you his hand. “We don’t have to,” you add quickly, not wanting to ruin the mood once and for all. Half an hour ago, he admitted to having sought you out in the temple and now this.

“I keep my promises, Dulcissima,” he hums and you step closer, placing both your hands in his, allowing him to lead you in a circle. “You may have been right in not wearing your veil tonight then.”

“And why is that?” You ask quietly, easing your body into the rhythm of the music and that of him.

He draws you in closer and you let him. His mouth comes to your ear, making sure that no one else can listen to words meant solely for you. “Because I am not sure people would appreciate me touching a Vestal like this.”

“I thought we agreed I was not a Vestal tonight,” you whisper back, letting one of your hands crawl up his arm until it settles on his shoulder.

“We did,” he agrees, picking up his pace as the musicians begin a faster song. He is so close that you can feel the heat radiate from his body, feel his breath on your shoulder whenever he steps closer. And his hand stays in yours, throughout every song, not once letting go.

“Thank the gods,” he whispers just as the song you were swaying to comes to an end.

[softpascalito]

Dulcissima I Marcus Acacius x Vestal!Reader I Chapter XVII - Compitalia

Summary: Set before and during Gladiator II. General Acacius finds himself entranced by a highly valued priestess of Rome – A Vestal Virgin. But you both have taken vows that make sure your paths may never cross. Until they do.

Aka a fix-it fanfic where Acacius survives the Colosseum.

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x Vestal Virgin Reader Rating: Explicit / MDNI Word count: 52k+ Tags: Secret Relationship, Vestal Virgins, Religious Guilt, Gladiator fights, Gladiator II compliant (more or less), Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Ancient Rome, Age Difference, Slow Burn (ish), Injury, Kissing, Historical Inaccuracy, (Attempted) Sexual Harassment, Smut, First Time, Oral Sex (f receiving), Vaginal Sex, Unprotected Sex, Slight Breeding Kink, Semi-Public Sex, Pining, More tags to be added

AO3 // Series Masterlist // Masterlist // Fic Playlist // Ko-Fi

notes: sorry for the late update, i got hit with a suspected endo this week ♡ (i think the ao3 curse is real). please enjoy!

pontifex maximus - the emperors (in this time) lares - gods of protection of certain places/families mania - goddess of the dead, spirits and chaos

Chapter XVII - Compitalia

You stand in front of your bed longer than you’d like to admit, pacing back and forth as you stare at the options for your evening dress. It shouldn’t be such a difficult decision but you feel torn. He said not to dress too highly, to not put everyone on your status right away. Your face is not known beyond the temple of Vesta. Only your clothes are.

But you also realize that you want to look good for him and as General, you’re certain Acacius must have more than a few women in lavish dresses and with perfect curls throwing themselves at him. You still feel a weird sense of ownership over him, one that you know is entirely false. You were never more than a fleeting moment, the way the ships that you can see in the distance are. They appear just enough for you to long after them. Then, they are gone. You’ve lost him before he even really became yours.

Your choice falls onto the same red stola you wore in Beneventum, the one that hugs you in all the right places. It makes you think back to the day Aquila gave it to you, so excited about your travels. If you’d only known. You may have never left your corner of the world.

But wearing the fabric that passed through your friends hands feels comforting, like you’re wearing a piece of Rome on your skin. The slightly tighter cut means that your usual undergarments would show so you opt for the ones that Aquila more or less forced on you, wrapping the linens around yourself with practiced ease. Then, you slip on the chosen stola.

When you stand in front of the mirror hung in one of the alcoves of the room, you turn this way and that, admiring the way the fabrics settle on your body, the red and gold shawl wrapped around your shoulders. Your hand reaches for a strand of your hair that is usually decorated with your infula, arranged to fit neatly below it. You’ve taken it off for him before. So why should you not take it off for yourself? Just for one night. No one would ever be the wiser. And even if Acacius does still despise you, you are certain he would not have you turned over to the Pontifex Maximus for a crime this small. Not when you both are guilty of much worse.

Your hands tremble ever so slightly as you arrange your hair without the veil, something you do so rarely you’ve almost forgotten how to. But after two failed attempts, you are successful in pushing a few parts back, securing them with a golden brooch and leaving the majority of your hair down.

“There we are,” you mutter to yourself, nodding in satisfaction when you give yourself one last once-over in the mirror.

It is already nearing sunset when you open the wooden door to peek down into the atrium, only to be met with the broad back of Rusticus. Of course. It would've been naive to think that Acacius has just relieved the soldier of his duties regarding your protection.

“Sir?” You ask softly, keeping the door open just enough to allow your voice to travel through the small slit. “May you tell the General I am ready?”

You hear rustling as the man turns around, pausing for a few moments as he tries to catch a glimpse of you. 

“I just need to finish my … hair,” you add weakly, hoping to explain away why you won’t face him.

“Very well. I’ll be only a moment,” the man grunts before heavy steps begin to travel down the hallway and die down in the distance of the atrium below.

You slip the door shut again and step back into your room, a spacious but comfortable space. The side across from the entrance is lined with windows that look out to the sea, framed by cream-colored drapings that are so light they move with every blow of the evening winds. You stand beside them, running a hand over the soft fabric that covers the stone columns and your eyes trail over the small roads below, one or two altars visible even from here. Children are sprinting up and down the street, giggling as the older citizens prepare the offerings to be given to the deities.

A knock on the door makes you turn, the voice behind the wood unmistakable even when muffled. “You may enter,” you call softly, folding your hands in front of you.

“My lady,” Acacius gives a small bow as he steps inside, pausing when his eyes wander over your form. “You–” You can tell that he tries very hard to look at your face and your face only. “You are dressed rather lightly. Are you sure you will not be cold? It will be dark soon.”

“I will be fine,” you reassure him quietly, watching as he slowly closes the distance between you. He’s laid off his armour, switching the gold and white chestplate for a toga and cape that are worked with fine details, though not overbearing. You wonder if he chose it himself or if Lucilla picked it out for him but you don’t think he would appreciate the question so you stay quiet.

You are already on the stairs, slowly descending into the sunlight filled atrium together, when his eyes go wide and he pauses. “You forgot your veil,” he mutters, turning on his heel. “I will fetch it for you.”

“There is no need,” you say quietly and you can watch confusion spread over his fate, followed by disbelief when you fail to elaborate further.

“Is that allowed?” He looks genuinely concerned and you can't help it– you have to laugh.

“What?” He asks, his eyes still wide at this sudden display of joy.

“I am not on duty. I may take it off.” You shrug weakly as you descend the last few steps on your own with Acacius following closely behind you. “It may be … frowned upon in Rome but no one here knows me. A priestess does not carry a halo.”

“What if someone does? If someone does know you?” He presses.

“I would find a way,” you hum, listening to his steps as he follows you and appears at your side once again. “I don’t wish to be a Vestal tonight.”

You can see his eyes jerk to each side, no doubt checking if anyone is listening in on your conversation. But with no hosts and neither of you requiring many servants, the house above the sea sits mostly vacant. “You should not speak like that.”

“I don’t wish for gifts and gratitude and grace tonight. It is what I’ve known all my life. People do not see me. They see Vesta and the veil. We are so far from Rome–” You shake your head softly. “Who is to say I could not be someone else in these lands?”

Acacius’s attention has returned to you and he looks like he wants to say something but doesn’t.

“The Compitalia is a day for all. Even slaves can act as free women and men tonight. How is it that a slave may do as they please but a Vestal may not?”

You watch his expression harden, his jaw twitching in the small way that you’re certain others wouldn’t even notice. It is the same expression you’ve watched him give his soldiers when they misbehave, the same one he had when he yelled at them for laughing at you the day you left Rome. But unlike them, you do not fear anything from him. He has already done what you feared most. No punishment could be worse, no sword could cut deeper than the words he spoke to you that night in the bathhouse.

“Do you wish to trade your place with that of a slave?” You expected him to be mad about defying him. Not about disrespecting those who are most disrespected in the Empire.

“No,” you admit quietly, bowing your head. “That is not what I meant.” The silence that follows your admission seems to settle onto the whole house and stretches uncomfortably. Acacius is the one to break it.

“Come. We do not want to miss the celebration.” He waits for you to step outside, closing the door behind himself and then resumes his place beside you. 

It is unlike any celebration of Compitalia you have ever seen. The streets are filled with people of all ages and backgrounds, men and women your age, parents, grandparents, children. An occasional stray slipping around people’s legs. The entrances to the villas lining the coastal town have decorations strung up above their doors; small woolen figures, some resembling men, others resembling women.

You nudge Acacius, nodding towards a house that has several of the figures dangling in the evening light. “What is their purpose?”

His eyes follow your gaze. “They represent those that live in the house. The figures are offerings, they are hung as a silent plea to the deities. The Lares and Mania spare those living inside and take their woolen versions instead. Do you see the cotton balls?” You nod and listen as he continues. In all honesty, you have not expected him to have such extensive knowledge of the customs in Brundisium. “They represent the slaves of the house, so that they may be spared as well.” The house and the figures fall away as you both fall quiet and continue down the small road, one that curves occasionally, looking almost like it is slipping through the legs of the buildings on either side the same way the animals are around your feet. Candles are being lit as the light begins to fade, the orange sky turning red. The busy street becomes less so and you relax your shoulders a bit, no longer trying to make your way through a crowd. And with your surroundings, it seems that the silence between you becomes more comfortable as well, less heavy than it was in the atrium.

“Do you miss Rome?” His question catches you off guard.

“No,” you respond before you can even really think it through. “I mean, a bit. I miss my friends. Severa most of all.”

“She is one of the other Vestals, correct?” Acacius hums, keeping his voice low enough that passersbys will not be alerted to your conversation unless they try very hard.

“How do you know that?” You blurt out, not bothering to hide the surprise on your face. “She has business with the Senators occasionally. So do I. I’ve crossed her path,” he explains quietly but you can tell there is something he is not telling you. One does not ask a Vestal her personal name just because she has business in the same room. You merely quirk your brow, signaling that you are waiting for him to continue. And to your surprise, Acacius sighs and obeys your silent ask. “I met her in the temple. When I was–”

“Praying?” You ask, ending the sentence for him. But he merely shakes his head, the smallest trace of a smile on your lips.

“I respect your goddess,” he starts quietly as the road takes another turn. “But Vesta is not who I came to see that day.”

He says it like it is passing news of an order fulfilled, not like he has just revealed to you that he was indeed looking for you the day you broke the water jug. You still remember the way he looked, the way he moved through a space that feels like the most intimate one in this world and all others. You were trembling with shock, with fear, that day. Not of him, even though you remember thinking it at the time. It was fear of the things that were happening inside you, the thoughts that he was prompting you to have.

“You said it would be a shame if you returned to Rome the same way you left it,” he says softly and you are thankful that the crowd has disappeared because you don’t think you could handle hearing these things from his lips while surrounded by people.

“I think there are experiences worth much more than gold to be had in other parts of the lands,” you agree. The small road has been leading down for a bit now and after another turn, it opens up to the sea on one side, the port and the ships anchored alongside it visible in the distance. They sway with the current, their masts and rolled up sails moving from one side to another in a steady, calming rhythm. The sun has just set and torches and fires are being lit along the coast, the people ready for celebration. “I think I could really be someone else here,” you repeat quietly.

“Then tell me; how does someone else feel about dancing?” It’s the second time tonight that his question catches you off guard.

“What?”

“Dancing. Moving your limbs around in a rhythm. Easier if there’s music,” he hums and you can tell he’s making fun of you. “The piazza at the end of Via Appia will be as alive as ever just about now. It is rather a sight.”

“Are you asking me to dance with you, General?” It is now your turn to smirk, waiting to see if your question will embarrass him. But if it does, he’s a master at hiding it.

“That seems to be the case, Dulcissima,” he whispers, his eyes following a woman pushing a cart into your direction. “Dear lady,” he calls out, stepping toward the woman with a smile on his lips.

“Forgot to bake your honey cakes, Sir?” She calls as the cart comes to a halt. Indeed, upon closer inspection you find the cart loaded with honeyed cakes, one or two large bowls filled with wool and a few bags of what you presume to be wine.

“Precisely.” Acacius gives her a broad smile, reaching for his coin purse and you watch as the woman begins to slip a few of the small cakes into a bag. A thought strikes you.

“Acacius,” you hum, stepping up behind him. “Do we need the woolen figures as well? If the Lares and Mania pass through the streets tonight.” You can tell by his expression that he may not pay the ritual as much value as you do but then his gaze softens and he nods, turning to the woman. “Do you sell figurines as well? Or only the wool?”

“You really are a forgetful one,” she laughs but nods, reaching into a wooden box. “Will it just be two?”

“Three,” you blurt out before Acacius can protest. “Two men and one lady. Please.” At his questioning gaze, you shrug. “Rusticus is staying in the villa too, right? You don’t want my personal guard at risk of causing upset to the deities?”

“Of course not,” he smiles at you as he hands the woman a few coins and you know that he is rather amused by your behaviour and your beliefs.

Acacius pays for the bags and the woman gives you a small smile. “Best remind your husband to get his protection for you on time next year.”

You chalk it up to years and years of smiling through uncomfortable conversations that you manage to stay serious and thank her. “Yes, I will make sure. He is just very forgetful sometimes. Age, you know.”

You feel Acacius stiffen beside you, his brow quirking ever so slightly as he sends a look your way. One that lets you know you will pay for your moment of fun sooner or later. The woman has returned to tending her cart, oblivious to what is happening in front of her eyes. “Here, have this. Enjoy the night.” She hands Acacius one of the flasks and he gives a small bow and another polite thanks before you move on, now loaded up with everything you could need for a proper Compitalia.

You can already hear the music from the piazza, the cheerful sound drifting over the water and onto the open sea, when Acacius steps to the side, fumbling with the bag and offering you a honey cake. “I seem to recall you like these?”

“I do,” you agree but don’t reach for it. “They are supposed to be given to the Deities. They’re not supposed to be for us mortals.”

Acacius makes a face, nudging the sweet treat into your direction. “We’ll save one and place it on one of the altars later. It is why I got two.” His hand is still outstretched, propping the honey cake up. When you still don’t move, he shrugs. “Please, if you won’t have it I will.”

Before you can protest again, he has raised the cake to his mouth and takes a bite, humming contently as the thick honey fills his mouth. “What a gentleman,” you mutter, reaching to take the treat from him. To your surprise, he lets go as soon as you’ve gripped it and you bring it to your own lips, watching as a fine string of honey extends from his mouth.

You watch him lick his lips and brush his thumb over the thick honey coating the corners while you take a bite. It makes you wonder if it is because of that detail that it tastes like the best honeyed cake you’ve ever tasted. “This is delicious,” you half-moan into your second bite and Acacius just nods in agreement. He waits patiently until you’re done, letting you chew in peace, both of you taking in your surroundings. The last rays of the sun have disappeared, leaving the sea to your right dark and quiet.

“She gave us wine?” You ask eventually, prompting to the flask he is holding and Acacius nods, handing it to you.

“She did. She also thought–” You know what he is about to say. You both do. And you haven’t had enough wine or honeyed cakes to have that conversation with him. Your fingers tremble as you open the flask.

“Well, she was wrong,” you state quickly, cutting him off before he even has a chance to say the words. “People make mistakes.” You tip your head back, allowing some of the wine to flow into your mouth, the bitter taste mixing with the sweetness the honey left behind.

That is, until your gaze lands on Acacius again. His smile has vanished. “Yeah. They do.”

You swallow and shake your head, silently offering him the wine. He drinks. Then, you both begin to walk again, heading closer and closer to the music.

Indeed, half the townsfolk seems to have gathered around the two columns, people sitting on the steps that lead down to the sea, altars set up around several of the crossroads. Women are twirling in their long gowns, laughter echoing around you. It is a beautiful scene.

“You promised me a dance,” you say softly and Acacius sighs, placing the bags and flask by the bottom of the stairs and offering you his hand. “We don’t have to,” you add quickly, not wanting to ruin the mood once and for all. Half an hour ago, he admitted to having sought you out in the temple and now this.

“I keep my promises, Dulcissima,” he hums and you step closer, placing both your hands in his, allowing him to lead you in a circle. “You may have been right in not wearing your veil tonight then.”

“And why is that?” You ask quietly, easing your body into the rhythm of the music and that of him.

He draws you in closer and you let him. His mouth comes to your ear, making sure that no one else can listen to words meant solely for you. “Because I am not sure people would appreciate me touching a Vestal like this.”

“I thought we agreed I was not a Vestal tonight,” you whisper back, letting one of your hands crawl up his arm until it settles on his shoulder.

“We did,” he agrees, picking up his pace as the musicians begin a faster song. He is so close that you can feel the heat radiate from his body, feel his breath on your shoulder whenever he steps closer. And his hand stays in yours, throughout every song, not once letting go.

“Thank the gods,” he whispers just as the song you were swaying to comes to an end.

[softpascalito]

sobbing into my pillow quietly bc all i need is joel miller (and your writing @alwayslurkinginthebackground 🩷 )

Unspoken - A Joel Miller Drabble

Pairing: Joel Miller x reader Rating: M since we do face some mature themes here (mainly the general concept of death existing in the universe of TLOU). Nothing graphic, but still important to note. Word Count: 1087 a/n: Okay this came out way more angsty than I wanted it to, but this is for @softpascalito. <3

The trope was as old as time. Two people, one bed, no other options. And in most of the places you'd traveled across the country with Joel, that was the reality. You'd find yourself on an old, worn mattress just inches away from the man who had, more or less, become your entire life, carefully positioning yourself in a way that would be sure to keep you on your side of the bed until morning.

But tonight, of all nights, it seems you have the opposite problem.

"I'll take the bed by the door," he states. They're some of the first words he's said to you all day, probably because he knows what day it is. He always does. There's no space for arguing when he sets his backpack down on the mattress in question before sitting on the edge, knees cracking in the process.

You say nothing as you move past him, grateful to maintain the silence as you navigate toward the second bed. The motel had been a rare find, something you'd only been able to locate when a hoard of clickers had disrupted your path back from Lincoln. The two of you had checked the remaining rooms and eventually settled on this one, the only one with a full set of sheets still spread out on each bed, as though nothing had ever happened.

Not that it would help you sleep. You never did. Not today.

Usually, the second bed would feel like a luxury, but now it feels somewhat like a burden. One you won't share with him, not now, probably not ever. So instead, you let your own pack fall to the ground, your body collapsing against the soft fabric. A cloud of dust rises into the air, making you cough, but it settles back around you as you close your eyes, just for a moment.

"You should get some sleep," Joel notes from where he's still sitting. You know he hasn't moved, that he's still transfixed on the window, trying to figure out a way to better block the outside world from invading your newfound space the same way he'd pushed the desk up against the door. The way he'd been protecting you since the day he found you exactly four years ago.

Only, when you tilt your head in his direction and crack open your eyes, you find him watching you instead.

The lie spills easily from your lips, even if there's little use in saying it at all. He knows, but he won't argue. "I'm fine."

Joel frowns, but he doesn't say anything further. He just turns his gaze back to the window, not willing to push you because he wouldn't want you to push him either. It's the first of the unspoken rules that exist in the space between you. You won't ask him about his daughter, and he won't ask you about your fiancé.

"You could use some sleep, too," you remind him, because even if you know sleep won't take you, maybe it'll at least take him for a while.

You expect him to resist, especially today, but he doesn't. He simply pulls off his boots and moves to slip beneath the blankets covering his bed, turning away from you so his bad ear is the one pressed against the pillow. You mirror his motions, slipping off your worn shoes and settling against your own bed with your back against the headboard.

There's no need for you to keep watch, not when you're as secure as can be and you both still have your pistols well within reach. No one knows you're here, there's no electricity for lights even if you wanted them, and the entire building had been devoid of activity when you'd searched it, but still sleep doesn't come. Not when you let yourself rest your head against the pillow, not when you do your best to go through the alphabet of city names that used to exist, not even when you close your eyes and try to listen to the soft rhythm of Joel's breathing.

If he sleeps, that's your only sign. The gentle rise and fall of his breath, even and calming. A reminder that even when you've lost everyone else, he's still here. Even if, in this moment, you wish the second bed didn't exist. That you would be able to face him and trace the lines of his face as you fight off the exhaustion threatening to overtake you. Something like disappointment runs through your veins as you long for him to be closer. Closer would be enough.

