#Dark!Marcus Acacius | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sinful-mind-joyful-thoughts · 7 months ago

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ᴜɴᴅᴇʀ ᴀ ғᴀʟsᴇ ᴀʟᴛᴇʀ

⤷ Credits: Pinterest

Summary : Your father is fed up with your shenanigans, so he arranges a marriage to Rome's famous general and gladiator, Marcus Acacius.

Warnings: DUB-CON (Forced/Arranged marriage) SMUT, LOSS OF VIRGINITY, unprotected pinv (wrap it before you tap it), Oral F and M, Implied age gap, Scars, Misogyny, Spitting, both give switch vibes,

A/n : I put a dub-con warning just because it is a forced/arranged marriage also ty and enjoy @multiversed-daydreamer for listening to me yap about this all day luv ya 💕

The table was set, lit, and ready for a feast. Grapes, wine, cheese, and meats lined the table. Being the daughter of a powerful general had its perks, not that you liked the kind of life you had. You understood you were privileged, your place in society clear. You knew that if it weren't for your father's position, you would probably be a slave to the hierarchy. But it didn't mean you had to like your life.

You were 18 and shockingly unmarried—not that you cared. You had more fun sneaking away to the parties that would happen late at night. You were happy for the fact you weren't tied down yet. The thrill of escaping your father's watchful eye and diving into the forbidden world of Rome's underground festivities made your heart race.

You had a reputation, one that was far from ladylike. Wild child, they called you, and you wore it like a badge of honor. You knew what sex was, what things happened in the dark corners of those parties, but you were still a virgin. Your knowledge came from observation, whispers, and the daring escapades you had witnessed, but you hadn't crossed that final threshold. Not yet.

Your father, a stern and formidable general, was a man who worked with gladiators and other powerful figures in Rome. His influence was vast, and his expectations were high. He had grown increasingly frustrated with you lately, and you couldn't quite understand why. His annoyance with your antics was palpable, but there was something more, something beneath the surface that gnawed at him.

As you sat there, wine goblet in hand, you sipped slowly, savoring the taste. You knew he would tell you to only have a single glass, a rule you delighted in bending. The door to the grand hall burst open, and there he was, your father, his expression a storm of irritation and something deeper, something darker.

"What are you doing?" he demanded, his voice echoing through the hall. "Drinking again?"

You looked up at him, feigning innocence. "Just a single glass, Father, as you always insist."

His eyes narrowed, and he crossed the room with swift, purposeful strides. "You think I don't know what you get up to, do you? Sneaking out, causing trouble. Do you have any idea how this reflects on me? On our family?"

You sighed, placing the goblet down. "I know, Father. But you can't keep me locked away forever. I'm not a child anymore."

He stood before you, the tension between you crackling like a live wire. "You're my daughter, and you will behave with the dignity and decorum befitting your station."

You met his gaze, unflinching. "And what if I don't want that life? What if I want to be free, to make my own choices?"

His frustration seemed to boil over, and for a moment, you thought he might explode. But then, he took a deep breath, his shoulders sagging slightly. "You don't understand the dangers out there. The people I deal with—the gladiators, the politicians—they're not like the ones at your little parties. They're dangerous."

You softened slightly, sensing the genuine worry behind his anger. "Then tell me, Father. Explain why you're so frustrated lately. What aren't you telling me?"

He hesitated, the walls he had built around himself momentarily crumbling. "It's complicated," he finally said, his voice quieter. "There are threats... to our family, to our position. I'm trying to protect you, even if it doesn't seem like it."

You reached out, touching his arm. "I want to understand. Help me see what you see."

He looked down at your hand, then back at your face, a mixture of anger and sorrow in his eyes. "Maybe it's time you did," he said, his voice resigned. "But you must promise me, you'll be careful. This world is not as kind as you think."

You nodded, determination filling your chest. "I promise, Father. I'll be careful. But I won't be caged."

Your father's expression hardened once more, and the momentary softness disappeared. He sat down at the table, grabbing a handful of grapes and popping one into his mouth. "Enough. This isn't up for discussion," he snapped. "You are to be married."

Your heart plummeted. "Married? To whom?"

His eyes were cold as steel. "To a man who can protect you, who can secure our family's future."

You jumped to your feet, the chair scraping harshly against the floor. "No! I don't want to be married off like some piece of property. I won't do it!"

He towered over you, his presence suffocating. "You have no choice. This is for your own good."

"Who is it then?" you demanded, your voice rising in defiance. "Is it Lucius? That lecherous old man who can't keep his hands to himself?"

Your father shook his head, his jaw clenched. "No, not Lucius."

"Is it Gaius, then?" you asked, pacing around the table, barely noticing your father grabbing a slice of cheese and eating it with deliberate calmness. "The pompous fool who thinks he's the smartest man in Rome but can't even string a coherent sentence together without tripping over his own ego?"

"Not Gaius."

"Then it must be Quintus! The brute who only knows how to solve problems with his fists, who would treat me like a possession rather than a person."

"No, it isn't Quintus either," your father snapped, his patience wearing thin. He took a deep drink from his own goblet, trying to steady himself.

"Who then? Who could possibly be suitable in your eyes?" you spat, your desperation clear.

Your father took a deep breath, his eyes never leaving yours. "It's Marcus Acacius."

The name sent a jolt through you, and you took an involuntary step back. Marcus Acacius, a name whispered in both awe and fear throughout Rome. A man known for his prowess in the arena and his cunning outside it. A man with a reputation as cold and unyielding as stone.

"Marcus Acacius?" you echoed, disbelief coloring your tone. "You can't be serious. He's a gladiator, a killer."

"He's more than that," your father insisted. "He's powerful, respected, and capable of protecting you from the dangers you don't even know exist."

You shook your head, your mind reeling. "No, Father. You can't do this to me. I won't marry him."

"You will," he said firmly. "And you will do it for our family, for our future."

You felt the walls closing in, the life you had known slipping away. You slumped back into your chair, staring at the untouched food before you. "What if... what if I've already been with someone else?" you blurted out, hoping to find some way out of this nightmare.

Your father's eyes narrowed. He leaned forward, his hands gripping the edge of the table. "Have you been taken by another lover?"

You hesitated, the lie heavy on your tongue, but the fear of his wrath kept you silent. "No," you finally admitted, defeated.

"Then it's settled," he said, the finality in his voice chilling. "You will marry Marcus Acacius, and you will do so with dignity."

Tears of frustration and anger welled in your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. "I won't be happy, Father. Not with him, not with this life."

He reached out, a rare gesture of tenderness, and touched your cheek. "Happiness is a luxury we can't afford," he said softly. "But safety, security—that is something I can give you."

You pulled away, the weight of his decision crushing your spirit. "I don't want to be safe. I want to be free."

His hand fell to his side, and his eyes hardened once more. "Freedom is an illusion, my daughter. And you will learn that soon enough."

With that, he turned and walked away, leaving you standing alone in the grand hall, the weight of your impending marriage pressing down on you like a vice.

Rage bubbled up inside you, a seething mass of frustration and helplessness. The weight of your father's words pressed down on you like a heavy shroud, suffocating your spirit. With a sudden, violent motion, you swept your arm across the dining table, sending grapes, cheese, and meats crashing to the floor. The wine goblet toppled, spilling dark red liquid like blood across the pristine tablecloth.

Breathing heavily, you glared at the mess you had created, but it did nothing to alleviate the fury burning within you. Without another word, you turned on your heel and stormed out of the grand hall, your footsteps echoing through the marble corridors.

You reached your room, slamming the door behind you. The silence was oppressive, the walls closing in as your mind raced. You had to get out. You couldn't marry Marcus Acacius. You couldn't be trapped in a life you didn't choose, a life that would suffocate the very essence of who you were.

You paced the room, the dim light from the oil lamps casting flickering shadows on the walls. Your eyes darted around, searching for a solution, a way out of this nightmare. Your thoughts turned to your mother, a fleeting glimmer of hope piercing through the darkness.

Your mother had been sent to the countryside years ago, a decision made by your father to keep her safe from the political intrigue and danger that plagued Rome. She lived a quiet, secluded life on the family estate, far from the city's chaos. You hadn't seen her in years, but you knew she would help you if you could reach her.

It had been a month of plotting and planning, each day dragging on as your impending fate loomed ever closer. Today was your wedding day, the day your life would be sealed into a destiny you hadn’t chosen. Final preparations had been completed yesterday, and now you were meant to step into the role of a dutiful daughter and bride. You had woken up earlier than your maids would have roused you, knowing your father would want you to rest more so you appeared extra fresh for Marcus. Instead, your nerves had kept you up all night, the shadows on the walls morphing into ominous shapes as you thought of your future.

The first light of dawn crept through the narrow window, and you knew you couldn’t waste any more time. Your small bag, packed with bread, a few pieces of jewelry to sell, and the spending money your father occasionally gave you, lay hidden under the covers of your bed. The plan was simple: catch the slightest bit of rest before your handmaid came in to wake you, then escape before anyone noticed.