And then, as though he can hear your silent plea, he moves.

There's a second unspoken agreement you'd come to some years ago, when on that first anniversary you'd woken screaming in the middle of the night. He'd held you tightly against him until you returned to reality. Not to sleep, reality, where he whispered quietly in your ear. You'd be afraid to sleep in the years that followed, able to seemingly block out the visions of someone you used to know necessarily at the other end of your own pistol every night except for one, but each time he'd encompass you. Just for the night, just while you needed him.

Even if you were afraid to admit that you needed him more often than not.

Now, as he maneuvers from his bed and dips a knee onto your mattress, tugging the blankets from your body so he can slip in beside you, there are no words. He simply draws you against him, warmth flooding your senses as he guides your head to his chest, his hand tangling itself in your hair as he brushes through the strands.

There's the ghost of his lips against the crown of your head when you let yourself relax against him, weaving your leg between his just before you allow the tears to spill from your eyes. They'll dampen his shirt, but he's never complained before and he won't complain now. It's here, after all, in the quiet of the night that his rough exterior falls away, allowing you and only you to witness what lies beneath.

"I'm here," he reminds you, as though now sleep will come.

It won't.

Not for you and probably not for him. Not tonight, anyway. And tomorrow, he'll rise with the sun and act as though nothing happened. Pretend that it wasn't his embrace that kept the demons away.

Only, you know as well as he does that it was.

[softpascalito]

tag list reblog ♡

[@sofiparallel @koshkaj-blog @guelyury @picketniffler @ashleyfilm

@tonystankhere ]

Comfort I Joel Miller x F!Reader

Summary: It is summer in Austin and you long for an uneventful day with Joel. Your diabetes has other plans.

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader Rating: Non-Explicit / MDNI Word count: 2.6k Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort , Fluff, Diabetes, Health Issues, Diabetic Reader, (reader wears a dexcom and uses insulin pens), Guilt, Soft Joel Miller, Hypoglycemia, Forehead Kisses, Comfort

AO3 LINK // Masterlist

notes: a huge, huge thank you to the wonderful @Rainybee17 for allowing me to learn more about diabetes and patiently answering all my questions. i have tried my best to make this oneshot a good representation and even though everyone's experience is different, i hope that someone can find themselves between these lines. smooches and happy sunday! ♡

this fic is not medical advice. if you or someone else is struggling with diabetes or if you'd like to learn more please visit the international diabetes federation or speak to your doctor.

Comfort

True to the weather forecast that you watched on TV with Joel last night, the temperatures in Austin have shot up overnight. The sun has barely risen, only a few thin streaks of light falling through the blinds that cover the window of your bedroom. Which is Joel's bedroom, really. But during the summer, it has evolved into something that feels more like yours rather than his.

You blink groggily, feeling the mattress dip beside you as Joel reaches over to shut his alarm clock off, the beeping noise that woke you dying down the moment his hand touches the button. A small noise leaves your throat in protest, your left leg still tangled between his and Joel turns back to face you. “Not today, darlin’. I gotta start goin’.”

Some days, your pouting works, keeping him in bed for a few minutes longer. But he takes his jobs seriously and you don’t blame him for wanting the heavy lifting done before the temperatures peak around lunchtime.

Joel’s beard scratches against your skin as he leans over to press a kiss to your face before he begins to carefully disentangle himself from you. His arm slides out from below you, his embrace that you were so peacefully resting in until a moment ago gone. He makes sure not to brush over the dexcom that is currently attached to your upper left arm, the white device peeking out from below the sheets. You can see him pause at the sight, his gears already turning. “Why don’t you get up too? Think I’ve got enough time to have a coffee.”

“Fine,” you groan, only reluctantly agreeing to his peace offer. It's not as good as staying in bed with him but you can always take a nap later and enjoy his presence while you have it. You peel the sheets off your body, padding over to the bathroom while you listen to Joel pull on jeans and a shirt that already has so many holes in it you don't bother to count them anymore.

You’ve settled into a comfortable routine during the summer months, even with him leaving early and coming home late. With Sarah at football camp, you have the house all to yourself, a luxury you enjoy more than you’d like to admit. You’ve spent countless days lounging in the backyard or swimming a few laps around the pool, occasionally preparing a fancy dinner for Joel or making yourself useful in any other way. He drinks coffee by his kitchen window every morning, unless he’s running late. Today, you join him, hopping up onto the counter as the sun steadily rises and the first cars are started up outside, bringing people to work.

You remind him to give you a kiss every day, despite knowing that he’d never forget. No matter if you’re in the kitchen with him or still in bed or already nose-deep in a book. Without fail, Joel Miller finds you before he leaves.

“We’re finally getting that delivery today,” Joel hums, swirling the last sips of his coffee around in his mug. “If the load ‘s good, I could get off early.”

“That would be nice,” you agree softly, rubbing the last bit of sleep out of the corners of your eyes. “Think I’ll take a dip in the pool later.”

“Then I better be home to see that,” Joel teases as he turns his back to you, washing his mug out in the sink. Then, he leans over to kiss you again and it only makes you long for him more. You’re certain he feels the same.

“You check your levels?” He hums into your neck and oh, he’s gotten smart, asking when he knows you won’t push him away.

“All good,” you reassure him. Some days, you think he is more occupied with your condition than you are, fussing over you and reminding you to track your sugar and insulin constantly. It’s gotten annoying occasionally, but you know he only does it because he cares. And if you’re being honest with yourself, that is a big part of why he has become your favorite person rather quickly.

You watch as Joel grabs his tool belt and heads out the door, giving you one little last wave. Then, you listen to the truck start up outside and the sound of the engine that slowly fades away into the distance.

“Fine,” you mutter to yourself, jumping off the kitchen counter to reach for your phone. You prefer tracking with the dexcom sensor, the device making it so easy to check your levels at all times. Today, you’re in the clear. The number inside the small circle in the app reads 110.

The blue insulin pen is waiting for you beside the fridge, placed on a small wooden tray that conveniently showed up there the first time you slept over. It holds a few small juice boxes, glucose tablets and your trusted pen.

You stare at it for a few moments, weighing it in your hands as you calculate how much you’ll need for your breakfast. Then, with practiced ease, you poke yourself with the needle, allowing the chosen amount of liquid to flow into your body.

“Ten minute warning…” You hum, putting the pen back into its place and reaching for the kitchen shelf instead. You’ve gotten much better at timing your breakfast properly, making sure that the insulin doesn’t act too fast nor too slow.

Once you’re done eating, you check the number again. 160. All fine, just like you promised Joel. Good.

It’s still early but you don’t feel like going back to bed. Thursday means the farmer’s market is happening at the local community center and for once you may be early enough to have the first pick. The fresh fruits and vegetables have a tendency to bring mouth-watering recipe ideas for dinner to your mind so you lock the front door behind you and head out.

Indeed, the stands are not yet picked over and you take your time, enjoying the nice weather and chatting with a few familiar faces. The short trip turns into a few hours and it’s only when the heat starts to press down on you below the plastic tents that you make your way back. The groceries are unloaded rather quickly and you fetch your current read, a book about a spontaneous summer love in Italy, from upstairs.

It’s been exactly the kind of uneventful day you enjoy in the summer, the one that leaves you feeling warm and tanned and thankful for pools and cool drinks. The way it should be. You have no idea that this is about to change.

The deck at the back of the Miller’s house is shaded so that you don’t feel like you’ll immediately burn up in the sun. A soft groan of relief escapes you as you stretch out on the lounge chair, opening your book to where you left off. You read about cicadas and pine trees and steady waves rolling ashore and slowly but surely, your eyes begin to droop.

***

Something is wrong. The sun is much lower than it was a few minutes ago. The front door opens and closes. Joel can’t be back yet. It’s still lunchtime.

For a moment, you think you are just too sleepy, that you are still in some kind of dream. Then, you think you’ve spent too much time in the sun. It takes a few seconds for you to realize that the way you’re feeling, a bit hazy, a bit like you’re floating– it’s low sugar.

You blindly reach to your right, onto the wooden table beside you but your phone isn’t in reach. When you turn your head, you realize why. You never brought it outside. It’s still on the kitchen counter, where you left it after unloading the groceries.

Slowly, you stand, looking down to see that your legs are trembling slightly. You force them to take one step after another, coaxing your body in an attempt to stay upright. You can already hear the soft beeping noise from inside the house that alerts you to a number outside the safe range. You push past the screen door– but before you can reach the kitchen, and with it your phone, Joel reaches you.

His eyes are wide, the panic clear on his face as he holds your phone in his right hand, the alert on the display blinking in a steady rhythm, displaying a too low 63. “Did you eat?” He presses out, his free hand coming up to rest on your shoulder, steadying you. The worry in his voice is palpable and you shake your head at his question.

“Okay, okay–” The gears are turning in his head and you’re not sure if he’s talking to you or himself. “Okay. We need– Do you need me to get the emergency pen?”

“No,” you quickly decline. “No, it’s okay, it’s not that bad.”

You can see him weighing his options, his eyes raking over your face and your body for a moment, no doubt trying to assess your state. You know you’re shaking and that your face likely looks drained, a thin sheen of sweat covering it. His gaze turns to the kitchen next and you can see him fight with himself. Ultimately, Joel steps forward, wrapping an arm around you and leading you into the living room, his grasp not leaving you until you’re securely seated on the couch. “Can’t have you passing out now. Don’t try and stand, alright? Just … sit tight.”

He puts your phone down and rushes to the kitchen, leaving you alone with the low number on the display that almost seems to laugh at you. What were you thinking, dozing off like that?

Joel is back after mere seconds, holding up a juice box in one hand and the package of glucose tablets in the other, silently letting you choose. You point at the juice and he nods, kneeling in front of you and sticking the thin plastic straw into the pre-punched hole. “One apple juice, coming right up.” You can tell he’s trying to lighten the mood but you can’t bring yourself to give him more than a weak smile in return.

He nudges the box into your hands and then sits patiently as you begin to drink, one of his hands coming to rest on your thigh, his thumb drawing lazy circles into your skin. “15 – 15 rule, right?” Joel asks and at the look of surprise on your face, he adds; “15 grams of carbs, wait for 15 minutes. Then see if it helped?”

“Yeah,” you agree in between small sips. “Yeah, how do you know about 15 – 15?” You watch as a faint blush spreads over his cheeks but he shakes his head, dismissing the question.

“Just do. It doesn’t matter.” His motions on your leg pause as you finish your juice, allowing him to take the empty carton from you and place it on the floor behind him. “You feelin’ any better, darlin’?” You can tell by his voice that he is still anxious, his entire attention zoned in on you. You lean back into the cushions, taking a deep breath, slowly calming down. You’ve been there before, you’ve gone into low numbers. But it never gets less scary.

“It’s fine,” you reassure him because you can still feel his gaze on you. “Not like this hasn’t happened before.” The dry comment is aimed to brush him off but it seems to do the opposite.

“No. I mean, yes, but it shouldn't be happening at all,” Joel shakes his head and ow. You know you messed up but hearing it from him stings more than you thought it would.

“You try tracking every meal every day and living with this– this–” You can feel you working yourself up, anger bubbling inside you, anger more than happy to find an outlet. But then your eyes fall onto Joel's face. And you see the moment his eyes widen in sheer panic.

“No, no, god no, that is not what I meant–” He stumbles over his words in an attempt to get them out. “I wasn't blaming you, I was saying that– that it's not fair. I just hate to see you suffer, that's all.” His brown eyes remind you so much of a kicked puppy that you almost want to cry.

A soft hoot from your phone makes you both turn your heads, the number 107 popping up. Back in range. Joel sighs in relief.

“Good. This is good.” He stretches slightly, one hand pressed against his lower back. “You want a nap?”

“Just had one,” you say quietly, avoiding his eyes.

“Right,” he hums, pinching the bridge of his nose for a few moments and you know he’s thinking again, trying to figure out what to do with you. Because of course you have to make a lovely summer’s day so difficult.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, trying and failing to keep the tears at bay. “I didn’t mean to ruin your evening, I know you had work–”

He cuts you off by squeezing your thigh once, shaking his head as he maneuvers himself onto the couch beside you. “Look at me, baby,” he coaxes you to shift towards him, his thumb brushing over your cheek. “I never ever want to hear you apologizing for this again. It ain’t your fault, darlin’. Never was and never will be. And I’ve told you before, we’re in this together. You don’t have to carry it all by yourself.”

A single tear rolls down your cheek and he catches it with his thumb, tutting quietly. His arms find their way around you and he pulls you into his chest, burying his nose in your hair, whispering sweet nothings into the otherwise silent room.

“How ‘bout we watch one of them movies you like so much?” Joel offers when he pulls back after a few minutes, his hand still intertwined with yours. You have movie night more often than not, but usually, he doesn’t let you pick. Nor you him. It's a middle ground, one that is found after quite a bit of discussion.

“You hate them,” you argue weakly, a small laughter slipping out. You’ve tried introducing Joel to Rom-Coms, the classics, the modern ones, those that he may not at first glance recognize as such. But so far, you haven’t hit his taste.

“Not today,” he hums with a small smile. “Today I promise I’ll love them.” You both chuckle quietly and he does let you pick, not once complaining as he kneels in front of the TV to start the movie. He keeps a watchful eye on you throughout the next roughly 90 minutes, getting you a glass of water and another snack when you need it, his arm comfortably wrapped around your shoulder like he’s not quite willing to let go.

“How did you know?” You ask into the near-silence when the credits are flickering over the screen, some love song quietly playing over them. “About the rule I mean.”

“Uh, let’s see–” Joel makes a face. “Might’ve read a book or two.”

You squeeze him a bit tighter at that. Because you know that people who see Joel in his truck or at the construction site may think he’s gruff and cold. You had similar worries when your eyes first landed on him. But you know how much he cares. About Sarah and about you, about being there in whatever way he can. No matter if it’s stocking up on juice or kissing you every morning or secretly reading books so he can understand you better. He’s here for it all. And so are you. Together.

Notes: thank you so much for reading! if you enjoyed, please feel free to leave a comment or a follow ♡

[softpascalito]

Comfort I Joel Miller x F!Reader

Summary: It is summer in Austin and you long for an uneventful day with Joel. Your diabetes has other plans.

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader Rating: Non-Explicit / MDNI Word count: 2.6k Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort , Fluff, Diabetes, Health Issues, Diabetic Reader, (reader wears a dexcom and uses insulin pens), Guilt, Soft Joel Miller, Hypoglycemia, Forehead Kisses, Comfort

AO3 LINK // Masterlist

notes: a huge, huge thank you to the wonderful @Rainybee17 for allowing me to learn more about diabetes and patiently answering all my questions. i have tried my best to make this oneshot a good representation and even though everyone's experience is different, i hope that someone can find themselves between these lines. smooches and happy sunday! ♡

this fic is not medical advice. if you or someone else is struggling with diabetes or if you'd like to learn more please visit the international diabetes federation or speak to your doctor.

Comfort

True to the weather forecast that you watched on TV with Joel last night, the temperatures in Austin have shot up overnight. The sun has barely risen, only a few thin streaks of light falling through the blinds that cover the window of your bedroom. Which is Joel's bedroom, really. But during the summer, it has evolved into something that feels more like yours rather than his.

You blink groggily, feeling the mattress dip beside you as Joel reaches over to shut his alarm clock off, the beeping noise that woke you dying down the moment his hand touches the button. A small noise leaves your throat in protest, your left leg still tangled between his and Joel turns back to face you. “Not today, darlin’. I gotta start goin’.”

Some days, your pouting works, keeping him in bed for a few minutes longer. But he takes his jobs seriously and you don’t blame him for wanting the heavy lifting done before the temperatures peak around lunchtime.

Joel’s beard scratches against your skin as he leans over to press a kiss to your face before he begins to carefully disentangle himself from you. His arm slides out from below you, his embrace that you were so peacefully resting in until a moment ago gone. He makes sure not to brush over the dexcom that is currently attached to your upper left arm, the white device peeking out from below the sheets. You can see him pause at the sight, his gears already turning. “Why don’t you get up too? Think I’ve got enough time to have a coffee.”

“Fine,” you groan, only reluctantly agreeing to his peace offer. It's not as good as staying in bed with him but you can always take a nap later and enjoy his presence while you have it. You peel the sheets off your body, padding over to the bathroom while you listen to Joel pull on jeans and a shirt that already has so many holes in it you don't bother to count them anymore.

You’ve settled into a comfortable routine during the summer months, even with him leaving early and coming home late. With Sarah at football camp, you have the house all to yourself, a luxury you enjoy more than you’d like to admit. You’ve spent countless days lounging in the backyard or swimming a few laps around the pool, occasionally preparing a fancy dinner for Joel or making yourself useful in any other way. He drinks coffee by his kitchen window every morning, unless he’s running late. Today, you join him, hopping up onto the counter as the sun steadily rises and the first cars are started up outside, bringing people to work.

You remind him to give you a kiss every day, despite knowing that he’d never forget. No matter if you’re in the kitchen with him or still in bed or already nose-deep in a book. Without fail, Joel Miller finds you before he leaves.

“We’re finally getting that delivery today,” Joel hums, swirling the last sips of his coffee around in his mug. “If the load ‘s good, I could get off early.”

“That would be nice,” you agree softly, rubbing the last bit of sleep out of the corners of your eyes. “Think I’ll take a dip in the pool later.”

“Then I better be home to see that,” Joel teases as he turns his back to you, washing his mug out in the sink. Then, he leans over to kiss you again and it only makes you long for him more. You’re certain he feels the same.

“You check your levels?” He hums into your neck and oh, he’s gotten smart, asking when he knows you won’t push him away.

“All good,” you reassure him. Some days, you think he is more occupied with your condition than you are, fussing over you and reminding you to track your sugar and insulin constantly. It’s gotten annoying occasionally, but you know he only does it because he cares. And if you’re being honest with yourself, that is a big part of why he has become your favorite person rather quickly.

You watch as Joel grabs his tool belt and heads out the door, giving you one little last wave. Then, you listen to the truck start up outside and the sound of the engine that slowly fades away into the distance.

“Fine,” you mutter to yourself, jumping off the kitchen counter to reach for your phone. You prefer tracking with the dexcom sensor, the device making it so easy to check your levels at all times. Today, you’re in the clear. The number inside the small circle in the app reads 110.

The blue insulin pen is waiting for you beside the fridge, placed on a small wooden tray that conveniently showed up there the first time you slept over. It holds a few small juice boxes, glucose tablets and your trusted pen.

You stare at it for a few moments, weighing it in your hands as you calculate how much you’ll need for your breakfast. Then, with practiced ease, you poke yourself with the needle, allowing the chosen amount of liquid to flow into your body.

“Ten minute warning…” You hum, putting the pen back into its place and reaching for the kitchen shelf instead. You’ve gotten much better at timing your breakfast properly, making sure that the insulin doesn’t act too fast nor too slow.

Once you’re done eating, you check the number again. 160. All fine, just like you promised Joel. Good.

It’s still early but you don’t feel like going back to bed. Thursday means the farmer’s market is happening at the local community center and for once you may be early enough to have the first pick. The fresh fruits and vegetables have a tendency to bring mouth-watering recipe ideas for dinner to your mind so you lock the front door behind you and head out.

Indeed, the stands are not yet picked over and you take your time, enjoying the nice weather and chatting with a few familiar faces. The short trip turns into a few hours and it’s only when the heat starts to press down on you below the plastic tents that you make your way back. The groceries are unloaded rather quickly and you fetch your current read, a book about a spontaneous summer love in Italy, from upstairs.

It’s been exactly the kind of uneventful day you enjoy in the summer, the one that leaves you feeling warm and tanned and thankful for pools and cool drinks. The way it should be. You have no idea that this is about to change.

The deck at the back of the Miller’s house is shaded so that you don’t feel like you’ll immediately burn up in the sun. A soft groan of relief escapes you as you stretch out on the lounge chair, opening your book to where you left off. You read about cicadas and pine trees and steady waves rolling ashore and slowly but surely, your eyes begin to droop.

***

Something is wrong. The sun is much lower than it was a few minutes ago. The front door opens and closes. Joel can’t be back yet. It’s still lunchtime.

For a moment, you think you are just too sleepy, that you are still in some kind of dream. Then, you think you’ve spent too much time in the sun. It takes a few seconds for you to realize that the way you’re feeling, a bit hazy, a bit like you’re floating– it’s low sugar.

You blindly reach to your right, onto the wooden table beside you but your phone isn’t in reach. When you turn your head, you realize why. You never brought it outside. It’s still on the kitchen counter, where you left it after unloading the groceries.

Slowly, you stand, looking down to see that your legs are trembling slightly. You force them to take one step after another, coaxing your body in an attempt to stay upright. You can already hear the soft beeping noise from inside the house that alerts you to a number outside the safe range. You push past the screen door– but before you can reach the kitchen, and with it your phone, Joel reaches you.

His eyes are wide, the panic clear on his face as he holds your phone in his right hand, the alert on the display blinking in a steady rhythm, displaying a too low 63. “Did you eat?” He presses out, his free hand coming up to rest on your shoulder, steadying you. The worry in his voice is palpable and you shake your head at his question.

“Okay, okay–” The gears are turning in his head and you’re not sure if he’s talking to you or himself. “Okay. We need– Do you need me to get the emergency pen?”

“No,” you quickly decline. “No, it’s okay, it’s not that bad.”

You can see him weighing his options, his eyes raking over your face and your body for a moment, no doubt trying to assess your state. You know you’re shaking and that your face likely looks drained, a thin sheen of sweat covering it. His gaze turns to the kitchen next and you can see him fight with himself. Ultimately, Joel steps forward, wrapping an arm around you and leading you into the living room, his grasp not leaving you until you’re securely seated on the couch. “Can’t have you passing out now. Don’t try and stand, alright? Just … sit tight.”

He puts your phone down and rushes to the kitchen, leaving you alone with the low number on the display that almost seems to laugh at you. What were you thinking, dozing off like that?

Joel is back after mere seconds, holding up a juice box in one hand and the package of glucose tablets in the other, silently letting you choose. You point at the juice and he nods, kneeling in front of you and sticking the thin plastic straw into the pre-punched hole. “One apple juice, coming right up.” You can tell he’s trying to lighten the mood but you can’t bring yourself to give him more than a weak smile in return.

He nudges the box into your hands and then sits patiently as you begin to drink, one of his hands coming to rest on your thigh, his thumb drawing lazy circles into your skin. “15 – 15 rule, right?” Joel asks and at the look of surprise on your face, he adds; “15 grams of carbs, wait for 15 minutes. Then see if it helped?”

“Yeah,” you agree in between small sips. “Yeah, how do you know about 15 – 15?” You watch as a faint blush spreads over his cheeks but he shakes his head, dismissing the question.

“Just do. It doesn’t matter.” His motions on your leg pause as you finish your juice, allowing him to take the empty carton from you and place it on the floor behind him. “You feelin’ any better, darlin’?” You can tell by his voice that he is still anxious, his entire attention zoned in on you. You lean back into the cushions, taking a deep breath, slowly calming down. You’ve been there before, you’ve gone into low numbers. But it never gets less scary.

“It’s fine,” you reassure him because you can still feel his gaze on you. “Not like this hasn’t happened before.” The dry comment is aimed to brush him off but it seems to do the opposite.

“No. I mean, yes, but it shouldn't be happening at all,” Joel shakes his head and ow. You know you messed up but hearing it from him stings more than you thought it would.

“You try tracking every meal every day and living with this– this–” You can feel you working yourself up, anger bubbling inside you, anger more than happy to find an outlet. But then your eyes fall onto Joel's face. And you see the moment his eyes widen in sheer panic.

“No, no, god no, that is not what I meant–” He stumbles over his words in an attempt to get them out. “I wasn't blaming you, I was saying that– that it's not fair. I just hate to see you suffer, that's all.” His brown eyes remind you so much of a kicked puppy that you almost want to cry.

A soft hoot from your phone makes you both turn your heads, the number 107 popping up. Back in range. Joel sighs in relief.

“Good. This is good.” He stretches slightly, one hand pressed against his lower back. “You want a nap?”

“Just had one,” you say quietly, avoiding his eyes.

“Right,” he hums, pinching the bridge of his nose for a few moments and you know he’s thinking again, trying to figure out what to do with you. Because of course you have to make a lovely summer’s day so difficult.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, trying and failing to keep the tears at bay. “I didn’t mean to ruin your evening, I know you had work–”

He cuts you off by squeezing your thigh once, shaking his head as he maneuvers himself onto the couch beside you. “Look at me, baby,” he coaxes you to shift towards him, his thumb brushing over your cheek. “I never ever want to hear you apologizing for this again. It ain’t your fault, darlin’. Never was and never will be. And I’ve told you before, we’re in this together. You don’t have to carry it all by yourself.”

A single tear rolls down your cheek and he catches it with his thumb, tutting quietly. His arms find their way around you and he pulls you into his chest, burying his nose in your hair, whispering sweet nothings into the otherwise silent room.

“How ‘bout we watch one of them movies you like so much?” Joel offers when he pulls back after a few minutes, his hand still intertwined with yours. You have movie night more often than not, but usually, he doesn’t let you pick. Nor you him. It's a middle ground, one that is found after quite a bit of discussion.

“You hate them,” you argue weakly, a small laughter slipping out. You’ve tried introducing Joel to Rom-Coms, the classics, the modern ones, those that he may not at first glance recognize as such. But so far, you haven’t hit his taste.

“Not today,” he hums with a small smile. “Today I promise I’ll love them.” You both chuckle quietly and he does let you pick, not once complaining as he kneels in front of the TV to start the movie. He keeps a watchful eye on you throughout the next roughly 90 minutes, getting you a glass of water and another snack when you need it, his arm comfortably wrapped around your shoulder like he’s not quite willing to let go.

“How did you know?” You ask into the near-silence when the credits are flickering over the screen, some love song quietly playing over them. “About the rule I mean.”

“Uh, let’s see–” Joel makes a face. “Might’ve read a book or two.”

You squeeze him a bit tighter at that. Because you know that people who see Joel in his truck or at the construction site may think he’s gruff and cold. You had similar worries when your eyes first landed on him. But you know how much he cares. About Sarah and about you, about being there in whatever way he can. No matter if it’s stocking up on juice or kissing you every morning or secretly reading books so he can understand you better. He’s here for it all. And so are you. Together.

Notes: thank you so much for reading! if you enjoyed, please feel free to leave a comment or a follow ♡

[softpascalito]

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Dulcissima I Marcus Acacius x Vestal!Reader I Chapter XVI - Brundisium

Summary: Set before and during Gladiator II. General Acacius finds himself entranced by a highly valued priestess of Rome – A Vestal Virgin. But you both have taken vows that make sure your paths may never cross. Until they do.

Aka a fix-it fanfic where Acacius survives the Colosseum.

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x Vestal Virgin Reader Rating: Explicit / MDNI Word count: 49k+ Tags: Secret Relationship, Vestal Virgins, Religious Guilt, Gladiator fights, Gladiator II compliant (more or less), Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Ancient Rome, Age Difference, Slow Burn (ish), Injury, Kissing, Historical Inaccuracy, (Attempted) Sexual Harassment, Smut, First Time, Oral Sex (f receiving), Vaginal Sex, Unprotected Sex, Slight Breeding Kink, Semi-Public Sex, Pining, More tags to be added

AO3 // Series Masterlist // Masterlist // Fic Playlist // Ko-Fi

notes: hello babes! i am so excited to share this chapter, it's another one that had me doing a lot of research. that being said, i just wanted to put out a reminder that while i try to make this somewhat accurate to customs and actual life in 210AD, i take some creative liberty (the same way gladiator does) so please don't take everything in this fic as historically accurate! and now have fun, love you ♡

vestibulum - entryway (sort of)

Chapter XVI - Brundisium

You don’t plan to visit the shops again before leaving Beneventum. In fact, you don’t even think about them again. The only reminders of your trip out of the cage are the fruits still sitting in the worn bag the vendor forced on you and the sinking pit in your stomach. At least the fruit actually comes in handy because when it is time for the evening meal, you can claim a stomach ache and stay in the upstairs room instead, feeding yourself on apples and grapes.

Very briefly, your mind entertains the look Acacius’ face must carry when he shows up for the meal to find you absent. You would have thought he may come upstairs, may at least check on you. After all, he claims you're his responsibility. There is a tiny part of you that is actually disappointed to not hear his footsteps on the upstairs landing again throughout the evening. His room must be close to yours, one of the many doors leading off to the sides of the atrium.

The next morning, you are up before dawn. And so is your guard. Stationed right outside your door, leaving you not the slightest chance of escape. So Acacius kept his word. Guarded at all times. No more sneaking off. And this trip could very well last many weeks, if not months. Lovely.

“It is quite early,” the bearded man states quietly when you step out of your room, already fully dressed. Sleep just wouldn't come tonight. Sometimes you feel like it does more easily in the tents that, despite offering less comforts than a villa, feel closer to nature. Moonlight filtering through cracks between the heavy drapes, cicadas playing in the distance. You’re certain tonight will be better.

“Yes,” you say quietly, not exactly wanting to wake Acacius or the couple of the house and alert them to your plans. You ponder your words for a few moments before nodding toward the stairs. “I wish to pay a short visit into town. To pray at the temple.”

You can see the man weighing his options. You’re sure that Acacius has left very clear instructions. But to your surprise, he nods. “Very well. But please wear a coat. And only a brief visit. We need be here when your carriage arrives.” You find your coat and a colorful scarf before he can change his mind and step into the morning air, the cold more noticeable at this time of day. There is still dew covering the gardens, the sun only starting to rise.

The soldiers nod as you and your guard pass them and you try to push the upset at this notion out of your mind. Instead, you focus on your goal. The temple is empty when you reach it and despite the slightly different architecture and circumstances, it makes you feel a bit more at home.

“I will wait by the door, my lady,” the man hums quietly, retreating into the shadows, even though you are sure he is still keeping a watchful eye on you.

You kneel and say your prayers, finding that if you close your eyes and take a deep breath, the memories that are awoken feel so close that you seem to be able to touch them. Vesta’s temple back home. Your room. The streets of Rome. The people of Rome.

It suddenly appears to you that the only person you truly know so many miles from your bed is Acacius. That none of the townsfolk or soldiers even know your full name. They don’t see past the veil, nor do they care to try.

Your personal guard opens the heavy oak doors for you after you return to his side and your eyes flick to the left, toward the main street that is slowly starting to come to life.

“May I interest you in a sweet treat?” No matter how gruff and broad and scary a man is, you doubt there is anyone in the empire who doesn't enjoy an occasional sweet. And you are counting on him to be the same.

You can feel the man pause beside you. “My lady?” He asks, his face betraying no emotion as he turns to face you. You give him a smile, nodding toward the street.

“The bakery over there. I would like something. If you are already guaranteeing my safety, the least I can do is see to your rations.” You explain, as if buying a man that has been assigned to guard you against your will sweet treats is the most normal thing in the world.

It is when you have secured your baked goods and are heading back onto the street, the sun now fully risen, that you spot the small cart of fruits. Early shoppers are already haggling with the old man, discussing the prices of his apples and you fumble with your coins, picking a few golden ones and sneaking them into the man's coinbox in passing. You don't miss your guard’s eyes following your movements, raising a brow. When you are out of earshot, you let out a small wince. “Please do not tell.”

You can see him pause for a moment, his gaze staying fixed on the road before you. Then, he shakes his head ever so slightly. “I don't see how it concerns me.” You almost think you see a tiny smirk play around his lips.

You’re already back on the grounds, watching as your carriage is being loaded and prepared for the next part of your travels when you turn to him. “May I ask your name?”

He still doesn't smile but nods. “Rusticus.” Then, he bows ever so slightly. “At your service.”

*** You find very quickly that Rusticus is not a fan of conversation. But at least he does not bother you. He keeps his distance, stays respectful and if having him around means Acacius will stop bothering you, you are more than glad to make the trade.

The nights in the tent do indeed bring more sleep, but the days are long and daunting. The weather starts to look up two days after you’ve left Beneventum, the sun coming through more often and the temperatures rise more and more the further south you travel. The moment in the gardens, with Acacius trailing his fingers over your stola and the stars shining above you seems as far out of reach as Rome.

You haven’t been told how many days this part of Via Appia will take but you feel a small jolt of excitement the first time you can spot the sea from your carriage. You can hear the waves rolling in at night and it is the first time you dream of him.

It feels like Acacius is standing in your tent, like he is stepping toward you with gentle steps, pushing the curtains to the side to settle beside you. You know it must be a dream because he looks younger, like less worries rest on his shoulder. Like he hasn't collected all the scars that litter his body yet.

His red toga rustles in the soft breeze that is brushing through your tent and you reach out to touch him, your hand finding his cheek, tracing the stubble of his beard that is, even in this vision, starting to grey in a few spots. You open your mouth because you want to speak, because you have so many things you need to tell him. But then you see him shake his head and your chance passes like the waves in the distance.

“Go back to sleep, Dulcissima,” he whispers and you can only nod, your eyelids drooping. You try to fight it, willing yourself to sit up and wake yourself properly. But you are merely met with your curtains and your hand tangled in them, and with Acacius nowhere to be seen.

When you leave your tent the next morning, greeting Rusticus with a small nod, you spot Acacius almost immediately. He is surrounded by his highest ranks, one hand tapping against his thigh in a slow rhythm. You hate that you know the gesture, that you know it is what he does when he’s anxious. Which no one else would ever see in him. He’s holding himself proudly, giving his white and gold armour the moment it deserves. It’s how you know that today will mark the end of your land journey, unless you’re much mistaken.

Acacius seems to be on his best looks and behavior whenever you reach a big town and make halt there, which certainly has something to do with very important people and very important politics. You don’t care much for either.

His curls look even more lush and bouncy today and as you watch him from the safety of your carriage as he steers his white stallion with practiced ease. You long to reach out and run your hands through them, twirl the curls between your fingers until you find the small streaks of grey that are beginning to show. He felt so real last night, so close. Maybe, just maybe, you’ll at least have him in your dreams.

Via Appia leads you straight into Brundisium, a town surrounded by high, stone walls on one side and the sparkling blue sea on the other. It doesn't feel unlike Beneventum a few days ago but the difference in class is immediately noticeable. Many of the houses look well cared for, not rarely with gardens equally as tended surrounding them. The streets off to the side lead up and down, those that face east letting you sneak more glances at the sea in the distance. Something must be happening in the town because you see decorations being handed around, preparations of some kind taking place.

Once again, it is only a selected few of the soldiers that accompany the General and your carriage behind the town walls, the majority of them likely setting up camp in front of the gates. You wonder if they have a view of the sea, if you will. Whatever room Acacius will lock you up in in this town, it better have a good view.

“Thank you Rusticus–” You say politely out of habit when you step out of your carriage once it has come to a halt, holding onto the hand that has been extended toward the door. To your surprise, for once, it is not your personal guard that is helping you descend.

Up close, the two griffins on Acacius’s chest seem to reflect the rays of sunshine even more, like he himself is shining rather than sol above. You drop his hand so abruptly that your fingers brush past his fine golden bracers. The metal has been warmed up by the heat of his body but the touch somehow almost seems to burn you.

Acacius’s eyes fly to yours, the trace of concern evident. You watch as his brows furrow slightly and there is another emotion in his face that you can’t put your finger on. “My lady?” He asks quietly, beckoning you onto the piazza in front of you. It’s a subtle way to remind you that you are not alone.

Soldiers are dismounting their horses around you, those of high ranks shaking hands with men that wear large coats and expensive jewelry. The sight fits the stories you’ve heard of Brundisium. A town that has profited greatly from the trade that passes through it, from ships bringing spices, soft fabrics and other exotics. A wealth that the townsfolk clearly likes to show off.

The space in front of you is dominated by two large columns, stretching up into the sky. You consider them for a moment, not used to seeing columns this large that do not serve any purpose. “Do these predate the Empire?” As you step closer to try and read the inscriptions, you feel Acacius shift beside you.

“They mark the end of Via Appia,” he explains gently while you begin to round the stone pillars together, his gaze wandering up and down along the smooth stone.

“Or the beginning,” you add without really considering it. A street works both ways. Trade wouldn't be trade if it didn't. So the end of the street really is just a curve, one that sends you back along your way.

“I believe that is why there are two,” Acacius nods thoughtfully as he stops beside them, his eyes now back on you. “Because it could be either.”

“Or both,” you mumble, holding his gaze for a few moments. To your surprise, he doesn't withdraw or correct you. Instead, he nods again, his eyes fixed on yours.

“Or both.”

This time around, despite the many important people that practically trip over their feet trying to get Acacius’s attention, your domicile is not shared with any rich family. Carefully navigating past the soldiers still unloading, the General leads you across the piazza and toward a large villa to the right.

You take in your surroundings, realizing that the bustling activity is more than what you made it out to be at first glance. Off to the sides, several tables are being set up, almost like altars, candles and small items placed on them that you can’t quite make out from distance.

Acacius follows your gaze, a small smile spreading over his face. “Have you attended Compitalia before?”

You shake your head at the question. “No. Not really, at least. I’ve read of the celebrations down here being much larger. It is not as much a custom in Rome, is it?”

“The people of Rome have many festivals to attend,” he says softly and you wonder if he is also thinking about the fact that you celebrated the last one together, that Bona Dea was the start of whatever this between you has grown into. “Compitalia goes back far beyond Rome. Maybe as far as the Vestals.” He looks at you for a moment. “But it was banned for many years. Emperor Augustus brought it back, but it was never as important in Rome as it is in the countryside.”

“It is for the Lares Compitales, right?” You recall. Part of your training was learning about all the festivals, partly for knowledge and partly because the Vestals tend to many of them. Not the Compitalia though.

“Yes. The household deities. Those of the crossroads and public streets. Each neighborhood has their own.” Acacius points over to separate altars being erected, all of them sitting above a crossroad. “Tomorrow, they will ask the deities to have mercy and good will for the year to come. I visited Brundisium during the festival once before. It was lovely. There is music and dance and honeyed cakes. It is a festival of the people.”

You can’t help but listen eagerly, even if you still feel a grudge towards the man beside you. But his experience, the distances he’s traveled and cultures he has witnessed along the way are fascinating. It feels more like what you'd imagined your own travels to be like, too.

“This is where we will stay,” Acacius leads you past the gates and up smooth stone steps into the vestibulum of the villa. The high ceilings, decorated with coffers and small mosaics that show scenes of ships and the sea, make you realize that this dwelling is very much to your taste. You can hear a fire cackling somewhere in another room and the noise of the crowd outside lessens as you pass through the hallway that leads to the atrium. You turn your head to the side– and pause.

Almost on eye level, you are met with a small epigraph. It is not the first one you’ve seen at the entrance to a villa but what strikes you is the name below the quote.

You hear Acacius’s steps die down beside you and then he sighs deeply, stepping toward the wall. “You really are curious, Dulcissima,” he hums and you try and ignore what hearing the nickname from his lips does to your insides. It’s like a fire has been lit.

“I like to learn,” you state matter-of-factly. “It would be a shame if I returned to Rome the same as I was.” You watch his shoulders tense slightly at your words and despite Acacius’s face not being visible to you, you feel that he is following his own train of thought.

“Yes. It would be.” He traces the words that are engraved into the stone with his fingers, his touch following the curves so gently as if he were the one to write them.

Noctes atque dies patet atri ianua Ditis; sed revocare gradum superasque evadere ad auras,

hoc opus, hic labor est. Pauci, quos aequus amavit.

His voice is quiet when he begins to read and somehow, you can feel that he is not really here when he speaks those words. That he is somewhere else. You’re just not sure where. 

“The gates of hell are open night and day;

Smooth is the descent, and easy is the way:

But to come back and view the cheerful skies,

In this the task and mighty labour lies.”

“It is Virgil. The poet,” you hum, taking a few steps toward the epigraph so that you are side by side with the General.

“Forgive me my prejudices but I am surprised a Vestal has read Virgil,” he says softly, turning back to you, his eyes taking in your face, your hair, your veil. Everything.

“I am surprised a General has,” you counter with a small smile and to your surprise Acacius doesn't stop the emotion from showing on his face this time, a small laughter leaving his lips.

You both chuckle quietly as he leads you further into the atrium, one that opens up to a beautiful view of the sea to the east and that of the town to the south. The other sides are lined with high archways and an artistically worked staircase that leads to the upper floor. 