The door creaked open, and Lucia, your handmaid, entered with her usual gentle and serene presence. She glided to the window, pulling back the heavy curtains. Sunlight flooded the room, casting a warm glow that felt almost mocking given your circumstances. You sat up in bed, the light highlighting the bags under your eyes from a sleepless night.

"Good morning, my lady," she said dreamily, her voice like a lullaby. "The sun is shining so beautifully today. It's a perfect day for a wedding." She moved to your side, her hands deftly beginning to arrange your hair with practiced ease. You watched her reflection in the mirror, feeling a pang of guilt for the deception you were about to execute.

"Your dress is so beautiful, my lady. It's like a dream come true. You'll look like a goddess, a vision of perfection," Lucia continued, her words meant to comfort but only adding to your anxiety. The dress she spoke of hung in the corner, a symbol of the life you were being forced into.

You let her continue, her words a soothing balm against your churning thoughts. As she began to apply a light makeup, using berries to tint your lips and cheeks, you couldn't help but feel a sense of finality creeping in. "You'll be the envy of every woman in Rome," she continued, her voice full of admiration. "Marcus Acacius is a powerful man. You'll be safe with him."

Safe. The word echoed in your mind, tinged with bitterness. Safety was a cage, and you longed for freedom. Suddenly, you sat up, startling Lucia. "I need your dress," you blurted out, your voice urgent.

She looked at you, shocked and confused. "My dress, my lady? Why would you want my dress?" she asked, her hands frozen in mid-motion.

You gave her a reassuring smile, reaching under your bed to pull out a dress you had kept for a long time. It was a simple yet elegant gown, one she had always admired. "I have something for you," you said, handing her the dress. "I've seen how much you like it. Today, I want you to wear it and have fun. I just... I want to feel normal before the wedding."

Her eyes widened, and a smile of pure joy spread across her face. "Thank you, my lady. Thank you so much!" She looked at the dress, then back at you. "But what about you? Where will you be?"

You hesitated for a moment, crafting a believable lie. "I'll be eating breakfast with the soldiers. I need a moment to myself before the chaos begins."

She nodded, believing your words, and quickly changed into the dress you had given her. You watched as her usual plain attire was replaced by the elegant gown, the transformation bringing a genuine smile to your face despite the turmoil in your heart. "You look beautiful," you said, forcing a smile. "Now go, enjoy yourself."

Lucia beamed, her happiness palpable. "Thank you, my lady. I'll remember this day forever." She gave a small curtsy and hurried out, eager to enjoy the brief taste of luxury you had gifted her.

As soon as the door closed behind her, you sprang into action. Your heart pounded as you grabbed your small bag from under the covers and moved swiftly towards the door. The corridors of the castle were quiet, the early hour ensuring most were still in their beds. You moved with purpose, your sandals barely making a sound on the stone floors.

Every step you took was filled with a mixture of fear and exhilaration. You had never been so bold, and the risk was immense. If you were caught, the consequences would be severe, but you couldn't live a life that wasn't yours. The thought of being trapped in a loveless marriage with Marcus Acacius spurred you on.

You reached the courtyard, the cool morning air filling your lungs as you dashed towards the farthest end where the horse stables were located. The sound of hooves and the scent of hay greeted you as you approached, your eyes scanning for a suitable mount. Freedom was within reach, and your heart soared with the possibility.

But then, a familiar, stern voice cut through the morning air. "Where do you think you're going?"

You sprinted, your sandals slapping against the cobblestones as the guards closed in. Heart pounding, you reached the barn, your fingers fumbling with the latch. The sound of pursuing footsteps fueled your frantic efforts, and finally, the door swung open. You dashed inside, the scent of hay and horses enveloping you. There was no time to lose.

Without wasting a moment, you chose the newest and fastest horse, a powerful chestnut stallion that had always intimidated you with its raw strength. It was your only chance. Your hands shook as you grabbed its mane, your heart hammering in your chest. The stallion snorted, sensing your urgency. You took a deep breath, steeling yourself.

"Hyah!" you urged, kicking your heels against its sides. The stallion reared, its powerful muscles tensing beneath you, then surged forward, galloping towards the gates. The wind whipped through your hair, the thundering of hooves drowning out the shouts behind you.

The gate loomed ahead, freedom tantalizingly close. You leaned forward, urging the horse faster. As you rode, you navigated the narrow alleys and sharp turns of the castle grounds, the stallion's speed making every twist and turn feel like a life-or-death gamble. The guards were not far behind, their yells growing louder, but you kept pushing, your eyes fixed on the gate.

You had run from the guards before, slipping through their grasp with quick wits and nimble feet, but this was different. The stakes were higher, the danger more palpable. The horse beneath you was your only hope, its powerful strides eating up the distance between you and the gate. But it was also a wild, untamed force, difficult to control.

As you neared the gate, you saw it beginning to close. Panic surged through you. With a desperate cry, you urged the stallion faster. The ground seemed to blur beneath you, the world a whirl of motion and sound. The horse’s breath came in powerful snorts, its muscles straining with effort.

Just as you thought you might make it, the stallion stumbled on a loose cobblestone. You were flung from its back, the world spinning around you as you hit the ground hard. Pain shot through your body, your vision swimming with stars.

When you opened your eyes, the sky above was a brilliant blue, and the scent of earth and grass filled your nostrils. You groaned, trying to sit up, but a gentle hand on your shoulder stopped you.

"Easy there," a deep, soothing voice said. You turned your head and found yourself staring into the concerned eyes of a stranger, his face handsome and strong, framed by dark curls. He knelt beside you, his touch gentle but firm.

"Are you all right?" he asked, his brow furrowed with worry.

You blinked, trying to focus through the haze of pain and confusion. "Who... who are you?"

A small, enigmatic smile played on his lips. "My name is Marcus Acacius. And you must be my bride."

The revelation hit you like a bolt of lightning. This was the man you were meant to marry, the man you were running from. But as you looked into his eyes, you saw not the tyrant you had imagined, but a man filled with genuine concern and curiosity.

"You shouldn't be out here alone," Marcus continued his voice a mix of authority and kindness. "It's dangerous. Let me help you."

The irony of the situation was almost too much to bear. You had been fleeing from your fate, only to run straight into its arms. As Marcus helped you to your feet, his hands strong and reassuring, you couldn't help but wonder if perhaps your destiny was more complex than you had believed.

Marcus's strong arms guided you inside, each step a reluctant surrender to the fate you had been trying to escape. The castle's grand corridors, usually bustling with servants and courtiers, were eerily quiet in the early morning light. You were disoriented, the pain from your fall mingling with the turmoil of your thoughts.

As you entered your bedchamber, a familiar and unwelcome face greeted you. Aurelia, one of your father's maids and his well-known mistress, stood there with a smug expression. Her presence was a bitter reminder of your father's indiscretions and the fractured state of your family.

"Well, well," Aurelia purred, her voice dripping with condescension. "What a surprise to see you here, my lady. Running away on your wedding day? How very unbecoming of you."

You shot her a withering glare, your temper flaring. "Spare me your lectures, Aurelia. I'm not in the mood for your sanctimonious drivel."

Aurelia's smile widened, enjoying your discomfort. "You should be grateful for the match your father has arranged. Marcus Acacius is a powerful man. You could do far worse."

You clenched your fists, your anger barely contained. "Is that what you tell yourself to justify spreading your legs for my father? That you're doing it for power and security?"

Her eyes flashed with anger, but she maintained her composure. "Watch your tongue, girl. You may not like me, but I'm here to make sure you fulfill your duty. Now sit down and let me get you ready."

Reluctantly, you sat down, feeling trapped and helpless. As Aurelia worked on your hair and makeup, her touch was firm and unyielding. Her presence was suffocating, her every word a reminder of the life you were being forced into.

"You think you can escape your destiny?" Aurelia continued, her tone dripping with disdain. "You're just a foolish girl. This marriage is your only chance at a future."

You bit back a retort, knowing it would only fuel her smug superiority. Instead, you focused on the mirror in front of you, watching as she applied the final touches to your appearance. The reflection staring back at you was almost unrecognizable—a vision of beauty and elegance, but one that felt like a mask hiding your true self.

Once Aurelia finished, she stepped back, admiring her handiwork. "There," she said, a note of satisfaction in her voice. "You look perfect. Ready to be a proper bride."

You stood, your heart heavy with dread. The grand hall awaited, filled with guests and the weight of expectation. As you made your way towards it, you felt the walls closing in, your fate sealed with every step.

The hall was decorated with lavish flowers and banners, the scent of incense filling the air. Guests whispered and watched as you entered, their eyes following your every move. At the far end, Marcus Acacius stood, his gaze fixed on you with an intensity that made your pulse quicken.