You stroll through the open space, glancing down into the streets below and the altars taking shape on the street corners, a few people hanging decorations in front of their doors. And suddenly, you feel naïve. Because you were so eager to learn about the festival and the town and Virgil that you completely forgot that you are not allowed to experience any of it up close.

“That quote,” Acacius begins, seemingly oblivious to the thoughts that are occupying your head, despite the fact that you feel like you are screaming them. “It is engraved into a wall in one of the rooms on Palatine Hill.”

You frown as you both come to stand beside the edge of the atrium, a gentle breeze blowing around you now. “I must not have seen it when I was there.” You keep your voice quiet, like you are not sure if you’re allowed to mention that you have been in his house. In his bed.

“No, no you wouldn't have.” Acacius’s voice is equally low but it doesn't sound like he’s afraid. He sounds sad. “Lucilla is the only one who ever enters that room. I have only seen it once or twice, when she refused to leave it after–” He sucks in a sharp breath. “It was Lucius’s room. You may not remember, he was–”

“Her son,” you finish quietly, letting your gaze drift over the horizon like you are waiting for something to appear on it. “I remember. I was there, that day.”

You feel Acacius turn to you and when you do the same, the familiar frown is back on his face. “You were there when Maximus was killed?” He stares at you in disbelief. “You only could’ve been–”

“Young,” you agree quietly. “I was pretty young. It could have been only the second or third time I went. It was not– it was not pretty.”

“You hadn't taken your vows yet?” Acacius enquires softly and you shake your head.

“No. No, it was before.” You haven’t really thought about it in recent years. And you suddenly realize that you haven’t thought enough about how close Acacius was to everything, how he was fighting on the front lines of an invisible war.

You send a silent prayer of grace to the gods for making him a General rather than a Gladiator.

“She is a very strong woman,” you add quietly. “A very smart one too.”

“All women are smart,” Acacius blurts out, his face changing again as he leans against one of the columns, looking back out at the sea. “They would not survive any other way. Men on the other hand…”

“They can be a bit more difficult.” You are not sure if he is speaking of other men or himself, if this is his way of a non-committal apology. You are still pondering your words, trying to come up with a clever response that will maybe make him reveal his intentions when he speaks again. 

“You will sneak out again, will you not? To see the festival?”

“Yes.” You mirror his position, leaning against the column beside him so that you are face to face. The worries are still decorating his face but he still nods.

“Then don’t. I–” He holds his hand up when you open your mouth to protest. “I will take you. We can go together.”

“Alright,” you agree, trying not to let your body show how your heart has suddenly started beating out of rhythm. Maybe he still cares for you. At least enough to let you experience something outside of your cage. By his side.

[softpascalito]

Dulcissima I Marcus Acacius x Vestal!Reader I Chapter XVI - Brundisium

Summary: Set before and during Gladiator II. General Acacius finds himself entranced by a highly valued priestess of Rome – A Vestal Virgin. But you both have taken vows that make sure your paths may never cross. Until they do.

Aka a fix-it fanfic where Acacius survives the Colosseum.

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x Vestal Virgin Reader Rating: Explicit / MDNI Word count: 49k+ Tags: Secret Relationship, Vestal Virgins, Religious Guilt, Gladiator fights, Gladiator II compliant (more or less), Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Ancient Rome, Age Difference, Slow Burn (ish), Injury, Kissing, Historical Inaccuracy, (Attempted) Sexual Harassment, Smut, First Time, Oral Sex (f receiving), Vaginal Sex, Unprotected Sex, Slight Breeding Kink, Semi-Public Sex, Pining, More tags to be added

AO3 // Series Masterlist // Masterlist // Fic Playlist // Ko-Fi

notes: hello babes! i am so excited to share this chapter, it's another one that had me doing a lot of research. that being said, i just wanted to put out a reminder that while i try to make this somewhat accurate to customs and actual life in 210AD, i take some creative liberty (the same way gladiator does) so please don't take everything in this fic as historically accurate! and now have fun, love you ♡

vestibulum - entryway (sort of)

Chapter XVI - Brundisium

You don’t plan to visit the shops again before leaving Beneventum. In fact, you don’t even think about them again. The only reminders of your trip out of the cage are the fruits still sitting in the worn bag the vendor forced on you and the sinking pit in your stomach. At least the fruit actually comes in handy because when it is time for the evening meal, you can claim a stomach ache and stay in the upstairs room instead, feeding yourself on apples and grapes.

Very briefly, your mind entertains the look Acacius’ face must carry when he shows up for the meal to find you absent. You would have thought he may come upstairs, may at least check on you. After all, he claims you're his responsibility. There is a tiny part of you that is actually disappointed to not hear his footsteps on the upstairs landing again throughout the evening. His room must be close to yours, one of the many doors leading off to the sides of the atrium.

The next morning, you are up before dawn. And so is your guard. Stationed right outside your door, leaving you not the slightest chance of escape. So Acacius kept his word. Guarded at all times. No more sneaking off. And this trip could very well last many weeks, if not months. Lovely.

“It is quite early,” the bearded man states quietly when you step out of your room, already fully dressed. Sleep just wouldn't come tonight. Sometimes you feel like it does more easily in the tents that, despite offering less comforts than a villa, feel closer to nature. Moonlight filtering through cracks between the heavy drapes, cicadas playing in the distance. You’re certain tonight will be better.

“Yes,” you say quietly, not exactly wanting to wake Acacius or the couple of the house and alert them to your plans. You ponder your words for a few moments before nodding toward the stairs. “I wish to pay a short visit into town. To pray at the temple.”

You can see the man weighing his options. You’re sure that Acacius has left very clear instructions. But to your surprise, he nods. “Very well. But please wear a coat. And only a brief visit. We need be here when your carriage arrives.” You find your coat and a colorful scarf before he can change his mind and step into the morning air, the cold more noticeable at this time of day. There is still dew covering the gardens, the sun only starting to rise.

The soldiers nod as you and your guard pass them and you try to push the upset at this notion out of your mind. Instead, you focus on your goal. The temple is empty when you reach it and despite the slightly different architecture and circumstances, it makes you feel a bit more at home.

“I will wait by the door, my lady,” the man hums quietly, retreating into the shadows, even though you are sure he is still keeping a watchful eye on you.

You kneel and say your prayers, finding that if you close your eyes and take a deep breath, the memories that are awoken feel so close that you seem to be able to touch them. Vesta’s temple back home. Your room. The streets of Rome. The people of Rome.

It suddenly appears to you that the only person you truly know so many miles from your bed is Acacius. That none of the townsfolk or soldiers even know your full name. They don’t see past the veil, nor do they care to try.

Your personal guard opens the heavy oak doors for you after you return to his side and your eyes flick to the left, toward the main street that is slowly starting to come to life.

“May I interest you in a sweet treat?” No matter how gruff and broad and scary a man is, you doubt there is anyone in the empire who doesn't enjoy an occasional sweet. And you are counting on him to be the same.

You can feel the man pause beside you. “My lady?” He asks, his face betraying no emotion as he turns to face you. You give him a smile, nodding toward the street.

“The bakery over there. I would like something. If you are already guaranteeing my safety, the least I can do is see to your rations.” You explain, as if buying a man that has been assigned to guard you against your will sweet treats is the most normal thing in the world.

It is when you have secured your baked goods and are heading back onto the street, the sun now fully risen, that you spot the small cart of fruits. Early shoppers are already haggling with the old man, discussing the prices of his apples and you fumble with your coins, picking a few golden ones and sneaking them into the man's coinbox in passing. You don't miss your guard’s eyes following your movements, raising a brow. When you are out of earshot, you let out a small wince. “Please do not tell.”

You can see him pause for a moment, his gaze staying fixed on the road before you. Then, he shakes his head ever so slightly. “I don't see how it concerns me.” You almost think you see a tiny smirk play around his lips.

You’re already back on the grounds, watching as your carriage is being loaded and prepared for the next part of your travels when you turn to him. “May I ask your name?”

He still doesn't smile but nods. “Rusticus.” Then, he bows ever so slightly. “At your service.”

*** You find very quickly that Rusticus is not a fan of conversation. But at least he does not bother you. He keeps his distance, stays respectful and if having him around means Acacius will stop bothering you, you are more than glad to make the trade.

The nights in the tent do indeed bring more sleep, but the days are long and daunting. The weather starts to look up two days after you’ve left Beneventum, the sun coming through more often and the temperatures rise more and more the further south you travel. The moment in the gardens, with Acacius trailing his fingers over your stola and the stars shining above you seems as far out of reach as Rome.

You haven’t been told how many days this part of Via Appia will take but you feel a small jolt of excitement the first time you can spot the sea from your carriage. You can hear the waves rolling in at night and it is the first time you dream of him.

It feels like Acacius is standing in your tent, like he is stepping toward you with gentle steps, pushing the curtains to the side to settle beside you. You know it must be a dream because he looks younger, like less worries rest on his shoulder. Like he hasn't collected all the scars that litter his body yet.

His red toga rustles in the soft breeze that is brushing through your tent and you reach out to touch him, your hand finding his cheek, tracing the stubble of his beard that is, even in this vision, starting to grey in a few spots. You open your mouth because you want to speak, because you have so many things you need to tell him. But then you see him shake his head and your chance passes like the waves in the distance.

“Go back to sleep, Dulcissima,” he whispers and you can only nod, your eyelids drooping. You try to fight it, willing yourself to sit up and wake yourself properly. But you are merely met with your curtains and your hand tangled in them, and with Acacius nowhere to be seen.

When you leave your tent the next morning, greeting Rusticus with a small nod, you spot Acacius almost immediately. He is surrounded by his highest ranks, one hand tapping against his thigh in a slow rhythm. You hate that you know the gesture, that you know it is what he does when he’s anxious. Which no one else would ever see in him. He’s holding himself proudly, giving his white and gold armour the moment it deserves. It’s how you know that today will mark the end of your land journey, unless you’re much mistaken.

Acacius seems to be on his best looks and behavior whenever you reach a big town and make halt there, which certainly has something to do with very important people and very important politics. You don’t care much for either.

His curls look even more lush and bouncy today and as you watch him from the safety of your carriage as he steers his white stallion with practiced ease. You long to reach out and run your hands through them, twirl the curls between your fingers until you find the small streaks of grey that are beginning to show. He felt so real last night, so close. Maybe, just maybe, you’ll at least have him in your dreams.

Via Appia leads you straight into Brundisium, a town surrounded by high, stone walls on one side and the sparkling blue sea on the other. It doesn't feel unlike Beneventum a few days ago but the difference in class is immediately noticeable. Many of the houses look well cared for, not rarely with gardens equally as tended surrounding them. The streets off to the side lead up and down, those that face east letting you sneak more glances at the sea in the distance. Something must be happening in the town because you see decorations being handed around, preparations of some kind taking place.

Once again, it is only a selected few of the soldiers that accompany the General and your carriage behind the town walls, the majority of them likely setting up camp in front of the gates. You wonder if they have a view of the sea, if you will. Whatever room Acacius will lock you up in in this town, it better have a good view.

“Thank you Rusticus–” You say politely out of habit when you step out of your carriage once it has come to a halt, holding onto the hand that has been extended toward the door. To your surprise, for once, it is not your personal guard that is helping you descend.

Up close, the two griffins on Acacius’s chest seem to reflect the rays of sunshine even more, like he himself is shining rather than sol above. You drop his hand so abruptly that your fingers brush past his fine golden bracers. The metal has been warmed up by the heat of his body but the touch somehow almost seems to burn you.

Acacius’s eyes fly to yours, the trace of concern evident. You watch as his brows furrow slightly and there is another emotion in his face that you can’t put your finger on. “My lady?” He asks quietly, beckoning you onto the piazza in front of you. It’s a subtle way to remind you that you are not alone.

Soldiers are dismounting their horses around you, those of high ranks shaking hands with men that wear large coats and expensive jewelry. The sight fits the stories you’ve heard of Brundisium. A town that has profited greatly from the trade that passes through it, from ships bringing spices, soft fabrics and other exotics. A wealth that the townsfolk clearly likes to show off.

The space in front of you is dominated by two large columns, stretching up into the sky. You consider them for a moment, not used to seeing columns this large that do not serve any purpose. “Do these predate the Empire?” As you step closer to try and read the inscriptions, you feel Acacius shift beside you.

“They mark the end of Via Appia,” he explains gently while you begin to round the stone pillars together, his gaze wandering up and down along the smooth stone.

“Or the beginning,” you add without really considering it. A street works both ways. Trade wouldn't be trade if it didn't. So the end of the street really is just a curve, one that sends you back along your way.

“I believe that is why there are two,” Acacius nods thoughtfully as he stops beside them, his eyes now back on you. “Because it could be either.”

“Or both,” you mumble, holding his gaze for a few moments. To your surprise, he doesn't withdraw or correct you. Instead, he nods again, his eyes fixed on yours.

“Or both.”

This time around, despite the many important people that practically trip over their feet trying to get Acacius’s attention, your domicile is not shared with any rich family. Carefully navigating past the soldiers still unloading, the General leads you across the piazza and toward a large villa to the right.

You take in your surroundings, realizing that the bustling activity is more than what you made it out to be at first glance. Off to the sides, several tables are being set up, almost like altars, candles and small items placed on them that you can’t quite make out from distance.

Acacius follows your gaze, a small smile spreading over his face. “Have you attended Compitalia before?”

You shake your head at the question. “No. Not really, at least. I’ve read of the celebrations down here being much larger. It is not as much a custom in Rome, is it?”

“The people of Rome have many festivals to attend,” he says softly and you wonder if he is also thinking about the fact that you celebrated the last one together, that Bona Dea was the start of whatever this between you has grown into. “Compitalia goes back far beyond Rome. Maybe as far as the Vestals.” He looks at you for a moment. “But it was banned for many years. Emperor Augustus brought it back, but it was never as important in Rome as it is in the countryside.”

“It is for the Lares Compitales, right?” You recall. Part of your training was learning about all the festivals, partly for knowledge and partly because the Vestals tend to many of them. Not the Compitalia though.

“Yes. The household deities. Those of the crossroads and public streets. Each neighborhood has their own.” Acacius points over to separate altars being erected, all of them sitting above a crossroad. “Tomorrow, they will ask the deities to have mercy and good will for the year to come. I visited Brundisium during the festival once before. It was lovely. There is music and dance and honeyed cakes. It is a festival of the people.”

You can’t help but listen eagerly, even if you still feel a grudge towards the man beside you. But his experience, the distances he’s traveled and cultures he has witnessed along the way are fascinating. It feels more like what you'd imagined your own travels to be like, too.

“This is where we will stay,” Acacius leads you past the gates and up smooth stone steps into the vestibulum of the villa. The high ceilings, decorated with coffers and small mosaics that show scenes of ships and the sea, make you realize that this dwelling is very much to your taste. You can hear a fire cackling somewhere in another room and the noise of the crowd outside lessens as you pass through the hallway that leads to the atrium. You turn your head to the side– and pause.

Almost on eye level, you are met with a small epigraph. It is not the first one you’ve seen at the entrance to a villa but what strikes you is the name below the quote.

You hear Acacius’s steps die down beside you and then he sighs deeply, stepping toward the wall. “You really are curious, Dulcissima,” he hums and you try and ignore what hearing the nickname from his lips does to your insides. It’s like a fire has been lit.

“I like to learn,” you state matter-of-factly. “It would be a shame if I returned to Rome the same as I was.” You watch his shoulders tense slightly at your words and despite Acacius’s face not being visible to you, you feel that he is following his own train of thought.

“Yes. It would be.” He traces the words that are engraved into the stone with his fingers, his touch following the curves so gently as if he were the one to write them.

Noctes atque dies patet atri ianua Ditis; sed revocare gradum superasque evadere ad auras,

hoc opus, hic labor est. Pauci, quos aequus amavit.

His voice is quiet when he begins to read and somehow, you can feel that he is not really here when he speaks those words. That he is somewhere else. You’re just not sure where. 

“The gates of hell are open night and day;

Smooth is the descent, and easy is the way:

But to come back and view the cheerful skies,

In this the task and mighty labour lies.”

“It is Virgil. The poet,” you hum, taking a few steps toward the epigraph so that you are side by side with the General.

“Forgive me my prejudices but I am surprised a Vestal has read Virgil,” he says softly, turning back to you, his eyes taking in your face, your hair, your veil. Everything.

“I am surprised a General has,” you counter with a small smile and to your surprise Acacius doesn't stop the emotion from showing on his face this time, a small laughter leaving his lips.

You both chuckle quietly as he leads you further into the atrium, one that opens up to a beautiful view of the sea to the east and that of the town to the south. The other sides are lined with high archways and an artistically worked staircase that leads to the upper floor. 

You stroll through the open space, glancing down into the streets below and the altars taking shape on the street corners, a few people hanging decorations in front of their doors. And suddenly, you feel naïve. Because you were so eager to learn about the festival and the town and Virgil that you completely forgot that you are not allowed to experience any of it up close.

“That quote,” Acacius begins, seemingly oblivious to the thoughts that are occupying your head, despite the fact that you feel like you are screaming them. “It is engraved into a wall in one of the rooms on Palatine Hill.”

You frown as you both come to stand beside the edge of the atrium, a gentle breeze blowing around you now. “I must not have seen it when I was there.” You keep your voice quiet, like you are not sure if you’re allowed to mention that you have been in his house. In his bed.

“No, no you wouldn't have.” Acacius’s voice is equally low but it doesn't sound like he’s afraid. He sounds sad. “Lucilla is the only one who ever enters that room. I have only seen it once or twice, when she refused to leave it after–” He sucks in a sharp breath. “It was Lucius’s room. You may not remember, he was–”

“Her son,” you finish quietly, letting your gaze drift over the horizon like you are waiting for something to appear on it. “I remember. I was there, that day.”

You feel Acacius turn to you and when you do the same, the familiar frown is back on his face. “You were there when Maximus was killed?” He stares at you in disbelief. “You only could’ve been–”

“Young,” you agree quietly. “I was pretty young. It could have been only the second or third time I went. It was not– it was not pretty.”

“You hadn't taken your vows yet?” Acacius enquires softly and you shake your head.

“No. No, it was before.” You haven’t really thought about it in recent years. And you suddenly realize that you haven’t thought enough about how close Acacius was to everything, how he was fighting on the front lines of an invisible war.

You send a silent prayer of grace to the gods for making him a General rather than a Gladiator.

“She is a very strong woman,” you add quietly. “A very smart one too.”

“All women are smart,” Acacius blurts out, his face changing again as he leans against one of the columns, looking back out at the sea. “They would not survive any other way. Men on the other hand…”

“They can be a bit more difficult.” You are not sure if he is speaking of other men or himself, if this is his way of a non-committal apology. You are still pondering your words, trying to come up with a clever response that will maybe make him reveal his intentions when he speaks again. 

“You will sneak out again, will you not? To see the festival?”

“Yes.” You mirror his position, leaning against the column beside him so that you are face to face. The worries are still decorating his face but he still nods.

“Then don’t. I–” He holds his hand up when you open your mouth to protest. “I will take you. We can go together.”

“Alright,” you agree, trying not to let your body show how your heart has suddenly started beating out of rhythm. Maybe he still cares for you. At least enough to let you experience something outside of your cage. By his side.

[softpascalito]

thank you, thank you, i am glad you enjoyed it! i don't have anything with them planned at the moment but never say never... 💜

Vow Renewal I Renaldo x Matt (SNL Sketch)

Summary: Just when things seem to finally be calming down in Matt's marriage, someone from his past shows up at the Vow Renewal. And Renaldo has always been Matt's favorite temptation.

Pairing: Renaldo x Matt (SNL Sketch) Rating: Explicit / MDNI Word count: 2.6k Tags: Explicit, Smut, Semi-Public Sex, Dirty-Talk, An*l Sex, MLM, (Light) Spanking, Cheating (ish), Crackfic, Never thought I'd write smut about an SNL sketch but who is surprised

AO3 LINK // Masterlist

notes: i have no defense, i saw the sketch, i opened my laptop and a wrote this. have fun ♡

Vow Renewal

It’s been a rocky road. But it didn’t start out that way. When Matt met Kelsey in College, their relationship was picture perfect. A few glances and smiles exchanged from their respective seats in the lecture hall, an invitation to grab coffee on a friday. Matt brought flowers and paid for the drinks with a few crumpled up dollar notes and asked questions that he hoped made him sound smart and well educated.