The ceremony began with the priest’s voice, resonant and solemn, echoing through the hall. The guests fell into an expectant silence, the only sounds being the faint rustling of their silk garments and the distant clinking of goblets. The hall, lavishly adorned with ivy and flowers, seemed to shimmer with an almost otherworldly glow, casting shadows that danced like phantoms along the walls.

You stood at the altar, your heart pounding against your ribs like a trapped bird. The priest’s words, though intended to be a comfort, were like a dark incantation, each syllable wrapping around you tighter, dragging you deeper into the abyss of your fate. Your eyes flickered over to Marcus, standing with his back straight, his gaze unwavering. He looked every bit the powerful man he was rumored to be—tall, imposing, with a presence that commanded the room.

You recalled the whispers you had heard over the past months—the stories of Marcus Acacius. The tales were rife with speculation and fear, his name often mentioned in hushed tones. They spoke of a man whose ambition knew no bounds, whose cruelty was whispered about in every corner of Rome. Some said his eyes held a darkness that could see through to the soul, while others claimed he had a penchant for the macabre, often indulging in extravagant displays of power.

As the priest began the traditional vows, his voice a monotone murmur, you tried to focus, but the words blurred into a cacophony. "Do you, Marcus Acacius, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, until death do you part?"

Marcus’s voice was steady, unwavering. "I do," he said, his tone deep and commanding, sending shivers down your spine.

When it was your turn, the words caught in your throat, your voice barely a whisper. "I... I do," you managed, the words tasting bitter on your tongue, the weight of your submission crushing your spirit.

The priest nodded, a satisfied smile curling his lips. "Then by the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife."

As the priest declared you bound by law and faith, the room erupted into applause, the sound a thunderclap that seemed to echo off the very stones of the castle. Marcus took your hand, his grip firm and unyielding, leading you down the aisle. The guests showered you with petals, their faces a blur of congratulations and forced smiles. You felt like a puppet, each step you took dictated by an invisible string.

The reception hall was a whirlwind of opulence, the air thick with the scent of spiced wine and roasting meats. Long tables groaned under the weight of sumptuous feasts, while musicians played melodies that mingled with the laughter and chatter of the guests. The hall’s high ceilings seemed to stretch into eternity, adorned with golden chandeliers that sparkled like stars.

You clung to the edge of the hall, the laughter and music a distant hum, your mind wandering back to the dark tales you had heard of Marcus. The rumors were impossible to ignore: they spoke of his ruthless ambition, his cold demeanor, and his unsettling fascination with power. Some said his parties were a mask for darker pursuits, where the line between pleasure and pain blurred into obscurity.

As Marcus moved through the crowd, his demeanor was that of a king—gracious yet commanding, his laughter rich and resonant. He was surrounded by his closest allies, men whose eyes gleamed with greed and ambition. They raised their goblets in his honor, their voices melding into a chorus of congratulatory toasts.

You stood near a heavy oak door, the cool stone beneath your fingers a reminder of the stark reality you now faced. The night was growing darker, the moonlight streaming through the tall windows casting an eerie glow on the festivities.

Suddenly, a hand gripped your arm, pulling you away from the door. It was one of the guards, his expression grave. "My lady, you mustn't go near that door. Your father has given strict orders. Any guard who aids your escape will be put to death."

You stared at him, a chill running down your spine. "What do you mean? You can’t be serious. There’s no way out of here. You’re all trapped too."

The guard’s eyes flickered with a mix of pity and resolve. "It’s true, my lady. Your father’s command is ironclad. He has spies everywhere. If you try to leave, he will know. And the consequences for anyone who helps you are severe."

A knot of fear and frustration tightened in your chest. "What do you expect me to do? Just stand here and pretend everything’s fine?"

He hesitated, his grip on your arm softening. "No, my lady. But perhaps you could find a way to make the best of this night. Try to speak to him, learn his intentions. There may be more to him than the rumors say."

Taking a deep breath, you nodded, your mind spinning with the guard’s words. With a determined stride, you made your way through the crowd towards Marcus, who was leaning casually against a pillar, a goblet of wine in his hand. His eyes were slightly glazed from the alcohol, but his gaze sharpened as he saw you approaching.

"Marcus," you began, your voice steady despite the turmoil inside you. "I wanted to thank you for your help earlier today. I... I appreciate it."

He raised an eyebrow, a slow smile spreading across his face. "You mean when you tried to flee?" His tone was teasing, but there was an edge to it. "You have spirit, I'll give you that."

You forced a smile, trying to gauge his true nature. "I only wished for a moment of freedom. But I suppose that is behind us now."

Marcus took a sip of his wine, his eyes never leaving yours. "Freedom is a fleeting thing, my dear. But power... power is eternal. And together, we shall wield it."

Your stomach churned at his words, the rumors about him echoing in your mind. "Is that all you care about? Power?" you asked, unable to keep the bitterness from your voice.

His smile faded, replaced by a more serious expression. "You misunderstand me. Power is not an end, but a means. It ensures safety, prosperity, and control over one's destiny. Is that so terrible?"

You struggled to see past the image you had built of him. "I’ve heard things about you, Marcus. Dark things."

He chuckled softly, a sound that sent chills down your spine. "People fear what they do not understand. Let them talk. What matters is that I have the means to protect those I care about."

His words, though seemingly sincere, did little to quell your doubts. You opened your mouth to respond, but before you could, your father’s voice boomed across the hall.

"Honored guests!" he called out, drawing everyone’s attention. "The hour grows late, and it is time for my daughter and her new husband to retire to their bedchamber."

A murmur of approval and knowing smiles rippled through the crowd. Your heart raced, a mixture of dread and resignation filling you. Marcus extended his hand to you, his grip firm and possessive as he led you through the throng of guests towards the grand staircase.

As you ascended the stairs, the weight of your future bore down on you. You glanced back once, seeing the guests' faces fade into the distance, their laughter and conversations becoming a dull roar. When you reached the door of the bedchamber, Marcus paused, turning to face you.

"This is just the beginning," he said, his voice low and intense. "We have much to learn about each other."

You swallowed hard, forcing a nod. "Yes, we do."

He opened the door, and you stepped inside, the room lit by the soft glow of candlelight. The bed, draped in rich fabrics, seemed to loom ominously in the center. Marcus closed the door behind you, the click of the latch sounding like a final seal on your fate.

As he moved closer, you felt a mix of fear and curiosity. This was the man you were now bound to, and despite the darkness that surrounded him, there was a part of you that longed to understand him, to find the truth beneath the rumors.

"Let's start anew," he said, his hand gently brushing your cheek. "Whatever you have heard, whatever you fear, put it aside. We are bound by more than words and vows. Let’s see where this path takes us."

You recoiled from his touch, your anger bubbling to the surface. "I'd rather fuck a pig than you," you spat, your voice dripping with venom. The shock on his face quickly morphed into a cold, calculating expression.

"You need to learn your place," Marcus hissed, his grip tightening on your arm. "You should consider yourself lucky to have me, especially with your reputation."

You glared at him, your temper flaring. "Lucky? Is that what you think this is? A blessing? I know what people say about you, Marcus. They call you ruthless, a monster. I'd rather die than be your plaything."

He leaned in closer, his breath hot against your ear. "You speak so boldly for someone in such a precarious position. But let me make something clear: you are mine now. And I will do whatever it takes to keep you in line."

Your heart pounded in your chest, a mixture of fear and defiance. "You can't control me. I'll never submit to you."

A slow, dangerous smile spread across his face. "Is that so? Tell me, my bride, are you truly a virgin, or have your wild antics already sullied you?"

The question caught you off guard, your cheeks burning with a mix of embarrassment and anger. "How dare you—"

"Answer me," he demanded, his eyes boring into yours. "Are you a virgin?"

You clenched your fists, refusing to be cowed. "Yes, I am," you snapped, your voice trembling with rage. "Not that it's any of your business."

He seemed taken aback for a moment, his eyes narrowing as he studied your face. "So, you are pure, despite everything. Interesting."

"You think you can just claim me like some prize?" you retorted, your voice rising. "I won't be your obedient little wife. I won't be another notch on your belt."

Marcus's expression hardened, his grip on your arm like iron. "You will be my wife, and you will learn to respect me. You don't know the first thing about power or survival. But you will."

"You don't scare me," you lied, your voice faltering slightly.

"Don't I?" he whispered, his lips dangerously close to yours. "You should be scared. But perhaps you're just too stubborn to realize it."

"Stubborn?" you scoffed. "Is that what you call it when someone refuses to bow to a tyrant?"

His eyes flashed with anger, and for a moment, you thought he might strike you. But instead, he did something even more unexpected. He leaned in and kissed you, his lips crashing against yours with a fierce, passionate intensity.

You froze, your mind racing as his kiss deepened. There was a raw, undeniable heat between you, a clash of wills and desires. Your initial shock gave way to a whirlwind of emotions—anger, fear, curiosity, and something else you couldn't quite name.

As his hands moved to your waist, pulling you closer, you found yourself responding, your body betraying your mind. The kiss was a battle, each of you struggling for dominance, neither willing to yield.