They must have, because three months later, for Christmas, he met Kelsey’s family for the first time, sweating too much at the dinner table as he tried to be on his best behavior. But despite the nerves, all was going well. He popped the question two years later. She said yes.

Then came Domingo. And it all went to shit.

Matt was surprised they had even gone through with the marriage but with Kelsey promising again and again that she was over Domingo and that she only had eyes for Matthew, things settled down. Still, they decided on a vow renewal less than a year later. A sign of good faith. For both of them, though that detail was unknown to Kelsey.

He uses his hand to smooth down his hair, trying not to mess up the product that is already holding it in place. The venue they have booked is small but pretty and even though they are already married, seeing the white and pink decorations is making Matthew feel like his tie is too tight, cutting off his air supply. “I’ll be outside for a moment,” he mutters to one of his groomsmen. They barely take notice of his departure, too busy going over some sheets of paper that are sure to be another embarrassing, self-written song. Like anything good ever comes out of those.

The February air that greets him outside is cold and he shivers in his suit, letting the door fall shut behind him. The balcony stretches along the back of the house, overlooking a forest behind it. It probably makes a nice addition to the venue in the summer, when the weather allows it. But today, it is empty.

He smells him before he sees him. Matt doesn't smoke, unless he counts the two times he tried it in college. He doesn't know shit about cigarettes. But he'd recognize the scent of American Spirits mixed with him anywhere.

The sounds of Renaldo's footsteps echo around the terrasse as he comes closer, like a wolf stalking its prey. “I was waiting for you.”

“Renaldo.” Matt is surprised to hear that his voice comes out shaking. “I didn't know you were here.” He’s not sure why he sounds so hostile. Renaldo hasn't done a thing to him. Except be the very thing he can't have.

“Any yet here I was, still waiting.” He has that fucking smirk on his face.

“How is Santiago?” Matt asks quietly, leaning back against the bannister because he wants to keep as much distance between them as possible and hoping that the topic of Renaldo’s hot brother will provide distraction. But it's like he's back on that golf course where they first met.

“Good. He's good.” Renaldo hums, taking another step towards him. “But that's not the question you really want to ask, is it?” It's like he's challenging him, brown eyes focused on his face, searching for the hint of emotion that will betray his desire and make him an open book. “It's been a very long time, hasn't it? A whole year.”

Matt can feel the man entering his space, his scent even more protruding now. “I told you it wasn't like that, Renaldo. I'm not like that.”

“I don’t remember you complaining,” he muses and fuck, Matt doesnt have it in himself to deny that. “In fact, I think you were doing quite the opposite.” Renaldo’s hand comes to rest on the banister beside his and he towers over him, his voice dropping to a whisper against his ear. “You were begging for it.”

His reaction is immediate. Matt lets out a soft noise that is somewhere between outrage and a moan and he feels his dress pants getting tighter, a shiver running over his body. He takes in Renaldo’s face for a few split seconds, the small goatee, the fine lines that serve as a visual reminder of their age difference and brown eyes filled with lust. Then, Matt pushes himself off the banister and right into Renaldo’s arms, his lips finding those of his illicit lover.

Renaldo’s tongue pushes against his mouth until he gives in and opens for him, their mouths catching his moans when the other man begins to explore his mouth, all restraint forgotten.

Matthew is panting when they break apart. “Not out here. Kelsey's parents are–” He takes a shuddering breath. “Everyone is here. Come on.”

He takes Renaldo’s hand, prompting the other man to follow him without hesitation. They squeeze through the door again, taking a left to get further away from the ceremony hall, when an idea pops into Matthew’s head. The room is small and windowless, almost too full with two chairs, a vanity and clothes rail. It's where he got ready with his best man half an hour earlier. Now, it has turned into the perfect hiding spot.

He doesn't even have a chance to lock the door behind them when Renaldo pushes him further into the room, pinning him against the nearest wall with an audible thud. Matt doesn't know the layout of the house, doesn't know if Kelsey is getting ready behind this very wall. But just the thought of it makes him whimper.

Renaldo’s hands are wandering down his body, his broad form trapping Matt in the most delicious way. He can feel his legs on either side of his right one, already feeling the hard cock pressing into his thigh. By the way his own pants are stretching, he can tell he's not far behind either. One hand finds Matt's back, the other trailing over his neck and somehow Renaldo still knows exactly where to touch him to draw those breathless little moans from his throat.

“You fuck her?” Renaldo grunts and it takes a moment for Matt to remember who he is talking about. His own voice comes out breathless.

“She’s my girlfriend–” He feels Renaldo press into him more at that. “No, she’s your fucking wife,” he growls. “But she was your fiancé last time and you still let me fuck you. So I assume that hasn't changed?”

“I’m not bi,” Matt chokes out, not because he believes it but simply because he's so used to saying it, even when he knows that Renaldo of all people does not give a damn what label he puts on his sex life.

“You want me to stop?” He grunts, searching Matt's eyes for a few seconds. Renaldo can watch as they soften and the younger man shakes his head.

“No,” he whispers and Renaldos smirk returns at that, tugging at the groom's belt.

“Then lose those fucking pants.”

He is eager to obey, fumbling with his belt with shaking hands and then practically ripping his pants down, not even bothering to step out of them properly. Just enough to allow Renaldo access. He hisses as the other man hooks his thumb into his briefs and pulls them down in one quick motion, his cock already hard and leaking. “Should’ve come earlier–” Matthew mutters and the next moment, Renaldo’s hand comes down onto his bare ass, grumbling an empty threat.

His large, callused hand stays there, kneading the flesh and it's like he remembers the exact motions still, both of them no doubt taken back to that night in Scottsdale. Renaldo slips his index finger inside and Matt immediately feels his muscles clench down on him. “Relax.” Renaldos voice is a bit softer now, low against his ear as he begins working his finger further inside, though with a bit of a struggle. The squeezes of his ass turn into soft caresses. “You got any lube on you?”

Matt shakes his head, already trying to mentally prepare himself for a more painful experience than he’d like. But to his surprise, Renaldo just nods and withdraws his finger. “Don't move. I'll be just a second.”

***

His steps through the hallway are hurried, partly because he doesn't want to leave Matt waiting and partly because he doesn't want to be caught sneaking around with a more than obvious boner in his pants. Renaldo nods to himself in relief when he finds the kitchen empty, the staff nowhere to be seen. He eyes the white two-tier cake with a small shake of his head, not paying it too much attention. Instead, he opens one cabinet after another until he finds what he’s looking for. “Bingo.”

He slips back into the dressing room with the bottle of olive oil and laughs as he watches Matt's eyes go wide. “That's the expensive stuff–” He breathes out because of course that's what Matthew would be worried about right now.

“Good,” Renaldo comments dryly. “Then maybe it’ll be nearly as good as real lube.” He carelessly throws the cap into a corner and places the open bottle onto the vanity beside them. As soon as he’s back beside him, Matt's hands reach for him, fingers clawing at the golden chain around his neck, pressing his half naked form against him. It's like now that he has him, he doesn't want to let him go again.

“Do you need to lie down or are you good to stand?” Unless Renaldo is very much mistaken, he doesn't believe that Matt has been with another guy since their fleeting romance and he remembers the whispered confession about being his first.

“I can stand if you can, old man.”

Oh. He knows exactly how to push his fucking buttons. Two can play that game. In one quick motion, Renaldo uses his size to his advantage, turning Matt on the spot and bending him over, the younger man's hands flat against the wall, his ass stuck out and on display. Renaldo brings his palm down on each side, feeling his own desire skyrocket at the sight of his hand imprinted on the cheeks for a few moments.

The soft moans from Matt's mouth mix with the distinct jingle of Renaldo opening his belt, followed by that of a zipper opening. He kicks his pants off and reaches for the bottle, his cock already aching to be touched. The cool sensation of the olive oil sends shivers through his body and Renaldo fists himself a few times, coating his length in the makeshift-lube.

“Who the fuck are you calling an old man, huh?” He grunts as he lines his tip up with Matt's hole and begins to bury himself inside, looking down to watch inch after inch disappear, the younger man's body already so tight around him that he feels like he could shoot his load right away.

“Fuck–” Matt chokes out, curling his fingers as he holds himself up against the wall and Renaldo watches him closely. He knows exactly what he needs. So he leans forward, reaching around to hurriedly undo the buttons of Matt's dress shirt and carelessly sends it to the floor. He runs his tongue over Matt's shoulder as he bottoms out, teeth scraping over his neck. Distracting from the pain that they both know will turn into their favorite pleasure in a few seconds.

“You good?” He hums quietly, giving the other man a moment to check in with him. He watches him nod weakly and Renaldo tuts softly. “Words, baby,” he reminds him.

“Good. It's so good, Jesus–” Matt presses out, rolling his shoulders back slightly. “Please move.”

Renaldo obeys, beginning with shallow thrusts, working his way in and out. His free hand wanders down Matt's chest, fingernails scratching his skin just enough to make him shiver. Then, he finds his lover's middle and wraps his hand around the leaking cock that has been so starved of attention until now. He loves how the other man feels in his hand, heavy and slick with precum.

“You're gonna ruin those pretty dress pants,” Renaldo mutters into his ear, punctuating each of his sentences with a deep thrust. “Did your little wife buy them for you?”

For a split second, he thinks he’s gone too far, feeling Matt tense under him. But then, his dick twitches in his hand, making Renaldo smirk as Matt groans. “I want them ruined.”

He doesn't have to ask twice. Renaldo sets a faster pace, making both of them pant with effort as Matt bounces himself back on his cock. The sound of skin slapping on skin fills the room and judging by its weight, Renaldo is certain that the wooden door of the dressing room is in no way soundproof. Good.

“Renaldo–” Matt doesn't even have to say it. They both know what he’s asking and the older man nods weakly, burying his nose against his neck as a groan leaves him. “Yes.”

He lets his thumb flick over Matthews tip, making him whimper and his body shudder below him. His muscles quiver around his own cock in a way that lets him know he’s close. His grip around Matt's cock tightens and he strokes him right up to that delicious edge. Then, he drops his hand, prompting a weak string of curses from below him.

“I want you to come from just feeling me,” Renaldo rasps and is met with eager nods. “Think you can do that?”

“Yes, fuck–please–” He’s begging the same way he was that night, falling apart below Renaldo’s hands so beautifully. “Renaldo–” He chokes out. “Tell me to leave her.”

He hesitates for a moment, knowing that those words hold more weight than any of their actions tonight. But eventually, he nods, driving himself deep into the man below him. “Leave her.”

Matt moans, his name on his lips and shoots his load without further warning, the sticky fluid ruining his pants the way that Renaldo promised it would. He brings his hand back to stroke his lover through his orgasm, drawing it out and a few moments later, Renaldo follows suit, spilling himself deep inside of Matthew, exactly where he is meant to be, their bodies melting together and he finally, finally marks what is his.

He pulls out with a grunt eventually, watching his cum drip from Matt's hole for a moment, ruining any slight chance of salvaging those black pants, now stained with white. Renaldo lets himself fall onto one of the chairs at the back of the room, beckoning Matt to follow him and pulling him onto his lap, one strong thigh serving as his seat. He closes his eyes for a moment as he feels Matt tracing his gold chain again, his touch now so delicate.

“I'm gonna have to see her at the family functions, won't I? If she gets with Domingo.” Renaldo can tell that he's trying to hide the anxiety in his voice but he's not doing a very good job of it. He sighs, opening his eyes again and nods.

A smirk spreads over Renaldo’s face as he nudges Matt's chin, prompting them to lock eyes. Then, without blinking, he brings his right hand up to his own mouth and licks a stripe along its side, catching a few drops of Matt’s cum on his lips.

“You’ll have to. But I promise there’ll always be a dressing room to fuck in.”

notes: thanks for reading! if you enjoyed, feel free to reblog or follow me for more ♡

[softpascalito]

Do I check your blog every day for an update? Noooooo. Am I lying? Yessssssss. Thank you so much for tagging me, Can't wait for the next part.

ahhh you're so so sweet. i hope you enjoy todays chapter 💜

[softpascalito]

tag list reblog ♡ [@sofiparallel @koshkaj-blog @guelyury @picketniffler @ashleyfilm

@tonystankhere @katw474 @layaispunk @just-mj-or-not @elegantduckturtle

@music-lover09 @kirsteng42 @curlyhaircrowley @lady-artemis27 @honeymarvel

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@screechingalpacaarcade @rainalchemistguardian @vampyyweek @leanbh-eanair ]

Dulcissima I Marcus Acacius x Vestal!Reader I Chapter XV - Beneventum

Summary: Set before and during Gladiator II. General Acacius finds himself entranced by a highly valued priestess of Rome – A Vestal Virgin. But you both have taken vows that make sure your paths may never cross. Until they do.

Aka a fix-it fanfic where Acacius survives the Colosseum.

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x Vestal Virgin Reader Rating: Explicit / MDNI Word count: 45k+ Tags: Secret Relationship, Vestal Virgins, Religious Guilt, Gladiator fights, Gladiator II compliant (more or less), Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Ancient Rome, Age Difference, Slow Burn (ish), Injury, Kissing, Historical Inaccuracy, (Attempted) Sexual Harassment, Smut, First Time, Oral Sex (f receiving), Vaginal Sex, Unprotected Sex, Slight Breeding Kink, Semi-Public Sex, More tags to be added

AO3 // Series Masterlist // Masterlist // Fic Playlist // Ko-Fi

notes: look who it is! hiii! sorry this chapter is a tad late, im afraid the rise of f*cism in my country and my current ear infection are to blame. oh, if i only had a strong roman general with big big forearms to save me … ♡

centurion - high-ranking army official

Chapter XV - Beneventum

You don’t plan to do it. You really don’t.

But when you have dressed and adjusted your veil in front of the small mirror that sits in the corner of the room and step down into the atrium, Acacius is nowhere to be seen. Instead, a servant greets you at the bottom of the stairs. “My lady Vestal, I have prepared a light meal for you if you would like some food?”

“Is there drink too?” You enquire gently and at the woman's nod, you follow her back to the dining room you remember from last night. “Has the General already taken his food?”

She generously pours you a cup of what looks like some kind of juice and shakes her head, smiling like the mere idea is a silly one to entertain. “Oh no, the General was up before dawn and rode off to see his soldiers. He should be down by the fields. Would you like me to have a message sent to him? It is not very far.”

“No,” you respond a bit too quickly. You hope to cover the slight blush that creeps onto your cheeks with your cup by bringing it to your mouth and drinking. The juice tastes of oranges along with other fruits and you nod in approval, giving the woman a faint smile before continuing. “I know the General is a very busy man. I was merely wondering whether or not to save him any of this.”

The woman seems to swallow the ruse because she laughs at that, once again shaking her head. “Oh no, my dear, this is all for you. But I promise you, when he returns, I will offer him the same and more. Neither of you shall go hungry in our house.”

“You are very kind.” You smile. Your appetite and your mood have exponentially increased at the unexpected news of Acacius’s absence. You busy yourself with your food, tasting a bit of everything that is offered up in front of you. But your mind is already out the front door. Because you really didn't plan to do it. But if Acacius is providing you with a perfect opportunity to slip through the bars of your cage, you will not be so stupid as to ask for his permission.

Stomach filled with bread and drink, you rush back upstairs to gather your coins and a coat. The sun makes the weather seem slightly less bleak, but the cold is still all around you and you aren’t sure how long you will be. You make it out of the villa and through the gardens without an issue. It is only when you reach the entrance gate that separates the grounds from the town that you run into a problem. A problem in the form of two guards that turn toward you as you step outside, their eyes flying over your form.

“My lady, may we help you?” The one to your right asks politely and you do your best to not let your anxiety show, even as your heart begins to beat faster and you absent-mindedly smooth down invisible wrinkles in your stola.

“I wish to head into town,” you say as if it is the most normal request in the world and step forward just to have the man on the left do the same, putting himself right into your path. But you can see the insecurity in his step, the wish to perform well in front of such high guests. And no one wishes to upset a priestess.

“There is not much to see in this town. I am sure Sir Orbilius would prefer to have you stay within the grounds.” He must be able to see that you are not in agreement because he adds; “A walk around the gardens this time of the day is quite beautiful.”

You stay quiet for a few moments, pondering your options. It will surely be a few hours until Acacius returns, possibly even nightfall. If you manage to be back by then, you doubt the soldiers would find it worthy to report of you ever leaving. Your eyes fly past the man in front of you, onto the streets behind him and the roofs further down the hill. And suddenly, an idea strikes you.

“I am sure the gardens are lovely. However, they will not serve for my duty. It is the Temple I aspire to visit.” You nod gracefully, gesturing toward the tallest of the buildings behind the soldier. He sends the other man a quick glance, swallowing nervously.

“Maybe you should wait for the General to return then, I am certain he would appreciate…”

You don’t even let him finish his attempt at keeping you inside the cage, your voice soft as satin as you step forward. “I can tell you are a loyal soldier. I thank you for keeping the people of Beneventum and the Roman lands safe. But you should learn to trust in the gods as I do.”

It is something no Roman citizen could argue with. And indeed, you can watch as the man sheds his resistance like a coat that has gotten too heavy and steps to the side, bowing his head as he lets you pass. “Of course, my lady. Forgive me my foolishness.”

You finally pass the gate but you don't respond to his request. Because it has just occured to you that you are exactly like Acacius, exactly like the man you are trying so hard to despise. That you are using your precious gods the way he did when he asked for your company for this trip.

You’re more than content to quickly put distance between yourself and the villa, like its mere presence makes you foul. A golden cage with lavish food to eat and gardens to roam and nothing, not a single truth around. It is the one lesson you have understood early in your life through your position in the Empire. A cage, no matter how comfortable and no matter how large, is still not freedom. No matter how good an imitation it is of the very thing it forbids.

For a few moments, you consider actually stopping by the temple and allowing yourself a moment of calm. You could say a few prayers, some of them the same ones you whisper to Vesta every night, of forgiveness and obedience and admitting your shortcomings in the recent months. But the sun is still out and with every step further into the heart of Beneventum, you feel lighter. Men, women and children fill the streets, running their errands or heading from one place to another, vendors push their carts and loudly praising their fresh ingredients to whoever will listen. There is no guard with you, neither Acacius nor any other man, despite being so far from Rome. And despite a sliver of fear that remains at that thought, you realize it feels good.

And then you suddenly hear them. Hooves that click on the stone pavement in a rhythm so strict it can only mean one thing: Soldiers.

You rush to the side, scrambling to hide behind one of the wooden carts loaden with vegetables and fruits, pretending to inspect some apples in detail. Through the red and green stacks, you watch anxiously as several soldiers ride past and you let out a small breath of relief when you can't spot Acacius among them. However, you do recognize one of the centurions that usually rides next to the General and you involuntarily hold your breath, wondering whether or not you should head back before any of them can report of your absence.

“Oh, yes, yes, we just had these delivered yesterday, still as fresh as they are in the fall–” The vendor behind whose cart you’re currently hiding has turned toward you and is animatedly gesturing toward the apples you are standing in front of. When he comes face to face with you, you can see the same reaction that Lady Orbilius had at your arrival. “Oh my, it is you! They spoke of a Vestal coming to our town but I did not believe it–” He stares at you for a few moments, like you are some precious piece of gold behind glass, made purely to be admired. Then, before you can think of a proper response, he reaches for a slightly worn bag and picks several of the fruits to place inside, paying extra attention to the apples. “Here, take this for your travels, please.”

You nod, glancing over your shoulder to check whether or not the soldiers are still there but they are nowhere to be seen. Slowly, you shake off the brief faint you felt. “Let me give you some gold at the very least.”

The man insists that the food is a present time and time again until you decide that it is a lost cause to keep arguing and after once again expressing your gratitude, you move on, secretly wondering if you may be able to slip a golden coin or two into his cart on your way back.

A group of children giggle as they follow you down the busy street, occasionally hiding behind tables or columns when you turn around. It warms your heart to see them playing out in the open, not hidden away in expensive villas or worse–send to work on the fields when their small bodies will barely allow them to carry a bag of flour.

Both the temple and the soldiers are forgotten when you reach the line of shops you passed in your carriage the day before; one display more beautiful than the other.

After days of staring out at a grey landscape, at trees with no leaves and fields with nothing to bloom on them, seeing fabrics in all colors you could imagine, some impossibly mixed, feels like spring has come early. You let your hands run over the linen and peek into several of the small stores, occasionally stopping to chat with the owners or folks who notice your veil and ask for a moment of your time. Some pose questions about the gods, others ask for your blessing or prayer, one man even falls to his knees and begins to weep.