When he finally pulled away, you were breathless, your heart racing. His eyes were dark and intense, a storm of emotions swirling within them. You stared back at him, defiance and confusion mingling in your gaze, unsure of what to say or do next.

"I'm sorry," Marcus said, his voice unexpectedly soft. "I shouldn't have forced myself on you like that."

His words, so out of character, only fueled your anger further. "Sorry?" you scoffed, pushing him back slightly. "You think a simple apology will make up for everything? For the way you've treated me, for the way you think you can just claim me?"

His jaw clenched, but he didn't back down. "I know I can't make up for it. But perhaps... perhaps we can find a way to understand each other."

You were silent for a moment, then your eyes narrowed. "Understand each other?" you echoed, your voice dripping with sarcasm. "Is that what this is about? Understanding?"

A dark, reckless impulse surged within you. You grabbed him by the front of his tunic, pulling him closer. "You think you can control me?" you whispered, your breath hot against his ear. "You think you can just take what you want?"

Before he could respond, you pressed your lips to his again, this time with even more intensity. The kiss was fierce, a clash of wills and desires. You could feel the tension between you, the thin line between hate and something far more dangerous.

Marcus responded in kind, his hands gripping your waist with bruising force. The room seemed to spin as you lost yourself in the raw heat of the moment, your anger and frustration boiling over into something wild and unrestrained.

You broke the kiss, your breathing ragged. "You want me?" you demanded, your voice a low, challenging whisper. "Then take me."

His eyes blazed with desire and a hint of confusion. "Are you sure?" he asked, his voice rough.

"Shut up," you snapped, pulling him closer. "No more talking. Just... take me."

With a growl, Marcus responded, his hands tearing at your clothes with a desperate urgency. You mirrored his actions, your fingers fumbling with the fastenings of his tunic. The fabric fell away, and you pressed your bodies together, the heat of his skin igniting a fire within you.

"You're infuriating," he muttered, his lips trailing down your neck.

"And you," you retorted, your hands exploring the hard planes of his chest, "are a tyrant."

He paused for a moment, his breath hot against your skin. "Then why are you doing this?"

"Because," you said, your voice trembling with a mix of anger and desire, "I hate you. And I need to feel something other than this... this helplessness."

He captured your lips again, his kiss searing and demanding. "I hate you too," he whispered against your mouth, his hands roaming your body. "But I can't resist you."

The world outside ceased to exist as you gave in to the storm between you. Clothes fell away, and you were left exposed, vulnerable yet defiant. You pushed him onto the bed, straddling him, your eyes locked in a battle of wills.

"You think you can control me?" you challenged, your voice breathless.

"I don't need to control you," Marcus replied, his hands gripping your hips. "I just need you."

Marcus brought his thumb to circle your clit, his rough touch sending jolts of pleasure through your body. You moaned slightly, your head falling back in bliss. His voice teased you, dripping with arrogance. "What, haven’t you touched yourself before?"

You gasped, grinding down against the hard length of his cock straddled between your legs. His smirk faltered at your audacity. "Of course I have," you retorted, your voice edged with defiance, a spark of rebellion lighting your eyes.

Marcus gripped your hips, lifting you off him with ease before moving to sit back against the headboard, his arms casually behind his head in a display of smug dominance. "You want the virgin to do all the work?" you taunted, your eyes narrowing in displeasure as you crawled closer.

His smirk returned, darker this time. "The virgin, huh? That's what I get to call you now?" He paused, watching you with an intensity that made your pulse quicken. "You're the one who's on me like a dog in heat."

You looked at him with a dark expression, sitting back on your thighs, your chest heaving with frustration and desire. With one hand, you began to caress his upper thigh, mimicking the movements you'd seen from the sex workers in your father's employ. Though inexperienced, you weren't ignorant; you'd read secret novels and asked questions of your father's mistresses. But nothing had prepared you for the raw reality of this moment.

"You know what to do?" he questioned a challenge in his eyes, his voice a low growl.

You didn't answer with words. Instead, you leaned forward, your tongue darting out to lick from the base of his cock to the tip, tasting the salty pre-cum on your tongue. The taste was oddly addictive. You wrapped your hand around his thick length, marveling at how it almost didn't fit in your grip. Steadying him, you licked the tip, eliciting a deep groan from him.

"Don't be shy," he patted your head condescendingly, his fingers tangling in your hair. Despite your nerves, you collected spit in your mouth and let it fall onto the tip of his cock, watching as he rubbed it around with a satisfied smirk.

You took the tip into your mouth, savoring the taste of his pre-cum, and groaned at the flavor. He moaned deeply as you sucked gently, guiding your head with his hand. You gagged slightly as you tried to take more of him in, your hand still gripping the base, your eyes watering with the effort.

"Spit on it," he commanded. You did as he asked, letting more saliva dribble onto his length. He patted your head again, a gesture both condescending and encouraging, and you resumed sucking, taking him deeper into your mouth. You gagged again, but he didn't let go, enjoying the sight of you struggling to accommodate his size.

"Come on," he urged, pulling you up to straddle his hips once more. You thought he was finally ready to take your virginity, the moment you'd both been building towards, but he surprised you. Gripping your hips with firm hands, he moved you so his face was between your thighs.

"What are you—" you began, but he cut you off, his lips attacking your clit with a fervor that stole your breath. He completed the arc with his tongue, taking your bud between his lips and sucking hard. You almost screamed, the pleasure overwhelming you. "Oh God," you moaned, your hands flying to his hair to steady yourself.

He paused for a moment, his dark eyes meeting yours with a predatory glint. "Marcus, baby… Marcus," you whimpered, your voice trembling with need and desperation.

He resumed his assault, his tongue and lips working in tandem to drive you wild. You began to grind against his mouth, the sensation too much to bear, yet not nearly enough. The tension built rapidly, your orgasm approaching with a force that took you by surprise.

"Marcus!" you cried out, your fingers gripping his hair tightly as your body tensed and then shattered into a million pieces. He held your hips firmly to his face, lapping up every drop of your release as you rode out your orgasm on his tongue.

You fell back onto the bed, spent and trembling, and he crawled over you, his face slick with your essence. "Well, well," he said, a wicked grin spreading across his features as he rubbed his cock against your still-sensitive pussy. "Are you all fucked out already?"

You managed a weak glare, but it melted into a moan as he pushed into you. The stretch was intense, making you claw at his shoulders for support. He kissed your neck, his lips and teeth leaving a trail of fire as he pulled out slowly before thrusting back in deeply. You moaned at the sensation, your body arching to meet his every movement.

"You hear that?" His gruff voice asked, pulling you back to the present as his cock dragged from your cunt, pushing back in slowly. The squelch of him pushing deep inside you was loud, the sound of your arousal undeniable. You threw your head back, moaning his name.

"Yeah, you do," he muttered, his breath hot against your neck. His teeth grazed your delicate skin, sending shivers down your spine. "Hear how wet you are?"

You opened your eyes slowly, your vision filled with the sight of him. His beautiful, sweat-covered face was close to yours, every scar and wrinkle telling a story, the grey in his beard adding to his rugged appeal. His eyes burned with an intensity that made your heart race.

A moan escaped your lips as his thrusts grew more desperate, more hungry. He caught your wrists together in one of his big hands, pressing them down into the mattress with a grip that left no room for escape. Your thighs were splayed wide, almost uncomfortably so, pressed down by the width of his hips. His cock was splitting you open, and you were so impossibly wet that you could hear it every time he pushed back into you, a lewd squelching sound that only seemed to spur him on.

He grinned wildly, his teeth flashing in the dim light. "You like that, don’t you?" he taunted, his voice dripping with smug satisfaction. "Only I can make you this wet, make you submit so completely."

You could only moan in response, your body arching beneath him, every nerve ending on fire. "Marcus," you whimpered, the intense pleasure making you delirious. Your mind was a haze of sensation, every thrust sending you spiraling further into a world where only he existed.

His grin softened slightly, a hint of something almost tender in his eyes as he looked down at you. "That's right," he murmured, his voice a low growl. His thrusts were deep and relentless, each one driving home his dominance. "You're mine now."

You wanted to hate him, to deny the truth of his words, but with your body quivering beneath his, you knew he was right. You were his. Every thrust, every touch, every whispered word claimed you, bound you to him in ways you had never imagined.

His pace quickened, his hips snapping against yours with a ferocity that left you breathless. The room was filled with the sounds of your combined moans, the slap of skin against skin, and the wet, obscene noises of your coupling. His free hand roamed over your body, caressing and squeezing, leaving trails of fire in its wake.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he muttered, his lips brushing against your ear. "I can't get enough of you."

Your response was a garbled moan, your head thrown back in ecstasy. His words, his touch, everything about him overwhelmed you. You felt yourself teetering on the edge, the coil of pleasure tightening in your belly, ready to snap.