You’ve never considered how distance would make people perceive you so differently, how to them you and your veil belong to a world they usually just hear about, to Rome with all its imposing temples and politics and the colosseum.

You find your way to a corner shop that carries beautifully woven scarves and jewelry of all kinds, a slight mist hanging in the air that reminds you of the smell of stone pines in the summer. The way the clothes are arranged feels a bit like Aquila’s shop back home and you feel a sense of comfort settling over you at the thought that some things are the same, no matter where in the Empire you are.

A woman, no older than thirty, beckons you inside, treading lightly beside you as you let your eyes wander over the displays. “These are beautiful,” you hum quietly when your eyes land on a set of earrings and a matching bracelet, both made from a light gold with green stones worked into them.

“You have a good eye,” the woman compliments, reaching for the gold bracelet and holding it up to the light for you. Her gaze briefly passes over your veil and a genuine smile decorates her face. “Though I am sure these stones are nothing compared to the kind you can buy in Rome.”

“No,” you mutter. “These are more beautiful than those in Rome. They’re …” You struggle to find the right word. “More natural. The fine lines in this one– I have not seen anything like this before. Like it was brought straight from the mines.”

A small laugh escapes the woman and she nods again. “I told you you have a good eye. These were made by the blacksmith in town. He purchases stones and metals from the merchants when they pass through town and creates fine jewelry for us to sell. Nowhere else would he have so many options.” A small glint sneaks into her eyes. “Many high ranking men pass through Beneventum and stay for a night or two. It is usually about a week before their return to Rome that they remember they need to bring their wives something.”

“So the men's forgetfulness keeps you in business?” You ask with a small laughter and she sends you a clandestine look.

“That and their bad conscience.” It doesn’t seem like a big deal to her, an off-hand mention of the fact that many of the noble and proper men find no fault in keeping more than one lover, especially during long and straining journeys. You nod distantly, your eyes fixing on the green stones as you silently wonder if Acacius does the same. You’ve been retiring early and despite your tents usually being erected near each other, it would not have been impossible for the General to have a woman or two enter his tent for … evening entertainment.

Clearly, that is what he hoped to get from you too. And you gave yourself so willingly, actually believing that he could be interested in anything beyond your forbidden body. The thought makes your stomach feel funny.

“My lady?” The woman asks, her laughter having died away, the smile now replaced with a frown. “Are you not feeling well?”

***

“General?”

Acacius lets out a small groan at the voice of another soldier entering the tent, letting his head hang down in defeat. He is towering above the table, both arms leaning onto the wooden surface that is almost entirely covered in maps and lists. He arrived to meet with his centurions at the break of dawn, secretly hoping to put an early end to their planning and head back up to the villa before sunset. But of course, things are more complicated than they would need to be. Caracalla and Geta have sent orders after him, some that clash with his initial ones and he could just barely contain his annoyance at the Emperor's non-existent decision-making.

“What now?” He groans quietly, closing his eyes for a short moment, sending a silent prayer to whatever gods are listening to just let his day end so he can go back to you, maybe even have another walk in the garden. He felt you tremble below his touch last night, saw the way the fabric hugged your curves and he already knows that the only thing he regrets more than starting this whole thing with you is ending it. He just wants–

“Forgive the disturbance, my General but Sir Orbilius wishes to send word. The Vestal has gone.”

His eyes shoot open and in one quick motion, he has straightened himself and turned toward the soldier who looks slightly alarmed at the sudden movement. “What?” He demands, his voice rough and full of impatience.

“The- The Vestal–” The young man chokes out and before he can repeat himself in full, Acacius has shoved himself past him and out of the entrance of the tent. He knows that he is being unprofessional, that while your safety has priority for the Roman Empire, he needs to appear calm and collected, the same way he always does.

But he can’t. Visions flash in front of his eyes. You could have been taken. He checked the perimeter every night when you were sleeping in the tents. Why the hell did he not think to check that of the house as well?

“The temple–” The young soldier is panting when he reaches Acacius swinging himself onto his horse.

“What? What temple?” He inquires, settling into the saddle as several of his Centurions do the same around him.

“The soldiers at the gates, they said she talked about visiting the temple,” he yaps out. The sentence is barely finished when Acacius spurs his white stallion on, the horse immediately falling into a gallop, rushing past soldiers that raise their heads and their gazes that follow him with growing confusion.

“I will check the town,” he calls over his shoulder, the other men riding behind him. “You close down the main roads in and out of the city. I want no one to pass through the gates while we are looking for her.” His men shout back in agreement and begin to split up, though none of them are quite as rushed as Acacius himself. He almost runs over some of the people passing through the main street, including an older man pushing his half-empty cart of fruits. Acacius doesnt even register the curses send his way, all his senses instead trained to spot even just a hint of you. Every moment, he half expects you to emerge from the crowd or to meet your eyes down one of the streets that lead off the main road, to see you struggling against men or monsters or both.

“Gods–” He whispers, half cursing them out for allowing this and half begging them to bring you back safe. His heart is racing when he jumps off his horse in front of the temple, not caring in the slightest that he is creating a scene. He pushes the large front doors open, stepping inside and letting his eyes fly through the room. Those who were praying a moment ago have turned around at the noises of his arrival and the crowd outside and he briefly passes every face with his eyes. You have to be here. You have to.

But you’re not. Which can only mean that something has happened. That you either never left the villa willingly or that something went wrong after you did, that someone has been biding their time and just waiting to strike at the right moment. A you presented them with a glorious opportunity.

He turns on his heel, marching through the crowd, his face hard like stone. Trying not to betray the way he feels inside.

The shops. You spoke of the shops last night. He is not going to stop looking for you until he has either found you well and alive or– he forces himself not to entertain the alternative. So he may as well start in the center of town.

His senses are still dialled up to eleven, ignoring the whispers and stares that he is attracting by marching through the middle of the street, his gaze passing through each of the storefronts. When he passes one that is decorated with colorful scarves and fabrics, he pauses. Voices drift to him from inside and through the entryway of the house he can spot what he has been looking for.

“Are you out of your mind?!” He half-yells as he storms into the small shop, the woman who was next to you a moment ago immediately stumbling back, her eyes widening at the sight of the General.

He watches your gaze change too and he can’t decide what upsets him more. The look on your face before you see him, so casual and nonchalant like you are just on a comfortable trip without a care in the world– or the one after you see him. Your eyebrows immediately knitting together, your lower lip pushed out ever so slightly in a way that makes it look like you want to cry.

“I was just…” You start but he shakes his head and to his own surprise, the noise he lets out almost sounds like a growl.

“We are going back.” He orders, not sparing the other woman one glance, his eyes only fixed on you. Like you’ll disappear the second he blinks. “Now,” Acacius adds impatiently and you nod obediently, handing back whatever you’d been holding and stepping over to him. His hand hovers above your waist for a few moments and he wants to grab you, wants to wrap himself so tightly around you that you’ll have no choice but to stay with him. But he has to remind himself that you are still in public. And despite the obvious anger at your choices, he cannot be seen touching a Vestal like that.

***

It feels like he has a grip on you without needing his hands. Acacius’s mere presence radiates the anger you see reflected in his face, his breathing heavy and his eyes dark.

You know you messed up. You half expect him to call for a carriage, to place you inside and send you straight back to Rome. That you’ve finally pushed him far enough for him to push back. You almost wish he would.

But he doesn’t. He steers both of you up the hill, ignoring the looks of the townsfolk and soldiers alike. He gives a nod to the guards at the gate when you pass them and you keep your head down, like you are a prisoner being led past a jury that has already settled on a verdict.

“Your guard will stay with you at all times,” Acacius mutters as you tread up the path to the villa. “No more sneaking off or going out– Nothing.” He leads you all the way upstairs to your room, holding the door open for you and– to your surprise– following you inside. You hear the wooden door close behind him and step toward the small window, waiting for him to speak.

He still sounds like he’s out of breath and you can hear him shift on his feet. “Do you even realize what kind of danger you put yourself in?”

The sigh slips past your lips before you can stop it and you shake your head, turning to face him. He’s all squared shoulders and crossed arms, his teeth grinding in anger. At least you believe it to be anger.

You have a list of things that you could argue with; that it was daylight, that Beneventum is a safe town, that you didn’t venture down any dark allies, that you were careful. But you already know they will do nothing to lessen Acacius’s upset. “Just let me be.”

Somehow, that also seems to be the wrong thing to say because he scoffs in disbelief, stepping closer to you, his eyes flashing dangerously. “Do you know what people would do to you? To a Vestal they have all to themselves, that has no defense with her?”

“Oh, let’s see–” You start, raising a brow as you too step closer, bringing you into reach of each other. “What would they do?” Your eyes fixate his. You’re certain you’ll see anger flash red in them in a moment. “That’s right, they would touch me, is that it? Not like you ever would, right?”

The anger never comes. Instead, Acacius’s eyelids flutter and he steps back, his entire body deflating like he’s been struck.

You immediately want to take it back. But you’re tired and frustrated and he is just so, so impossible and you don’t understand him.

“Get some sleep. We’re leaving early tomorrow morning,” Acacius chokes out, his eyes not meeting yours. Then, he turns and rushes out of the room.

You spend the rest of the evening wondering if you merely imagined the slight tremble in his hands.

notes: okay okay i know a lot of fighting but hear me out … things are happening. acacius realizing how easily he is terrified by dulcissima being in (supposed) trouble is not just really fun to write but also something that may be an important realization for him. just saying. see you very soon ♡

[softpascalito]

Dulcissima I Marcus Acacius x Vestal!Reader I Chapter XV - Beneventum

Summary: Set before and during Gladiator II. General Acacius finds himself entranced by a highly valued priestess of Rome – A Vestal Virgin. But you both have taken vows that make sure your paths may never cross. Until they do.

Aka a fix-it fanfic where Acacius survives the Colosseum.

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x Vestal Virgin Reader Rating: Explicit / MDNI Word count: 45k+ Tags: Secret Relationship, Vestal Virgins, Religious Guilt, Gladiator fights, Gladiator II compliant (more or less), Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Ancient Rome, Age Difference, Slow Burn (ish), Injury, Kissing, Historical Inaccuracy, (Attempted) Sexual Harassment, Smut, First Time, Oral Sex (f receiving), Vaginal Sex, Unprotected Sex, Slight Breeding Kink, Semi-Public Sex, More tags to be added

AO3 // Series Masterlist // Masterlist // Fic Playlist // Ko-Fi

notes: look who it is! hiii! sorry this chapter is a tad late, im afraid the rise of f*cism in my country and my current ear infection are to blame. oh, if i only had a strong roman general with big big forearms to save me … ♡

centurion - high-ranking army official

Chapter XV - Beneventum

You don’t plan to do it. You really don’t.

But when you have dressed and adjusted your veil in front of the small mirror that sits in the corner of the room and step down into the atrium, Acacius is nowhere to be seen. Instead, a servant greets you at the bottom of the stairs. “My lady Vestal, I have prepared a light meal for you if you would like some food?”

“Is there drink too?” You enquire gently and at the woman's nod, you follow her back to the dining room you remember from last night. “Has the General already taken his food?”

She generously pours you a cup of what looks like some kind of juice and shakes her head, smiling like the mere idea is a silly one to entertain. “Oh no, the General was up before dawn and rode off to see his soldiers. He should be down by the fields. Would you like me to have a message sent to him? It is not very far.”

“No,” you respond a bit too quickly. You hope to cover the slight blush that creeps onto your cheeks with your cup by bringing it to your mouth and drinking. The juice tastes of oranges along with other fruits and you nod in approval, giving the woman a faint smile before continuing. “I know the General is a very busy man. I was merely wondering whether or not to save him any of this.”

The woman seems to swallow the ruse because she laughs at that, once again shaking her head. “Oh no, my dear, this is all for you. But I promise you, when he returns, I will offer him the same and more. Neither of you shall go hungry in our house.”

“You are very kind.” You smile. Your appetite and your mood have exponentially increased at the unexpected news of Acacius’s absence. You busy yourself with your food, tasting a bit of everything that is offered up in front of you. But your mind is already out the front door. Because you really didn't plan to do it. But if Acacius is providing you with a perfect opportunity to slip through the bars of your cage, you will not be so stupid as to ask for his permission.

Stomach filled with bread and drink, you rush back upstairs to gather your coins and a coat. The sun makes the weather seem slightly less bleak, but the cold is still all around you and you aren’t sure how long you will be. You make it out of the villa and through the gardens without an issue. It is only when you reach the entrance gate that separates the grounds from the town that you run into a problem. A problem in the form of two guards that turn toward you as you step outside, their eyes flying over your form.

“My lady, may we help you?” The one to your right asks politely and you do your best to not let your anxiety show, even as your heart begins to beat faster and you absent-mindedly smooth down invisible wrinkles in your stola.

“I wish to head into town,” you say as if it is the most normal request in the world and step forward just to have the man on the left do the same, putting himself right into your path. But you can see the insecurity in his step, the wish to perform well in front of such high guests. And no one wishes to upset a priestess.

“There is not much to see in this town. I am sure Sir Orbilius would prefer to have you stay within the grounds.” He must be able to see that you are not in agreement because he adds; “A walk around the gardens this time of the day is quite beautiful.”

You stay quiet for a few moments, pondering your options. It will surely be a few hours until Acacius returns, possibly even nightfall. If you manage to be back by then, you doubt the soldiers would find it worthy to report of you ever leaving. Your eyes fly past the man in front of you, onto the streets behind him and the roofs further down the hill. And suddenly, an idea strikes you.

“I am sure the gardens are lovely. However, they will not serve for my duty. It is the Temple I aspire to visit.” You nod gracefully, gesturing toward the tallest of the buildings behind the soldier. He sends the other man a quick glance, swallowing nervously.

“Maybe you should wait for the General to return then, I am certain he would appreciate…”

You don’t even let him finish his attempt at keeping you inside the cage, your voice soft as satin as you step forward. “I can tell you are a loyal soldier. I thank you for keeping the people of Beneventum and the Roman lands safe. But you should learn to trust in the gods as I do.”

It is something no Roman citizen could argue with. And indeed, you can watch as the man sheds his resistance like a coat that has gotten too heavy and steps to the side, bowing his head as he lets you pass. “Of course, my lady. Forgive me my foolishness.”

You finally pass the gate but you don't respond to his request. Because it has just occured to you that you are exactly like Acacius, exactly like the man you are trying so hard to despise. That you are using your precious gods the way he did when he asked for your company for this trip.

You’re more than content to quickly put distance between yourself and the villa, like its mere presence makes you foul. A golden cage with lavish food to eat and gardens to roam and nothing, not a single truth around. It is the one lesson you have understood early in your life through your position in the Empire. A cage, no matter how comfortable and no matter how large, is still not freedom. No matter how good an imitation it is of the very thing it forbids.

For a few moments, you consider actually stopping by the temple and allowing yourself a moment of calm. You could say a few prayers, some of them the same ones you whisper to Vesta every night, of forgiveness and obedience and admitting your shortcomings in the recent months. But the sun is still out and with every step further into the heart of Beneventum, you feel lighter. Men, women and children fill the streets, running their errands or heading from one place to another, vendors push their carts and loudly praising their fresh ingredients to whoever will listen. There is no guard with you, neither Acacius nor any other man, despite being so far from Rome. And despite a sliver of fear that remains at that thought, you realize it feels good.

And then you suddenly hear them. Hooves that click on the stone pavement in a rhythm so strict it can only mean one thing: Soldiers.

You rush to the side, scrambling to hide behind one of the wooden carts loaden with vegetables and fruits, pretending to inspect some apples in detail. Through the red and green stacks, you watch anxiously as several soldiers ride past and you let out a small breath of relief when you can't spot Acacius among them. However, you do recognize one of the centurions that usually rides next to the General and you involuntarily hold your breath, wondering whether or not you should head back before any of them can report of your absence.

“Oh, yes, yes, we just had these delivered yesterday, still as fresh as they are in the fall–” The vendor behind whose cart you’re currently hiding has turned toward you and is animatedly gesturing toward the apples you are standing in front of. When he comes face to face with you, you can see the same reaction that Lady Orbilius had at your arrival. “Oh my, it is you! They spoke of a Vestal coming to our town but I did not believe it–” He stares at you for a few moments, like you are some precious piece of gold behind glass, made purely to be admired. Then, before you can think of a proper response, he reaches for a slightly worn bag and picks several of the fruits to place inside, paying extra attention to the apples. “Here, take this for your travels, please.”

You nod, glancing over your shoulder to check whether or not the soldiers are still there but they are nowhere to be seen. Slowly, you shake off the brief faint you felt. “Let me give you some gold at the very least.”

The man insists that the food is a present time and time again until you decide that it is a lost cause to keep arguing and after once again expressing your gratitude, you move on, secretly wondering if you may be able to slip a golden coin or two into his cart on your way back.

A group of children giggle as they follow you down the busy street, occasionally hiding behind tables or columns when you turn around. It warms your heart to see them playing out in the open, not hidden away in expensive villas or worse–send to work on the fields when their small bodies will barely allow them to carry a bag of flour.

Both the temple and the soldiers are forgotten when you reach the line of shops you passed in your carriage the day before; one display more beautiful than the other.

After days of staring out at a grey landscape, at trees with no leaves and fields with nothing to bloom on them, seeing fabrics in all colors you could imagine, some impossibly mixed, feels like spring has come early. You let your hands run over the linen and peek into several of the small stores, occasionally stopping to chat with the owners or folks who notice your veil and ask for a moment of your time. Some pose questions about the gods, others ask for your blessing or prayer, one man even falls to his knees and begins to weep.

You’ve never considered how distance would make people perceive you so differently, how to them you and your veil belong to a world they usually just hear about, to Rome with all its imposing temples and politics and the colosseum.

You find your way to a corner shop that carries beautifully woven scarves and jewelry of all kinds, a slight mist hanging in the air that reminds you of the smell of stone pines in the summer. The way the clothes are arranged feels a bit like Aquila’s shop back home and you feel a sense of comfort settling over you at the thought that some things are the same, no matter where in the Empire you are.

A woman, no older than thirty, beckons you inside, treading lightly beside you as you let your eyes wander over the displays. “These are beautiful,” you hum quietly when your eyes land on a set of earrings and a matching bracelet, both made from a light gold with green stones worked into them.

“You have a good eye,” the woman compliments, reaching for the gold bracelet and holding it up to the light for you. Her gaze briefly passes over your veil and a genuine smile decorates her face. “Though I am sure these stones are nothing compared to the kind you can buy in Rome.”

“No,” you mutter. “These are more beautiful than those in Rome. They’re …” You struggle to find the right word. “More natural. The fine lines in this one– I have not seen anything like this before. Like it was brought straight from the mines.”

A small laugh escapes the woman and she nods again. “I told you you have a good eye. These were made by the blacksmith in town. He purchases stones and metals from the merchants when they pass through town and creates fine jewelry for us to sell. Nowhere else would he have so many options.” A small glint sneaks into her eyes. “Many high ranking men pass through Beneventum and stay for a night or two. It is usually about a week before their return to Rome that they remember they need to bring their wives something.”

“So the men's forgetfulness keeps you in business?” You ask with a small laughter and she sends you a clandestine look.

“That and their bad conscience.” It doesn’t seem like a big deal to her, an off-hand mention of the fact that many of the noble and proper men find no fault in keeping more than one lover, especially during long and straining journeys. You nod distantly, your eyes fixing on the green stones as you silently wonder if Acacius does the same. You’ve been retiring early and despite your tents usually being erected near each other, it would not have been impossible for the General to have a woman or two enter his tent for … evening entertainment.

Clearly, that is what he hoped to get from you too. And you gave yourself so willingly, actually believing that he could be interested in anything beyond your forbidden body. The thought makes your stomach feel funny.

“My lady?” The woman asks, her laughter having died away, the smile now replaced with a frown. “Are you not feeling well?”

***

“General?”

Acacius lets out a small groan at the voice of another soldier entering the tent, letting his head hang down in defeat. He is towering above the table, both arms leaning onto the wooden surface that is almost entirely covered in maps and lists. He arrived to meet with his centurions at the break of dawn, secretly hoping to put an early end to their planning and head back up to the villa before sunset. But of course, things are more complicated than they would need to be. Caracalla and Geta have sent orders after him, some that clash with his initial ones and he could just barely contain his annoyance at the Emperor's non-existent decision-making.

“What now?” He groans quietly, closing his eyes for a short moment, sending a silent prayer to whatever gods are listening to just let his day end so he can go back to you, maybe even have another walk in the garden. He felt you tremble below his touch last night, saw the way the fabric hugged your curves and he already knows that the only thing he regrets more than starting this whole thing with you is ending it. He just wants–

“Forgive the disturbance, my General but Sir Orbilius wishes to send word. The Vestal has gone.”

His eyes shoot open and in one quick motion, he has straightened himself and turned toward the soldier who looks slightly alarmed at the sudden movement. “What?” He demands, his voice rough and full of impatience.

“The- The Vestal–” The young man chokes out and before he can repeat himself in full, Acacius has shoved himself past him and out of the entrance of the tent. He knows that he is being unprofessional, that while your safety has priority for the Roman Empire, he needs to appear calm and collected, the same way he always does.

But he can’t. Visions flash in front of his eyes. You could have been taken. He checked the perimeter every night when you were sleeping in the tents. Why the hell did he not think to check that of the house as well?

“The temple–” The young soldier is panting when he reaches Acacius swinging himself onto his horse.

“What? What temple?” He inquires, settling into the saddle as several of his Centurions do the same around him.

“The soldiers at the gates, they said she talked about visiting the temple,” he yaps out. The sentence is barely finished when Acacius spurs his white stallion on, the horse immediately falling into a gallop, rushing past soldiers that raise their heads and their gazes that follow him with growing confusion.

“I will check the town,” he calls over his shoulder, the other men riding behind him. “You close down the main roads in and out of the city. I want no one to pass through the gates while we are looking for her.” His men shout back in agreement and begin to split up, though none of them are quite as rushed as Acacius himself. He almost runs over some of the people passing through the main street, including an older man pushing his half-empty cart of fruits. Acacius doesnt even register the curses send his way, all his senses instead trained to spot even just a hint of you. Every moment, he half expects you to emerge from the crowd or to meet your eyes down one of the streets that lead off the main road, to see you struggling against men or monsters or both.

“Gods–” He whispers, half cursing them out for allowing this and half begging them to bring you back safe. His heart is racing when he jumps off his horse in front of the temple, not caring in the slightest that he is creating a scene. He pushes the large front doors open, stepping inside and letting his eyes fly through the room. Those who were praying a moment ago have turned around at the noises of his arrival and the crowd outside and he briefly passes every face with his eyes. You have to be here. You have to.

But you’re not. Which can only mean that something has happened. That you either never left the villa willingly or that something went wrong after you did, that someone has been biding their time and just waiting to strike at the right moment. A you presented them with a glorious opportunity.

He turns on his heel, marching through the crowd, his face hard like stone. Trying not to betray the way he feels inside.

The shops. You spoke of the shops last night. He is not going to stop looking for you until he has either found you well and alive or– he forces himself not to entertain the alternative. So he may as well start in the center of town.

His senses are still dialled up to eleven, ignoring the whispers and stares that he is attracting by marching through the middle of the street, his gaze passing through each of the storefronts. When he passes one that is decorated with colorful scarves and fabrics, he pauses. Voices drift to him from inside and through the entryway of the house he can spot what he has been looking for.

“Are you out of your mind?!” He half-yells as he storms into the small shop, the woman who was next to you a moment ago immediately stumbling back, her eyes widening at the sight of the General.

He watches your gaze change too and he can’t decide what upsets him more. The look on your face before you see him, so casual and nonchalant like you are just on a comfortable trip without a care in the world– or the one after you see him. Your eyebrows immediately knitting together, your lower lip pushed out ever so slightly in a way that makes it look like you want to cry.

“I was just…” You start but he shakes his head and to his own surprise, the noise he lets out almost sounds like a growl.

“We are going back.” He orders, not sparing the other woman one glance, his eyes only fixed on you. Like you’ll disappear the second he blinks. “Now,” Acacius adds impatiently and you nod obediently, handing back whatever you’d been holding and stepping over to him. His hand hovers above your waist for a few moments and he wants to grab you, wants to wrap himself so tightly around you that you’ll have no choice but to stay with him. But he has to remind himself that you are still in public. And despite the obvious anger at your choices, he cannot be seen touching a Vestal like that.

***

It feels like he has a grip on you without needing his hands. Acacius’s mere presence radiates the anger you see reflected in his face, his breathing heavy and his eyes dark.

You know you messed up. You half expect him to call for a carriage, to place you inside and send you straight back to Rome. That you’ve finally pushed him far enough for him to push back. You almost wish he would.

But he doesn’t. He steers both of you up the hill, ignoring the looks of the townsfolk and soldiers alike. He gives a nod to the guards at the gate when you pass them and you keep your head down, like you are a prisoner being led past a jury that has already settled on a verdict.

“Your guard will stay with you at all times,” Acacius mutters as you tread up the path to the villa. “No more sneaking off or going out– Nothing.” He leads you all the way upstairs to your room, holding the door open for you and– to your surprise– following you inside. You hear the wooden door close behind him and step toward the small window, waiting for him to speak.

He still sounds like he’s out of breath and you can hear him shift on his feet. “Do you even realize what kind of danger you put yourself in?”

The sigh slips past your lips before you can stop it and you shake your head, turning to face him. He’s all squared shoulders and crossed arms, his teeth grinding in anger. At least you believe it to be anger.

You have a list of things that you could argue with; that it was daylight, that Beneventum is a safe town, that you didn’t venture down any dark allies, that you were careful. But you already know they will do nothing to lessen Acacius’s upset. “Just let me be.”

Somehow, that also seems to be the wrong thing to say because he scoffs in disbelief, stepping closer to you, his eyes flashing dangerously. “Do you know what people would do to you? To a Vestal they have all to themselves, that has no defense with her?”

“Oh, let’s see–” You start, raising a brow as you too step closer, bringing you into reach of each other. “What would they do?” Your eyes fixate his. You’re certain you’ll see anger flash red in them in a moment. “That’s right, they would touch me, is that it? Not like you ever would, right?”

The anger never comes. Instead, Acacius’s eyelids flutter and he steps back, his entire body deflating like he’s been struck.

You immediately want to take it back. But you’re tired and frustrated and he is just so, so impossible and you don’t understand him.

“Get some sleep. We’re leaving early tomorrow morning,” Acacius chokes out, his eyes not meeting yours. Then, he turns and rushes out of the room.

You spend the rest of the evening wondering if you merely imagined the slight tremble in his hands.

notes: okay okay i know a lot of fighting but hear me out … things are happening. acacius realizing how easily he is terrified by dulcissima being in (supposed) trouble is not just really fun to write but also something that may be an important realization for him. just saying. see you very soon ♡

[softpascalito]

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Dulcissima I Marcus Acacius x Vestal!Reader I Chapter XIV - The Cage

Summary: Set before and during Gladiator II. General Acacius finds himself entranced by a highly valued priestess of Rome – A Vestal Virgin. But you both have taken vows that make sure your paths may never cross. Until they do.

Aka a fix-it fanfic where Acacius survives the Colosseum.

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x Vestal Virgin Reader Rating: Explicit / MDNI Word count: 41k+ Tags: Secret Relationship, Vestal Virgins, Religious Guilt, Gladiator fights, Gladiator II compliant (more or less), Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Ancient Rome, Age Difference, Slow Burn (ish), Injury, Kissing, Historical Inaccuracy, (Attempted) Sexual Harassment, Smut, First Time, Oral Sex (f receiving), Vaginal Sex, Unprotected Sex, Slight Breeding Kink, Semi-Public Sex, More tags to be added

AO3 // Series Masterlist // Masterlist // Fic Playlist // Ko-Fi

notes: hello you wonderful people. i am so excited for the next few chapters and to show you all where we are heading. i know this chapter is a bit on the sadder side but i promise if you stick with me, it will pay off. i've been doing a lot of research and i believe i've found some very cool things to include in this fice hehe. smooches! ♡

carpentum - closed carriage centurion - high-ranking army official

Chapter XIV - The Cage

Acacius doesn't feel like staying in his tent. He goes over the route for the next day three more times before folding the map and heading out of the makeshift door. He makes his rounds, greeting some of the soldiers and centurions alike, even stopping at one point to taste the wine one of them offers him. He trails in between tents, all of them neatly organized, built for the night like a temporary, small town. His horse neighs when he nears the animals that are tied to a large wooden post and Acacius smiles in spite of himself, stepping forward and greeting the stallion. 

The andalusian is the only gold spent that he does not feel guilty about, having been his trustworthy companion for several years now. He reaches out, tracing his hand over the side of the horse's head and onto its neck, gently patting it. “You are not sleepy either, are you? Did we not tire you out with today?”

It shakes his head as if to decline and Acacius sighs, allowing his horse a few more pats before retreating. He gets in another round around the camp before forcing himself to wander back into the direction of his own tent. A third round would raise brows, no doubt.

He does feel a bit better, having scoured the perimeter and knowing that you are merely feet away, that he would wake immediately if anything happened so close to him. Not that he hoped he would need to.

But he still catches himself straining his ears when he has retired to bed, trying to gauge if you are still awake or if sleep has already taken you. He briefly wonders if you are the same as him, laying awake and staring at the ceiling. Then again, you don't carry the kind of regret that he does so sleep in general might come easier to you.

Acacius groans as he turns in his bed and brings his hands onto his stomach, staring down at them in his horizontal position. The green stone surrounded by gold stares back at him and with a sigh, he takes the ring off, twisting it between his fingers. The inscription is the same it was when Lucilla first gave it to him.

Marcus • Aurelius • Maximus

The three men Lucilla has loved, one as a father, two as lovers. He is still not quite sure he deserves the engraving to the left of Aurelius that she had added for him when she asked him to wear it. The fact that her father and himself share a first name only makes him feel less equal, like he can never live up to those that came before him.

With a small groan, Acacius sits again, slipping the ring back on his finger and he reaches for his quill. The letter to Lucilla is rather short. He can never mention details, nothing of where they are or where exactly they are headed, just in case it falls into wrong hands. But he can tell her that he misses her, that he wishes he were back in Rome. So he does precisely that.

He hands it to the next courier they meet.

For about a week, things settle into an unsteady normality. They ride and march during the day, Acacius paying extra attention to the formations they decide on, making sure that he and at least one other capable soldier are always close to your carriage. You have started to obey him when he asks something of you and neither of you are openly hostile towards the other. But he can tell that you are unhappy or, at the very least, disappointed in what the world behind the walls of Rome has had to offer so far. He catches glimpses of you glancing out the window of your carriage when he is riding behind you, taking in the hills and forests that you pass. But the winter is still all around you, even as you get further south, and the frozen over ponds and leafless trees make the campaign feel even more hopeless.

You retire early each night, excusing yourself politely and heading back to your tent. Often, you say that you have to perform prayers but he’s not sure whether or not to believe that. And the one evening he does think further, imagining you on your knees in the tent beside his, he has to muffle his moans with his pillow.

The night before you are to reach Beneventum, an excuse to see you opens up before him like the sea when one passes the last hill before Ostia.

“My lady?” He pats the outside of the tent to imitate a knock. “May I come in?”

“Yes,” you call from inside and Acacius slips through the entrance, finding you sitting on your bed. He hasn't been in here since the night he spoke to you but it still looks much the same. Thick curtains that are bunched up and tied to the side around your bed, more pillows lining it than he cares to count. They've even laid out a rug for you and somehow, the soft and warm interior fits you.

“How have you been?” – “Is everything alright?” You speak at the same time. Your voice is slightly panicked while his is awfully polite and he tries to ignore the small stab in his chest at the realization that you think something must be wrong for him to come and speak to you.

“No. No, everything is fine. I merely wanted to let you know that we will be arriving in Beneventum tomorrow, around mid afternoon. We will rest there for two nights, allow the men to catch their breath,” he explains, tapping his fingers against his thigh. The silence that follows his words feel unbearable. “It is a nice town. Small, but nice. Kind people. They will let us restock on what we need.”

“Good,” you answer quietly and why is it suddenly so hard to talk to you? Before, you both never hit a spell of silence. Even during Bona Dea, he found that he preferred talking to you over sleep, over anything. Now, the conversation just feels heavy.

“Very well. I will get out of your hair then.” He doesn't give you a chance to respond before he turns his back on you and leaves.

***

The sun is beginning to sink lower in the sky when you notice riders falling away to the side, leading the men that march behind them onto the fields beside the Via Appia. Your carriage doesn't get steered off course however, continuing on the small road. Then, two riders appear beside you, one on each side and it takes you a moment to understand that they are there for your protection.

And then you see it. Up on a small hill before you sits a small town, the road leading straight through it. The caravan slows down as you reach the outer perimeter, the riders now staying close beside you. You catch a glimpse of an arch as you pass through it. Stone looms above you for a few moments and you think you spot a relief of Trajan in passing. Then you reenter the sunlight and with it, spot Acacius in front of you, his head held high, his white horse proudly stepping through the town. You can't quite place the feeling that builds in your stomach at the sight.

You watch as storefronts pass your window, an array of spices, colored fabrics, painted pots and vases flying by. It's much too fast to look at the items properly so you make a mental note to come back tomorrow and browse around. Unlike a lot of other women, Vestals do get paid so you have more than enough gold to spend.

Eventually, the houses retreat and you pass through a small gate, one so narrow that the riders beside you finally fall behind and then well-kept gardens appear around you. There are statues placed along the path, several small fountains further away. None of it is nearly as large or tall as in Rome but they’re impressive nonetheless. Eventually, the carriage comes to a halt and you feel the soldier in the front jump down from his seat. A moment later, he appears through the curtain and offers you a hand.

You smooth down your coat and glance up at the villa that you have come to a stop in front of, its grounds looming over the town below. Acacius has already dismounted his horse and is talking to a man and a woman animatedly. You are led to join them, smiling awkwardly as you come to stand beside the General.

“Ah, there she is. May I introduce you–” He gestures from you to the couple. “To Sir and Lady Orbilius. They are kind enough to host us during our time in Beneventum.” You greet both of them, even if not quite as enthusiastically as they greet you.

The brown-haired woman, probably in her late forties, bows down a bit too low and reaches for you. “May I take your hand?” You nod quickly, holding it out for her. She places a kiss on the back of it and you can feel Acacius shift beside you. “I cannot tell you what an honor it is to have you under our roof. Of course–” She turns toward Acacius. “Having the General is a big honor in itself. But a Priestess of Vesta, by the gods–”

Tears glisten in her eyes when she straightens again. For a split moment, you think you have somehow offended her and worry seeps into your chest. But then she smiles and you realize that they are in fact tears of happiness or gratefulness or something of the like. 

They show you through the atrium and a terrasse that overlooks the gardens, speaking highly of the hot summer days here. Eventually, the lady of the house leads you upstairs, shows you to what will be your bedroom for the next two nights and then allows you some peace and quiet before changing for the evening meal they have insisted on sharing with you. You find your wooden chest already sitting in the corner and open it to admire your options. Now that you are not sleeping and dining in a tent, you do not need to wear a coat over each of your stolas.

The red one is packed near the bottom and you consider whether or not you should wear it at all. The intention you purchased it with does not hold up anymore. But why not dress up a little? Especially for a woman who was so thankful to meet you she almost cried? You tell yourself that is the only reason why you carefully drape the red fabric over your body, the gold details glistening in the equally golden rays of sunshine filtering in through the curtains. The evening light gives the small room an orange glow. And the view out the window is near picturesque, the small town below you, complete with a temple, fields and woods stretching behind the perimeter. Your hands unconsciously roam over your body, smoothing down the small wrinkles in the soft fabric as you take a deep breath.

***

This has to be a special kind of torture. Watching you lie down beside him, the red and gold fabric of your stola draped over your body and try one food after another without a care in the world. Like your body is not so close to his, like you can't feel the invisible connection that is flickering in the air between you.

Acacius has been tortured before, when he was held captive for what luckily turned out to only be a few days. But this? It's worse.

Your hosts have taken the lower couch, eager to keep the appropriate customs. No doubt hoping for a favor or two, or at least a good word from his lips directed at the Emperors when needed. He wouldn't care so much if it didn't mean sharing the higher of the couches with you, all of you stretched out around the table so laden with food and wine that Acacius is surprised it has not yet given in under the weight.

He tries to recall if your stolas were always this tight, if they always hugged your form so well, highlighting your body in all the right places. Or, maybe, it just seems like it because he now knows what is underneath the fabric, because he has kissed your legs and shoulders and chest and tastes you on his lips, felt inner parts that no other man has ever got to feel. Acacius swallows another bite of his food, adjusting his own toga in a way that he hopes is inconspicuous.

“General Acacius, would you care to join us for a walk in the gardens before you retire?” He barely even noticed the others getting up, expectant eyes now resting on him. He agrees quickly enough, standing as well, thankful that his toga is not one of the thin ones he wears during the summer. Sir Orblilius’s attention turns onto you. “Will you be joining us as well?”

Acacius’s gaze flies around and he can immediately tell that you do not look eager, the hesitation clear in the way you hold yourself. “Well, maybe we should let the lady go on upstairs. Our travels can make one weary.”

The man laughs heartedly at that. “I hope you have not worn her out, General.” It is clear that he’s joking, unaware of any implication beyond a lighthearted comment. But Acacius can immediately see the blush creeping up onto your cheeks.

“I shall join you. I would love to see the gardens,” you respond politely, avoiding Acacius’s gaze. He follows suit as you are both led over to the terrasse and begin to descend the stairs that lead to the rich plants and trees below. He pretends to listen to the couple speaking of their statues and rare fruits, pretends to be impressed by a tree that supposedly never withers. Here or there, he throws in a question or thoughtful nod to keep the conversation afloat, his real focus all the while on you. He does not wish to learn more about your respective hosts but he has things he’d like to ask you. Like how his soldiers have been treating you. If you are comfortable on this journey. If you already regret taking it.

But such is not the kind of small talk expected by the couple beside him. And so he doesn't.

When your small group has completed the lap around the house and he once again finds himself at the bottom of the stone steps, Sir Orbilius gives Acacius a polite smile. “If you would excuse me now, General. I would like to take my wife upstairs.” He pauses for a moment like he is waiting for an invitation to stay a bit longer. When none comes, he continues. “Now that I am thinking about it, I believe it is best if I too retire. We will see you at the ‘morrow?”

“Yes. Of course.” Acacius nods politely. “Thank you for the meal and for showing us around. You really do have a beautiful collection.” He’s become so good at playing a game he doesn't even enjoy.

“Well, my lady Vestal, you may want to retire too.” The woman of the house joins you, having walked side by side with you and she holds her arm out for her husband to take. He does so with a well-rehearsed motion. And Acacius’s gaze is once more drawn towards you rather than anything else. Your polite smile reminds him of his own. A priestess certainly understands the rules of the game well, maybe better than he does. Maybe that is why your answer comes as a surprise to him.

“Not quite yet. I like walking among the stars–well, under them.” You trip slightly over your words and he has to hold back a chuckle, finding it rather adoring. “Sitting in my carriage all day makes my legs feel funny so I enjoy small walks in the evenings.”

Acacius nods along, pretending not to understand the small snide you are sending his way. Because he has been insistent that you stay in your carriage rather than ride or, gods forbid, walk. He simply feels it to be safer that way. It is not unlike the house on Palatine Hill that Lucilla will be sitting in right now, guards always stationed at its gates. He will lock those he loves in a cage if it only means keeping them safe from the world.

Not that he loves you. He just cares for you. For your safety.  Or something of the like.

The others bid you both good night and without speaking, you begin to walk again, taking one of the less-treaded paths that lead straight through the gardens and towards the edge of the property. Acacius trails slightly behind you, hoping that his presence won’t bother you but also unable to let you roam around all by yourself.

He watches the way your hips move and how your stola trails behind you and when he begins to feel sick with himself for abusing his position like this, he focuses on your footprints instead. Which is why he almost runs into you when you come to a halt.

***

You feel Acacius’s hand reaching for your shoulder as he steadies himself and you give him just a few moments before slipping out of his touch. The path has led you to a small, round pavilion, the slightly angled roof looking a few years past its prime. But its position at this side of the garden is high enough to overlook the houses below and the hills in the distance. There is light spilling onto the street from a few windows still, some bright like the fire of Vesta, some stemming from just one or two candles on a windowsill. But behind the houses, the fields and hills lie in the dark. Acacius’s troops must be on the other side of the town, to the north.