He seemed to sense your impending release, his movements becoming even more deliberate, his thrusts hitting that perfect spot inside you over and over again. "Come for me," he demanded, his voice rough with his own need. "Let go. I want to feel you."

The command sent you over the edge. Your orgasm crashed over you with the force of a tidal wave, your body convulsing beneath him. You cried out his name, the sound echoing in the room, a testament to your surrender.

His weight pressed you into the mattress, his skin hot and slick against yours. You felt every throb of his heartbeat, every shudder of his breath. It was an intimacy you had never experienced before, raw and all-consuming.

As the waves of your shared climax ebbed, you lay there, wrapped in the warmth of his body. For a moment, the world outside ceased to exist. It was just the two of you, tangled together in the aftermath of passion.

As he lifted his head, his eyes met yours, filled with a complex mix of emotions. The intensity of his gaze made your heart flutter, but the softness in his expression was unexpected, almost tender.

"Well," he murmured, his voice low and taunting, "I guess the rumors were wrong. You're not a virgin after all." He paused, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "Well, not anymore."

You felt a flush of anger rise within you. "And what if I wasn't? What difference would it make to you?"

He smirked, the familiar arrogance returning. "Just proves you're not as innocent as you pretend to be."

You pushed against his chest, forcing him to roll onto his side. "You're insufferable," you snapped, your breath still coming in short gasps. "You think you know everything, but you don't."

He chuckled, a sound that sent shivers down your spine. "Maybe not everything. But I know enough."

You glared at him, the heat between you not entirely dissipated. "You don't know anything about me."

His hand moved to your cheek, thumb brushing over your flushed skin. "I know you're stronger than you think. And I know you feel something for me, whether you want to admit it or not."

You scoffed, turning your head away. "You're delusional."

"Am I?" He leaned in, his lips ghosting over your ear. "Or are you just afraid to admit it?"

Your body reacted before your mind could catch up, a shiver running down your spine. "Get over yourself," you muttered, trying to sound indifferent.

He laughed, a low, rumbling sound that made your insides twist. "I could say the same to you."

You pushed at him again, trying to create distance, but he caught your wrists, holding them against the mattress. "Let go," you demanded, struggling against his grip.

"Not until you admit it," he said, his voice soft but firm.

"Admit what?" you hissed, your anger flaring again.

"That you feel something for me," he said, his eyes boring into yours.

You glared at him, refusing to give in. "You're impossible."

He sighed, releasing your wrists and rolling onto his back. "Maybe I am. But so are you."

You lay there in silence for a moment, the tension between you thick and palpable. Despite everything, you couldn't deny the magnetic pull you felt towards him, the strange mix of hatred and desire that left you breathless and confused.

Finally, exhaustion began to creep in, your body heavy with the aftermath of your intense encounter. "This doesn't change anything," you said, your voice softer now, almost resigned.

"Maybe not," he agreed, his tone equally soft. "But it's a start."

You turned your head to look at him, finding his eyes already on you. "What do you want from me, Marcus?" you asked, the question hanging heavily in the air.

He reached out, his fingers brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. "I don't know," he admitted, his voice a whisper. "But I want to find out."

You closed your eyes, a sigh escaping your lips. "I'm too tired to argue with you."

He chuckled softly, the sound surprisingly comforting. "Then don't. Just sleep."

You turned onto your side, your back to him, trying to create some semblance of space. The room was silent, the only sound the soft rustle of sheets and the faint crackle of the dying fire in the hearth. You closed your eyes, willing sleep to come, but your mind was a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions.

Despite your best efforts to maintain distance, you couldn't ignore the warmth radiating from Marcus's body, the solid presence of him beside you. There was a strange sense of comfort in his nearness, an unexpected feeling of safety that contrasted sharply with the chaos of your emotions.

As you lay there, the exhaustion from the night's events slowly began to overtake you. Your muscles relaxed, and your breathing grew steady and slow. You felt the mattress shift slightly as Marcus moved closer, his arm draping over your waist in a possessive yet gentle gesture.

For a moment, you considered shrugging him off, but the weariness was too much. Instead, you let yourself sink into the feeling of his arm around you, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest against your back. It was oddly soothing, a stark reminder that despite the tumultuous start to your union, there was a potential for something more, something deeper.

"Goodnight," Marcus murmured softly, his breath warm against your ear.

You hesitated before responding, the word barely a whisper. "Goodnight."

PART 2

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oceandolores · 2 months ago

Text

ℜ𝔢𝔩𝔦𝔤𝔦𝔬𝔫 | chapter I

General Marcus Acacius x f!reader

"in her eyes shone the sweetness of melancholy."

summary: In the grandeur of ancient Rome, you are the secret daughter of Commodus, living a quiet life as a servant in the imperial palace. Everything changes when you meet General Marcus Acacius, Rome’s honorable and stoic leader.

Though devoted to duty and loyalty to the princess, Marcus is drawn to you in a way he cannot ignore. A forbidden passion ignites between you both, and an affair begins—one that threatens the very foundation of loyalty, power, and honor. As you fall deeper into your dangerous love for Marcus, each stolen moment becomes a fragile, dangerous secret.

warnings: 18+ only, 14 YEARS AFTER GLADIATOR 1, ANGST, Fluff, A LOT OF SMUT, Unprotected Sex, Exhibition Kink, Age-Gap, Ancient Rome, mentions of violence, Gladiators, Blood, Gore, Politics, Sexism, Forbidden Love, Loss of Virginity, mentions of death, Innocent and pure reader, Loss of virginity, Infidelity, more warnings will be added throughout the story

Chapter I

masterlist!

next | chapter II

The palace is alive with preparation, a beast of marble and gold that never rests. Its veins are the labyrinthine halls, pulsing with servants like you, carrying trays of delicacies, wreaths of flowers, and jugs of wine.

Its heart beats to the rhythm of whispered orders, clinking metal, and the distant echo of the marketplace beyond its gates. Tonight, the beast awakens for another feast.

You adjust the folds of your simple tunic, careful not to brush against the elaborate tapestries that line the walls. Each thread tells a story of conquest, glory, and power—legends you’ve only heard murmured by those old enough to remember.

You are not part of those tales, nor their lineage. You are a servant, a shadow cast by the towering figures who walk these halls.

The kitchen is a tempest. The air is thick with the scent of roasted meats, fresh bread, and sweet figs. Claudia, the head cook, barks orders, her voice slicing through the chaos like the edge of a Roman gladius.

You pass her with a nod, your arms laden with trays of fruit—gleaming apples, plump grapes, the kind of bounty the common people outside these walls could only dream of.

Livia catches your eye from across the room. Her presence is a steady anchor in the storm, her face worn but kind.

“Have you checked the wine?” she asks, her tone soft but urgent.

You nod. “It’s ready, Mother,” you reply, the word slipping out as naturally as breath.

She is not your mother—you know this much—but she is all you have.

The story of how you came to be here is one you’ve heard countless times: a baby abandoned at the servants' chamber door, cradled in a basket of woven reeds, with nothing to mark your origin save for a scrap of fine cloth that no one in your station would dare to own.

Livia found you there, swaddled in whispers of mystery, and against all odds, she chose to keep you.

Raised among the laboring hands of the palace, you were given no privilege beyond survival and no legacy but that of work.

The great marble halls and gilded frescoes became your entire world, a place as eternal and unmoving as the gods themselves—or so it seemed.

The servants’ quarters where you lived were nestled in the hidden bowels of the palace, far from the glittering feasts and marble statues.

You learned to scrub floors and pour wine long before you understood the language of wealth and power that filled these walls.

Your life had been carved out in the shadows, molded by the soft voices and calloused hands of those who raised you.

Today, like every other, begins in service to Rome's ever-churning hunger for spectacle.

The air hums with anticipation, thick with the scent of roasted meat and spiced wine, a stark contrast to the stench of poverty that lingers just beyond the palace gates.

“Are the platters for the atrium ready?” Livia’s voice cuts through your thoughts.

“They are,” you reply, glancing at the polished silver laden with grapes and apples, their skins shining like jewels under the torchlight.

“Good.” Livia’s sharp eyes soften, though her expression remains tense. “Take the fruit out yourself. And stay close to the kitchen. Today will bring trouble, I feel it.”

You nod, understanding the weight of her instincts. Years of serving in the palace have taught her to sense the storm before it strikes.

As you lift the platters, Claudia, calls over her daughter, Alexandra.

“Go with her,” Claudia orders, waving a ladle for emphasis.

Alexandra groans dramatically but obeys, rolling her eyes as she grabs one of the platters.

“She can’t let me rest for a moment,” she mutters, her tone more amused than annoyed.

You chuckle softly. Alexandra has always been like this—bold where you are cautious, quick to speak where you stay silent.

She is your only true companion here, older by four years and infinitely more daring.

As you and Alexandra arrange the fruits on a grand table in the atrium, she leans closer, her voice dropping conspiratorially. “The Princess will be here tonight.”

You nod absently, focused on ensuring the grapes cascade just so. “Of course, she will. She is the Princess after all.”

“No, I mean, I haven’t seen her in years,” Alexandra continues, ignoring your tone. “Not since I was a kid. That was ten years ago. You know she moved out of the palace after marrying the general.”

You don’t reply immediately, your hands steady as you arrange the fruit. Alexandra has always loved to gossip, but you prefer to keep your thoughts unspoken.

“Can you believe it’s been ten years, and she hasn’t had a child? Not one with him,” Alexandra muses.

“Maybe it’s their choice,” you say quietly. “It’s not our place to wonder.”

Alexandra scoffs lightly. “I’m just saying, after her son—what was his name? Lucius?—after he was taken and killed by her brother, Commodus…” She trails off, her voice tinged with something between pity and fascination.

You remember Lucius vaguely, a boy with a quiet demeanor and a sad smile.

You were too young then to understand the weight of his loss, but the servants whispered of curses and tragedies surrounding the imperial family.

“It’s not good to talk about the great emperors like that,” you murmur, hoping to steer the conversation elsewhere.

Before Alexandra can reply, the sound of heavy boots echoes through the atrium.

The guards step forward, their polished armor glinting in the firelight. “Make way for their majesties,” one announces, his voice carrying over the growing murmur of the guests.

You and Alexandra immediately bow your heads, the platters forgotten as the twin emperors enter the room.

Emperor Geta and Emperor Caracalla are a study in contrasts.

Geta, an imposing figure, commands the space with a cold and calculating gaze. His every step seems deliberate, as if the weight of the empire rests on his shoulders alone.

Caracalla, by contrast, walks with an erratic energy, his pet monkey perched on his shoulder. Dondus, the creature’s name, chatters and hisses, a mirror of its master’s unpredictable moods.

You feel the weight of their gazes as they sweep the room. Geta’s lips curl into a smile—or is it a smirk?—as his eyes linger on Alexandra.

There have been whispers, rumors of an affair, though Alexandra denies them with a laugh.

Caracalla’s gaze lands on you, and for a moment, his expression softens. Unlike his brother, he has always been strange but oddly kind to you.

When you were a child, he would find you in the halls, offering you small trinkets or asking you to keep him company.

“Your Majesties,” Alexandra says again, her voice like honeyed wine, sweet but strong.

She curtsies with practiced ease, her eyes cast downward, yet her boldness hangs in the air, unspoken but palpable.

You follow her lead, bowing deeply, but your heart pounds in your chest like the war drums of a distant legion. In the presence of the emperors, the room feels smaller, the air heavier.

To serve Rome, you think, is to breathe in the will of its rulers, no matter how suffocating.

Geta's gaze lingers on Alexandra, traveling from her head to her feet, as though she were a statue he might commission or a possession he already owns.

His smirk deepens, the corner of his mouth curving with an indulgence that unsettles you.

“Alexandra,” he drawls, his voice smooth as polished bronze. “Why do I find the table half-dressed? Are my guests to dine on the promise of fruit alone?”

You glance at the platters, perfectly arranged but not yet fully adorned with the remaining dishes. Your pulse quickens; you know the punishment for displeasing the emperors can be swift, unpredictable.

But Alexandra, bold as always, doesn’t flinch.

“Forgive us, Your Majesty,” she says, her tone measured yet edged with defiance. “The final trays are being brought out as we speak. The delay was unforeseen.”

Geta arches a brow, his smirk turning sharper, more dangerous. “Unforeseen,” he repeats, as though savoring the word.

“I wonder, Alexandra, if you’ve grown too accustomed to... distractions.”

You know the meaning behind his words. Everyone does.

The whispered rumors of their affair swirl through the palace like incense smoke, clinging to every corner.

Her mother Claudia knows, though she turns a blind eye, perhaps thinking it wiser not to provoke the wrath of an emperor.

Beside him, Caracalla shifts, uninterested in the exchange. His pet monkey, Dondus, chitters softly on his shoulder, its small, beady eyes scanning the room.

Caracalla’s gaze falls on you briefly, but it is not unkind. He has always been more erratic than cruel with you, there is a peculiar understanding in his glances—a shared knowledge of solitude.

“Forgive us, Your Majesty,” you say suddenly, your voice trembling like a bird caught in a net. The words tumble out before you can stop them, and the weight of the room shifts.

Geta’s eyes snap to you, sharp as a blade. For a moment, you wonder if you’ve made a grave mistake.

But then he laughs—a low, indulgent sound that sends shivers down your spine.

“Ah,” he says, leaning slightly toward you. “The little dove finds her voice. How curious.”

You stiffen under his gaze, your knees threatening to buckle. It feels as though he is peeling back your very skin, seeking something hidden beneath.

“You’re the youngest servant here, aren’t you?” Geta muses, his tone light but with an edge that cuts.

“A curious creature, so quiet and unassuming. And yet…” He trails off, his eyes narrowing, as if piecing together a puzzle.

The weight of unspoken rumors presses against your chest.

The whispers about your lineage, the murmurs that you are more than a servant—that you are the illegitimate daughter of Commodus himself, a shadow of Rome’s bloody past.

You’ve heard them before, though never directly. Livia, your steadfast mother in all but blood, dismisses them as lies, the gossip of bored tongues.

But in moments like this, when Geta’s piercing gaze locks onto yours, it feels as though the marble walls around you whisper secrets only they can hold.

Secrets of your origin, of what blood may or may not flow through your veins, encased in the silent austerity of Rome’s cold embrace. You feel the weight of it, a shroud both invisible and suffocating.

Geta doesn’t believe the rumors entirely, but he cannot ignore them either. To him, you are a thorn he cannot pluck without proof.

If the whispers are true, if you are indeed the hidden scion of Commodus and the only living grandchild of Marcus Aurelius, you would be a danger to his rule.

Rome, after all, has loved its Aurelius lineage fiercely.

The plebeians would rally to your name like vines twisting toward sunlight.

Still, no woman has ever ruled Rome.

The Senate, the soldiers, and the gods themselves would balk at such a notion. But Geta knows that power is not always rooted in precedent—it is rooted in the hearts of the people.

And the people would love a descendant of Marcus Aurelius far more than they could ever love him.

“You wear the palace well,” Geta says finally, his tone dripping with mockery. “A little too well, perhaps.”

You feel the heat rise to your cheeks but keep your gaze respectfully lowered. His words are like serpents coiling around you, their venom lying just beneath the surface.

Caracalla hums softly, breaking the tension. He strokes Dondus, the little monkey perched on his shoulder, as though soothing himself rather than the animal.

“Leave her, brother,” he mutters, his tone flat but carrying weight. “You scare the child.”

Geta casts his twin a glance, his smirk briefly faltering. With that, he straightens, clapping his hands once in finality. “Finish the table,” he commands, the sharpness of his tone slicing through the room.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” you and Alexandra reply in unison, bowing deeply as the emperors turn and walk away.

Their robes ripple like molten gold, catching the light as though the gods themselves had woven the fabric.

The moment they are gone, you exhale shakily, the breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding slipping from your lips.

The grandeur of the palace, so often a thing of wonder, now feels oppressive—a prison of marble and ambition.

Alexandra nudges you gently, her smile faint but reassuring. “It’s fine,” she murmurs, though the tightness in her voice betrays her unease.

You nod and return to your work, the routine motions of arranging platters grounding you once more. But the unease lingers, like a storm cloud that refuses to dissipate.

Later, after the feast preparations are complete, you retreat to the servants’ quarters. The hallways grow quieter as the palace begins to prepare for the night’s debauchery.

Your mother, Livia, finds you there, her expression tight with concern.

“Are you all right?” You nod quickly, not wanting to worry her further.

Livia’s sharp eyes search yours for a moment before she exhales heavily. “Stay away from them tonight,” she warns. “There will be soldiers, senators, politicians—men who think they own the world. And women and men from the brothels to entertain them. It will not be a place for a child like you.”

“I understand,” you say softly, though the thought of the gathering makes your skin prickle.

"Go to your chamber and stay there.” You nod, obedient as always, and Livia cups your face briefly before bustling away.

But as you walk toward your chamber, the stillness of the afternoon draws you elsewhere.

***

The sun bathes the palace gardens in a golden light, soft and warm, like an embrace from the gods themselves.

The sky is a flawless stretch of azure, and the air carries the faintest scent of blooming jasmine.

Unable to resist, you veer toward the gardens, seeking solace in their quiet beauty.

You make your way to the small pond at the edge of the grounds, where the world feels simpler, untouched by the weight of marble columns and imperial decrees.

This is your sanctuary, a place you’ve tended with your own hands.

The hedges are trimmed neatly, the flowers arranged in bursts of vibrant color—crimson roses, golden marigolds, and pale violets that seem to glow in the sunlight.

The pond reflects the sky like polished glass, its surface rippling gently in the breeze.

You settle onto the cool stone bench nearby, pulling out a small parchment and charcoal.