“It is so dark,” you whisper quietly, absent-mindedly running your fingers over the column beside you. The stone is cold to the touch. “It is never this dark in Rome.”

Acacius nods quietly, stepping beside you with a few, slow motions and you listen to the sounds of his toga rustling as he moves. His voice is only a whisper. “Rome is a very special place, my lady.”

His hand brushes over the red fabric of your stola, the one you have wrapped tightly around your body to fight off the cold. You can feel his thumb tracing one of the golden lines, his touch as light as ever. If you moved just an inch to the side, you are certain he would drop his hand immediately.

You both stay silent for a while, staring out into the ever growing darkness as one or two more windows below you lose their light. It must take minutes for you to gather up enough courage to look at him.

His eyes are soft, a little glazed-over from the amount of wine he was practically forced to taste at dinner. And the way he looks at you? It is like the difference between day and night, between light and dark, the way he looks at you so differently when you're alone like this. You've seen him give commands with a mere look. But the brown eyes that rest on yours in this moment are not those of a General. They are just those of a man.

“I am sorry my men gave you trouble that first day.” He says quietly, bowing his head slightly, though his eyes never leave your face.

“It is not your fault,” you whisper back, shaking your head. Then, maybe because you hope to lessen the worry in his eyes, you add; “They have been good to me. Many of them are kind.”

Acacius nods. But he doesn't respond. So you fall back into silence. A dog barks somewhere below you. You turn towards the sound, your eyes finding the small street you passed through earlier, the one with the many shops side by side.

“Oh, I meant to ask. May I use the day tomorrow to head down to the stores? I would like to look at a few things, I promised a friend I would bring her back something and…” You trail off, your eyes still on the now abandoned street.

“No.”

And there he is again. The cold, uncaring General who does not give a damn about what you do or do not want. “What?”

“No. Absolutely not. The streets are narrow and will be filled with people, both our own and the townsfolk, not to speak of the travellers. We are not the only ones travelling Via Appia.” Acacius states, his voice already letting you know that he will not put this decision up for discussion.

The anger you would have felt a few days ago now only manifests itself in the form of resignation. Your shoulders slump slightly and a sigh leaves your lips. “Of course. What a silly idea. I forgot you are to lock me up in either a carriage or one of these rooms for the entirety of the trip.”

“I will keep you safe the entire trip,” Acacius mutters. His hand has disappeared from your side. “It is getting late. I will escort you back to the villa. Come.”

You stand like one of the statues around the garden, frozen to the spot. The way he switches up so fast, like he becomes one person and then another–it’s exhausting you. “Acacius?”

“What?” You can tell he sounds slightly on edge, like he’s itching to get away. From you or the conversation or both.

“Could you just–could you just be a little bit kind to me?” Your voice trembles slightly and your head stays bowed. You can’t make out his face in the darkness. His shoulders shift as he gives a weak nod.

“Let me be kind and take you to your room.”

If the last week has taught you one thing about Acacius, it is that he will not allow you to change his mind quite so easily. And with the chances of success so slim, you find that you don’t have it in you to try. Maybe the light-hearted joke earlier tonight held more truth than either of you would have liked. Maybe travel, and Acacius, have truly worn you out. You let your gaze roam over the town below you once more. Then, you turn and obey him without another word.

[softpascalito]

Dulcissima I Marcus Acacius x Vestal!Reader I Chapter XIV - The Cage

Summary: Set before and during Gladiator II. General Acacius finds himself entranced by a highly valued priestess of Rome – A Vestal Virgin. But you both have taken vows that make sure your paths may never cross. Until they do.

Aka a fix-it fanfic where Acacius survives the Colosseum.

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x Vestal Virgin Reader Rating: Explicit / MDNI Word count: 41k+ Tags: Secret Relationship, Vestal Virgins, Religious Guilt, Gladiator fights, Gladiator II compliant (more or less), Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Ancient Rome, Age Difference, Slow Burn (ish), Injury, Kissing, Historical Inaccuracy, (Attempted) Sexual Harassment, Smut, First Time, Oral Sex (f receiving), Vaginal Sex, Unprotected Sex, Slight Breeding Kink, Semi-Public Sex, More tags to be added

AO3 // Series Masterlist // Masterlist // Fic Playlist // Ko-Fi

notes: hello you wonderful people. i am so excited for the next few chapters and to show you all where we are heading. i know this chapter is a bit on the sadder side but i promise if you stick with me, it will pay off. i've been doing a lot of research and i believe i've found some very cool things to include in this fice hehe. smooches! ♡

carpentum - closed carriage centurion - high-ranking army official

Chapter XIV - The Cage

Acacius doesn't feel like staying in his tent. He goes over the route for the next day three more times before folding the map and heading out of the makeshift door. He makes his rounds, greeting some of the soldiers and centurions alike, even stopping at one point to taste the wine one of them offers him. He trails in between tents, all of them neatly organized, built for the night like a temporary, small town. His horse neighs when he nears the animals that are tied to a large wooden post and Acacius smiles in spite of himself, stepping forward and greeting the stallion. 

The andalusian is the only gold spent that he does not feel guilty about, having been his trustworthy companion for several years now. He reaches out, tracing his hand over the side of the horse's head and onto its neck, gently patting it. “You are not sleepy either, are you? Did we not tire you out with today?”

It shakes his head as if to decline and Acacius sighs, allowing his horse a few more pats before retreating. He gets in another round around the camp before forcing himself to wander back into the direction of his own tent. A third round would raise brows, no doubt.

He does feel a bit better, having scoured the perimeter and knowing that you are merely feet away, that he would wake immediately if anything happened so close to him. Not that he hoped he would need to.

But he still catches himself straining his ears when he has retired to bed, trying to gauge if you are still awake or if sleep has already taken you. He briefly wonders if you are the same as him, laying awake and staring at the ceiling. Then again, you don't carry the kind of regret that he does so sleep in general might come easier to you.

Acacius groans as he turns in his bed and brings his hands onto his stomach, staring down at them in his horizontal position. The green stone surrounded by gold stares back at him and with a sigh, he takes the ring off, twisting it between his fingers. The inscription is the same it was when Lucilla first gave it to him.

Marcus • Aurelius • Maximus

The three men Lucilla has loved, one as a father, two as lovers. He is still not quite sure he deserves the engraving to the left of Aurelius that she had added for him when she asked him to wear it. The fact that her father and himself share a first name only makes him feel less equal, like he can never live up to those that came before him.

With a small groan, Acacius sits again, slipping the ring back on his finger and he reaches for his quill. The letter to Lucilla is rather short. He can never mention details, nothing of where they are or where exactly they are headed, just in case it falls into wrong hands. But he can tell her that he misses her, that he wishes he were back in Rome. So he does precisely that.

He hands it to the next courier they meet.

For about a week, things settle into an unsteady normality. They ride and march during the day, Acacius paying extra attention to the formations they decide on, making sure that he and at least one other capable soldier are always close to your carriage. You have started to obey him when he asks something of you and neither of you are openly hostile towards the other. But he can tell that you are unhappy or, at the very least, disappointed in what the world behind the walls of Rome has had to offer so far. He catches glimpses of you glancing out the window of your carriage when he is riding behind you, taking in the hills and forests that you pass. But the winter is still all around you, even as you get further south, and the frozen over ponds and leafless trees make the campaign feel even more hopeless.

You retire early each night, excusing yourself politely and heading back to your tent. Often, you say that you have to perform prayers but he’s not sure whether or not to believe that. And the one evening he does think further, imagining you on your knees in the tent beside his, he has to muffle his moans with his pillow.

The night before you are to reach Beneventum, an excuse to see you opens up before him like the sea when one passes the last hill before Ostia.

“My lady?” He pats the outside of the tent to imitate a knock. “May I come in?”

“Yes,” you call from inside and Acacius slips through the entrance, finding you sitting on your bed. He hasn't been in here since the night he spoke to you but it still looks much the same. Thick curtains that are bunched up and tied to the side around your bed, more pillows lining it than he cares to count. They've even laid out a rug for you and somehow, the soft and warm interior fits you.

“How have you been?” – “Is everything alright?” You speak at the same time. Your voice is slightly panicked while his is awfully polite and he tries to ignore the small stab in his chest at the realization that you think something must be wrong for him to come and speak to you.

“No. No, everything is fine. I merely wanted to let you know that we will be arriving in Beneventum tomorrow, around mid afternoon. We will rest there for two nights, allow the men to catch their breath,” he explains, tapping his fingers against his thigh. The silence that follows his words feel unbearable. “It is a nice town. Small, but nice. Kind people. They will let us restock on what we need.”

“Good,” you answer quietly and why is it suddenly so hard to talk to you? Before, you both never hit a spell of silence. Even during Bona Dea, he found that he preferred talking to you over sleep, over anything. Now, the conversation just feels heavy.

“Very well. I will get out of your hair then.” He doesn't give you a chance to respond before he turns his back on you and leaves.

***

The sun is beginning to sink lower in the sky when you notice riders falling away to the side, leading the men that march behind them onto the fields beside the Via Appia. Your carriage doesn't get steered off course however, continuing on the small road. Then, two riders appear beside you, one on each side and it takes you a moment to understand that they are there for your protection.

And then you see it. Up on a small hill before you sits a small town, the road leading straight through it. The caravan slows down as you reach the outer perimeter, the riders now staying close beside you. You catch a glimpse of an arch as you pass through it. Stone looms above you for a few moments and you think you spot a relief of Trajan in passing. Then you reenter the sunlight and with it, spot Acacius in front of you, his head held high, his white horse proudly stepping through the town. You can't quite place the feeling that builds in your stomach at the sight.

You watch as storefronts pass your window, an array of spices, colored fabrics, painted pots and vases flying by. It's much too fast to look at the items properly so you make a mental note to come back tomorrow and browse around. Unlike a lot of other women, Vestals do get paid so you have more than enough gold to spend.

Eventually, the houses retreat and you pass through a small gate, one so narrow that the riders beside you finally fall behind and then well-kept gardens appear around you. There are statues placed along the path, several small fountains further away. None of it is nearly as large or tall as in Rome but they’re impressive nonetheless. Eventually, the carriage comes to a halt and you feel the soldier in the front jump down from his seat. A moment later, he appears through the curtain and offers you a hand.

You smooth down your coat and glance up at the villa that you have come to a stop in front of, its grounds looming over the town below. Acacius has already dismounted his horse and is talking to a man and a woman animatedly. You are led to join them, smiling awkwardly as you come to stand beside the General.

“Ah, there she is. May I introduce you–” He gestures from you to the couple. “To Sir and Lady Orbilius. They are kind enough to host us during our time in Beneventum.” You greet both of them, even if not quite as enthusiastically as they greet you.

The brown-haired woman, probably in her late forties, bows down a bit too low and reaches for you. “May I take your hand?” You nod quickly, holding it out for her. She places a kiss on the back of it and you can feel Acacius shift beside you. “I cannot tell you what an honor it is to have you under our roof. Of course–” She turns toward Acacius. “Having the General is a big honor in itself. But a Priestess of Vesta, by the gods–”

Tears glisten in her eyes when she straightens again. For a split moment, you think you have somehow offended her and worry seeps into your chest. But then she smiles and you realize that they are in fact tears of happiness or gratefulness or something of the like. 

They show you through the atrium and a terrasse that overlooks the gardens, speaking highly of the hot summer days here. Eventually, the lady of the house leads you upstairs, shows you to what will be your bedroom for the next two nights and then allows you some peace and quiet before changing for the evening meal they have insisted on sharing with you. You find your wooden chest already sitting in the corner and open it to admire your options. Now that you are not sleeping and dining in a tent, you do not need to wear a coat over each of your stolas.

The red one is packed near the bottom and you consider whether or not you should wear it at all. The intention you purchased it with does not hold up anymore. But why not dress up a little? Especially for a woman who was so thankful to meet you she almost cried? You tell yourself that is the only reason why you carefully drape the red fabric over your body, the gold details glistening in the equally golden rays of sunshine filtering in through the curtains. The evening light gives the small room an orange glow. And the view out the window is near picturesque, the small town below you, complete with a temple, fields and woods stretching behind the perimeter. Your hands unconsciously roam over your body, smoothing down the small wrinkles in the soft fabric as you take a deep breath.

***

This has to be a special kind of torture. Watching you lie down beside him, the red and gold fabric of your stola draped over your body and try one food after another without a care in the world. Like your body is not so close to his, like you can't feel the invisible connection that is flickering in the air between you.

Acacius has been tortured before, when he was held captive for what luckily turned out to only be a few days. But this? It's worse.

Your hosts have taken the lower couch, eager to keep the appropriate customs. No doubt hoping for a favor or two, or at least a good word from his lips directed at the Emperors when needed. He wouldn't care so much if it didn't mean sharing the higher of the couches with you, all of you stretched out around the table so laden with food and wine that Acacius is surprised it has not yet given in under the weight.

He tries to recall if your stolas were always this tight, if they always hugged your form so well, highlighting your body in all the right places. Or, maybe, it just seems like it because he now knows what is underneath the fabric, because he has kissed your legs and shoulders and chest and tastes you on his lips, felt inner parts that no other man has ever got to feel. Acacius swallows another bite of his food, adjusting his own toga in a way that he hopes is inconspicuous.

“General Acacius, would you care to join us for a walk in the gardens before you retire?” He barely even noticed the others getting up, expectant eyes now resting on him. He agrees quickly enough, standing as well, thankful that his toga is not one of the thin ones he wears during the summer. Sir Orblilius’s attention turns onto you. “Will you be joining us as well?”

Acacius’s gaze flies around and he can immediately tell that you do not look eager, the hesitation clear in the way you hold yourself. “Well, maybe we should let the lady go on upstairs. Our travels can make one weary.”

The man laughs heartedly at that. “I hope you have not worn her out, General.” It is clear that he’s joking, unaware of any implication beyond a lighthearted comment. But Acacius can immediately see the blush creeping up onto your cheeks.

“I shall join you. I would love to see the gardens,” you respond politely, avoiding Acacius’s gaze. He follows suit as you are both led over to the terrasse and begin to descend the stairs that lead to the rich plants and trees below. He pretends to listen to the couple speaking of their statues and rare fruits, pretends to be impressed by a tree that supposedly never withers. Here or there, he throws in a question or thoughtful nod to keep the conversation afloat, his real focus all the while on you. He does not wish to learn more about your respective hosts but he has things he’d like to ask you. Like how his soldiers have been treating you. If you are comfortable on this journey. If you already regret taking it.

But such is not the kind of small talk expected by the couple beside him. And so he doesn't.

When your small group has completed the lap around the house and he once again finds himself at the bottom of the stone steps, Sir Orbilius gives Acacius a polite smile. “If you would excuse me now, General. I would like to take my wife upstairs.” He pauses for a moment like he is waiting for an invitation to stay a bit longer. When none comes, he continues. “Now that I am thinking about it, I believe it is best if I too retire. We will see you at the ‘morrow?”

“Yes. Of course.” Acacius nods politely. “Thank you for the meal and for showing us around. You really do have a beautiful collection.” He’s become so good at playing a game he doesn't even enjoy.

“Well, my lady Vestal, you may want to retire too.” The woman of the house joins you, having walked side by side with you and she holds her arm out for her husband to take. He does so with a well-rehearsed motion. And Acacius’s gaze is once more drawn towards you rather than anything else. Your polite smile reminds him of his own. A priestess certainly understands the rules of the game well, maybe better than he does. Maybe that is why your answer comes as a surprise to him.

“Not quite yet. I like walking among the stars–well, under them.” You trip slightly over your words and he has to hold back a chuckle, finding it rather adoring. “Sitting in my carriage all day makes my legs feel funny so I enjoy small walks in the evenings.”

Acacius nods along, pretending not to understand the small snide you are sending his way. Because he has been insistent that you stay in your carriage rather than ride or, gods forbid, walk. He simply feels it to be safer that way. It is not unlike the house on Palatine Hill that Lucilla will be sitting in right now, guards always stationed at its gates. He will lock those he loves in a cage if it only means keeping them safe from the world.

Not that he loves you. He just cares for you. For your safety.  Or something of the like.

The others bid you both good night and without speaking, you begin to walk again, taking one of the less-treaded paths that lead straight through the gardens and towards the edge of the property. Acacius trails slightly behind you, hoping that his presence won’t bother you but also unable to let you roam around all by yourself.

He watches the way your hips move and how your stola trails behind you and when he begins to feel sick with himself for abusing his position like this, he focuses on your footprints instead. Which is why he almost runs into you when you come to a halt.

***

You feel Acacius’s hand reaching for your shoulder as he steadies himself and you give him just a few moments before slipping out of his touch. The path has led you to a small, round pavilion, the slightly angled roof looking a few years past its prime. But its position at this side of the garden is high enough to overlook the houses below and the hills in the distance. There is light spilling onto the street from a few windows still, some bright like the fire of Vesta, some stemming from just one or two candles on a windowsill. But behind the houses, the fields and hills lie in the dark. Acacius’s troops must be on the other side of the town, to the north.

“It is so dark,” you whisper quietly, absent-mindedly running your fingers over the column beside you. The stone is cold to the touch. “It is never this dark in Rome.”

Acacius nods quietly, stepping beside you with a few, slow motions and you listen to the sounds of his toga rustling as he moves. His voice is only a whisper. “Rome is a very special place, my lady.”

His hand brushes over the red fabric of your stola, the one you have wrapped tightly around your body to fight off the cold. You can feel his thumb tracing one of the golden lines, his touch as light as ever. If you moved just an inch to the side, you are certain he would drop his hand immediately.

You both stay silent for a while, staring out into the ever growing darkness as one or two more windows below you lose their light. It must take minutes for you to gather up enough courage to look at him.

His eyes are soft, a little glazed-over from the amount of wine he was practically forced to taste at dinner. And the way he looks at you? It is like the difference between day and night, between light and dark, the way he looks at you so differently when you're alone like this. You've seen him give commands with a mere look. But the brown eyes that rest on yours in this moment are not those of a General. They are just those of a man.

“I am sorry my men gave you trouble that first day.” He says quietly, bowing his head slightly, though his eyes never leave your face.

“It is not your fault,” you whisper back, shaking your head. Then, maybe because you hope to lessen the worry in his eyes, you add; “They have been good to me. Many of them are kind.”

Acacius nods. But he doesn't respond. So you fall back into silence. A dog barks somewhere below you. You turn towards the sound, your eyes finding the small street you passed through earlier, the one with the many shops side by side.

“Oh, I meant to ask. May I use the day tomorrow to head down to the stores? I would like to look at a few things, I promised a friend I would bring her back something and…” You trail off, your eyes still on the now abandoned street.

“No.”

And there he is again. The cold, uncaring General who does not give a damn about what you do or do not want. “What?”

“No. Absolutely not. The streets are narrow and will be filled with people, both our own and the townsfolk, not to speak of the travellers. We are not the only ones travelling Via Appia.” Acacius states, his voice already letting you know that he will not put this decision up for discussion.

The anger you would have felt a few days ago now only manifests itself in the form of resignation. Your shoulders slump slightly and a sigh leaves your lips. “Of course. What a silly idea. I forgot you are to lock me up in either a carriage or one of these rooms for the entirety of the trip.”

“I will keep you safe the entire trip,” Acacius mutters. His hand has disappeared from your side. “It is getting late. I will escort you back to the villa. Come.”

You stand like one of the statues around the garden, frozen to the spot. The way he switches up so fast, like he becomes one person and then another–it’s exhausting you. “Acacius?”

“What?” You can tell he sounds slightly on edge, like he’s itching to get away. From you or the conversation or both.

“Could you just–could you just be a little bit kind to me?” Your voice trembles slightly and your head stays bowed. You can’t make out his face in the darkness. His shoulders shift as he gives a weak nod.

“Let me be kind and take you to your room.”

If the last week has taught you one thing about Acacius, it is that he will not allow you to change his mind quite so easily. And with the chances of success so slim, you find that you don’t have it in you to try. Maybe the light-hearted joke earlier tonight held more truth than either of you would have liked. Maybe travel, and Acacius, have truly worn you out. You let your gaze roam over the town below you once more. Then, you turn and obey him without another word.