Writing has always been your escape, a way to make sense of the labyrinth that is your mind.

The words flow from you like water from a spring, each line capturing fragments of your thoughts and fears.

To live in the shadow of gods is to forget the warmth of the sun.

You stare at the words you’ve written, sentences about Rome and its people, the empire’s endless hunger that devours the poor while the rulers gorge themselves on the spoils.

It isn’t rebellion that drives you—at least, not yet—but a quiet, gnawing sense of wrongness.

You have lived your entire life within the confines of this palace, its gilded walls both a sanctuary and a prison.

Outside, beyond the Forum and its grand marble temples, the streets of Rome teem with despair. You’ve seen it, fleeting glimpses on the rare occasions you ventured beyond the palace gates.

Children with hollow eyes and grime-streaked faces.

Men broken by war or taxation, their shoulders bowed under invisible yokes.

Women clutching bundles of rags that you realized, with a sick lurch, were infants too still to be alive.

These thoughts weigh heavily on you as you sit by the pond, the garden’s beauty unable to shield you from the world’s harsh truths.

You lower your quill, pressing trembling fingers to your lips, when the sound of approaching footsteps pulls you sharply from your thoughts.

You stiffen, the air in your lungs turning to stone. It isn’t one of the servants; their steps are lighter, quicker.

This tread is deliberate, measured, carrying a weight of authority. When you glance up, your breath catches.

The man before you is not adorned with the opulence of the Senate nor the ostentatious silk of the emperors.

You know who he is. How could you not?

General Marcus Acacius.

Rome’s shield and sword, the hero of distant campaigns whose name is whispered with both reverence and fear.

You have never seen him in the flesh, for he seldom resides in the palace, choosing instead to live with Princess Lucilla far from its labyrinth of intrigue.

But his likeness is everywhere: etched in marble statues, painted in frescoes, immortalized as Rome’s protector.

Yet, here he stands, and for a fleeting moment, you wonder if the gods themselves have sent him.

The crimson cloak draped over his broad shoulders glints faintly in the golden light, its hem embroidered with intricate patterns that seem to tell the story of the empire’s conquests.

His tunic, simple yet stately, is cinched with a polished belt, a gleaming buckle bearing the proud insignia of the wolf of Rome.

Unlike the ornamental decadence of the Senate or the twin emperors, his attire speaks of purpose and practicality—beauty tempered by utility.

And his face—by Jupiter, his beautiful face.

It is a map of victories and sacrifices, weathered yet noble. The lines carved by years of sun and battle only enhance the sharpness of his features, as if the gods had personally molded him for their own designs.

His hair, dark and streaked with silver like the gleam of moonlight on a blade, curls faintly at his temples.

His beard, neatly trimmed, frames a mouth set in the hard line of a man who has spoken a thousand commands and swallowed a thousand regrets.

But it is his eyes that strike you most: deep, piercing, soulful-brown eyes.

They are the eyes of a man who has seen the best and worst of humanity and bears the weight of both.

Your breath catches as his gaze sweeps over you, taking in the sight of a young servant clutching a parchment like a shield.

He regards you with a sharp, assessing gaze, his eyes like iron tempered in fire—unyielding yet reflective.

His presence is commanding, a gravity that draws everything into its orbit. You are struck by how different he is from the emperors.

Where Geta and Caracalla exude indulgence and cruelty, Acacius carries himself with the disciplined grace of a man who has known the weight of true responsibility.

“Not many choose the gardens for their thoughts,” he says, his voice deep, steady, and tinged with curiosity.

It is a soldier’s voice, devoid of the honeyed pretense of courtiers.

You scramble to your feet, clutching your parchment to your chest. “General,” you manage, your voice trembling despite your best efforts.

He raises a hand, the gesture more commanding than any shout. “At ease,” he says, a faint flicker of something—amusement, perhaps—crossing his face. “You are Livia's daughter?"

His question hangs in the air like the distant clang of a bell. You nodded, your name feels small in your mouth when you finally say it, barely audible against the rustling of the garden’s leaves.

Acacius nods, as though filing the information away. His eyes flick to the parchment in your hands. “A poet?”

You hesitate, “I... I write, sometimes. Thoughts.”

He steps closer, his presence overwhelming yet strangely grounding. He does not reach for the parchment, but his gaze lingers on it as though he could read its contents by sheer will alone.

“Thoughts on Rome, perhaps?” he asks.

His tone is even, but there is an edge to it, a subtle weight that suggests he already knows the answer.

Your throat tightens. To speak of the empire’s flaws to a general of its armies feels like standing on the edge of a blade.

Yet something in his bearing—a quiet patience, a restrained curiosity—compels you to answer honestly.

“Yes,” you admit softly. “About Rome. And its people.”

Acacius’s expression shifts almost imperceptibly, a shadow crossing his face. He looks away, toward the pond, his gaze distant now, as if seeing not the still water but something far beyond it.

“The people,” he repeats, almost to himself. “The heart of Rome. And yet, the heart is always the first to be sacrificed.”

The words are spoken quietly, but they carry the weight of experience, of battles fought not just with swords but with conscience.

You watch him, your earlier fear now replaced by a cautious curiosity.

"Do you... believe that?" you venture, your voice barely above a whisper, the words trembling like a fledgling bird daring its first flight.

Marcus halts, his crimson cloak swaying like the banner of a legion stilled in the wind.

He turns to you, his eyes—sharp as a polished gladius—softening for the briefest moment, as if your question has reached a part of him long buried under layers of duty and steel.

“Belief,” he begins, his voice low and steady, carrying the weight of a man who has lived lifetimes in service to an empire, “is a luxury in the life of a soldier. I deal in action, not faith. But I have seen enough to know that Rome’s strength lies not in its emperors, but in its people. And we are failing them.”

The honesty in his words strikes you like the tolling of a great bronze bell, reverberating through the quiet garden and deep into your chest.

It is not what you expected from a man like him—a hero to some, a sword-arm to the empire—but here he stands, speaking not as a general but as a man, his voice laced with something unguarded. Regret, perhaps. Or hope—fragile and faint, but alive nonetheless.

“Do you believe in Rome, little one?” His question falls like a stone into still waters, and you startle, unprepared to have the conversation turned toward you.

“I—” Your words falter, and you look down at your hands, clutching the parchment that now feels like an accusation.

But then, something inside you stirs—something that refuses to shrink back beneath the weight of his gaze.

You lift your eyes to meet his, the courage in your chest kindled like a flame drawn from embers.

“I believe in what Rome could be,” you reply, your voice steadier now.

“I believe in the Rome that lives in the hearts of its people—the ones who work its fields, who build its roads, who kneel at its altars not out of fear, but out of love. That is the Rome worth fighting for. But the Rome I see now…” Your throat tightens, but you press on.

“...has forgotten its people. It worships marble statues and golden coins while the streets crumble and the people starve. How can an empire endure when its foundation is so neglected?”

Your words spill forth, unchecked and unmeasured, and it is only when you see the faintest flicker of something in his expression—respect, perhaps, or surprise—that you remember who stands before you.

The weight of your boldness sinks in like a gladiator realizing they’ve overstepped in the arena.

“Forgive me, General,” you murmur, lowering your gaze. “I forgot myself.”

But Marcus shakes his head, a wry smile playing at the edges of his mouth. “Do not apologize,” he says, his tone gentler now, though no less commanding.

“You are young, but your words carry the wisdom of one who has not yet been corrupted by power. Few speak with such clarity, and fewer still with such courage.”

His gaze lingers on you, searching, and you feel it like the sun breaking through storm clouds.

“You remind me,” he says, his voice quieter, almost reverent, “of someone. He believed, as you do, in the strength of Rome’s people. He would sit in gardens much like this one, speaking of justice and duty, and wonder aloud whether the empire could ever live up to its ideals.”

Your heart quickens, the weight of his words settling over you like the cloak of a goddess.

The way Marcus looks at you—as though he sees not the servant, but the soul beneath—makes you feel for a fleeting moment.

“I am no philosopher,” you say softly, your fingers tightening on the parchment. “But it is hard to remain silent when I see so much suffering.”

“A Roman citizen has every right to speak of their empire’s failings,” he says, stepping closer now.

“Do not mistake me for a politician, child. I am a soldier. My loyalty is to Rome—not to the men who rule it."

You nod, the words settling over you like a cloak woven of both gravity and reassurance.

The air between you feels charged, alive with the kind of understanding that is rarely spoken but deeply felt.

You watch him, his form cast in the golden hues of the setting sun, the crimson of his cloak vivid against the muted greens of the garden.

There is something about him that draws you—not merely his reputation, not the legends whispered in the palace halls of his valor and victories, but him.

The man behind the titles and statues.

You swallow, your heart a restless bird in your chest. You should not linger, not with him, not now.

And yet, you find yourself unable to walk away.

Words rise to your lips, hesitant at first, but then they spill forth, tentative and careful, like a child offering a wildflower to a god.

“Forgive me, my lord, but shouldn’t you be inside?” you say, your voice trembling under the weight of its boldness. “The palace is bustling with your celebration—wishing you fortune for your campaign, for Rome’s glory.”

He turns his gaze to you, the faintest flicker of amusement playing at the corners of his mouth. “Rome’s glory,” he repeats, as though tasting the phrase on his tongue, finding it bitter.

He lets out a soft chuckle, low and warm, a sound that feels oddly out of place amidst the solemn grandeur of the garden. “Let them feast. Let them toast. I’ve no appetite for gilded words tonight.”

You blink, surprised by his candor. He is not what you imagined—not the marble statue immortalized in the Forum or the hardened general whose name echoes in the chants of soldiers. He is… more human than that.

“I’m waiting for my wife,” he adds, his tone casual, though his eyes seem to linger on you as if measuring your reaction.

Princess Lucilla.

The name hangs in the air, heavy with the weight of legend. Rome’s Princess. The only daughter of Marcus Aurelius, the philosopher-emperor. You’ve never met her, though her shadow looms large over your life.

“She was delayed,” he continues, glancing toward the palace, though his stance is relaxed, unhurried.

Princess Lucilla, her legend precedes her, a name spoken with reverence, and sometimes, in hushed tones, with fear.

Your mother, Livia, has served her since she was but a girl.

Livia, who moves through the world with a quiet dignity, has always spoken of the princess with unwavering loyalty. “She carries Rome on her shoulders,” your mother would say, her voice tinged with both pride and sorrow. “The weight of a crown rests on her brow, even though it does not sit there.”

Your thoughts drift, but his voice pulls you back to the present.

“Your mother,” Marcus says, his tone shifting to something softer, more contemplative, “she’s a loyal servant to our household, isn’t she?”

You nod, feeling a strange warmth rise to your cheeks. “She is, my lord. My mother adores the princess. She always speaks highly of her.”

At this, Marcus smiles faintly. His expression, though guarded, carries a warmth that feels rare, as if he’s allowing himself a brief reprieve from his usual stoicism.

“Livia is wise, then. Lucilla is… more than most know. Rome sees her as Marcus Aurelius’ daughter, but to me—” He pauses, his voice lowering to something almost reverent.

“She is a woman of strength, far greater than any man I’ve known. Her loyalty to Rome and its people… it humbles me.”

For a fleeting moment, his mask of a hardened general slips, and you glimpse something deeper.

A man bound not just by duty but by love.

His words hang in the air, gilded with affection, and you feel a pang of longing, though for what, you cannot say.

“I’ve never met her,” you admit, your voice quieter now.

He turns to you, curiosity flickering in his gaze. “Lucilla?”

You nod, feeling suddenly self-conscious beneath his scrutiny. “I’ve only heard stories. My mother always told me about her strength, her grace. But we’ve never crossed paths.”

Marcus regards you for a long moment, as if seeing something in you he had not noticed before. “She would like you,” he says at last, his voice steady, though something lingers in his tone, a note of intrigue.

“Are you coming to the feast tonight?” he asks, the question catching you off guard.

You hesitate, glancing toward the palace where the distant hum of celebration filters through the evening air. “Servants are not permitted to attend such events, my lord,” you say, lowering your gaze. “I am only a servant after all,"

His brows furrow slightly, as if the answer displeases him. “Rome is built on the backs of those it calls servants. Do not diminish yourself.”

You blink, unsure of how to respond. There’s a weight in his words, one that feels both heavy and freeing.

Before he can say more, hurried footsteps echo through the garden. You turn, and there stands Alexandra, one of the palace attendants, her expression tight with worry.

“My lord,” she says, bowing her head quickly as her wide eyes catch sight of Marcus.

The respect is immediate, almost reflexive. General Acacius commands not just authority but admiration.

Men respect him, but women… they speak of him in hushed tones, a figure both distant and impossibly magnetic.

“Forgive me for interrupting,” Alexandra continues, her voice trembling slightly under the weight of his gaze. “Your mother is looking for you,"

Marcus looks at you, his expression softening. He steps aside, the movement graceful despite his formidable frame, as though making room for your escape.

"Tell Livia my apologies for keeping her daughter here," he says, his voice low yet deliberate, as though each word is a promise carved in stone.

His gaze lingers on you, longer than it should, and it feels as though he is reading something beyond the surface—a map of your heart, perhaps, etched in the lines of your face.

For a moment, the world narrows to just this: the garden bathed in the golden light of a setting sun, the faint murmur of the distant feast, and the weight of his eyes, heavy yet strangely gentle.

There is something about you, his expression seems to say—something unspoken but undeniable.

You feel it too, a spark that flickers to life beneath the layers of duty, expectation, and fear.

“I’ll see you at the feast tonight,” he says, the words more a statement than an invitation, leaving little room for protest.

There is a finality to his tone, yet also a quiet insistence that stirs something within you.

Before you can respond, he dips his head ever so slightly—a gesture of respect, or perhaps acknowledgment—before turning and striding away, his crimson cloak flowing like a banner in his wake.

You bow reflexively, watching him disappear into the shadowed corridors of the palace, his figure swallowed by the grandeur of Rome itself.

Yet even as he leaves, his presence lingers, an echo in the air, a weight in your chest.

As soon as the sound of his footsteps fades, Alexandra is at your side, her face alight with barely contained awe.

“Was that… the general?” she whispers, her voice tinged with something between disbelief and reverence.

“Yes,” you reply, though your own voice feels distant, as though it belongs to someone else. Your thoughts are still tethered to the garden, to the quiet intensity of his gaze.

“By the gods,” she breathes, clutching your arm as though you might disappear. “He’s… he’s even more handsome up close.”

You chuckle softly, shaking your head. “Careful, Ale,” you chide gently, though there’s no malice in your words.

“I’ve heard so much about him,” she continues, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

“About his loyalty to Maximus Decimus Meridius—the late general—and how he served under him during the great campaigns. They say he adored the princess even then. Some even whisper that his loyalty to Maximus was why he stayed so close to her after his death, marrying her to protect her.”

You glance at her, your brow furrowing slightly. “You know far too much for someone who spends their days in the laundry.”

She grins, unrepentant. “The laundry is where all the palace’s secrets come to dry.”

You shake your head, though her words gnaw at the edges of your mind.

You’ve heard the stories too, in bits and pieces from the older servants: tales of Lucilla’s love affair with Maximus, and Marcus’s steadfast devotion not only to his commander but to the empire itself.

A marriage born of loyalty, they say, not love. And yet, there’s something in the way Marcus spoke of Lucilla earlier that makes you wonder.

As Alexandra chatters on, her words a tide of gossip and speculation, your thoughts drift back to Marcus.

To the way he stood in the garden, his form framed by the soft glow of the setting sun. To the depth in his eyes, like wells carved by the gods themselves—deep enough to drown in, and yet you couldn’t look away.

You feel a strange restlessness in your chest, a stirring you can’t quite name. It isn’t admiration, nor fear, but something more complicated. Something heavier.

Marcus is unlike anyone you’ve ever known—unlike the indulgent senators with their honeyed words, unlike the cruel twin emperors whose laughter carries the sting of a whip.

He is a man of iron and fire, tempered by years of battle, yet beneath that hardened exterior lies something softer. Something… human.

And perhaps that’s what unsettles you most.

You’ve spent your life surrounded by women: your mother, Livia, with her quiet strength and unshakable loyalty; the other servants, who taught you to navigate the palace’s labyrinthine halls.

Men were distant figures, their power felt but never seen up close. Fathers, you’ve only heard about in stories—abstract concepts, not flesh and blood.

But Marcus is no abstraction.

He is real, tangible, a presence that feels larger than life yet undeniably mortal.

To see him, to feel him, is to glimpse a side of the world you’ve never known—a world shaped not by whispered orders or silent sacrifices, but by action, by conviction, by the weight of decisions made on the edge of a blade.

You shake your head, trying to banish the thoughts, but they cling to you like the scent of blooming jasmine in the garden. “It’s nothing,” you tell yourself, though your heart betrays you with its restless rhythm.

“Nothing at all,” you murmur, though even the words feel like a lie.

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ozarkthedog · 4 months ago

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not me thinking about dark!Marcus on his way to conquer a new city and then me 🤭

#marcus acacius #dark!marcus acacius #pedro pascal

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gomilktea-blog · 17 days ago

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Dark!Marcus Acacius and the Emperor Caracalla.

If Acacius had been a man who enjoyed war and was ambitious for power, he would have used Emperor Caracalla to become a proxy emperor.

The point in time after the death of Geta. <Caracalla enjoying murder after the death of Geta.<Caracalla is stuck in a room and in a worse state of mind than before.

#gladiator ii #gladiator 2 #marcus acacius #general marcus acacius #pedro pascal #emperor caracalla #fred hechinger #I think my Acacius likes to call himself Dad.#They're crazy about each other.#Dark!Marcus Acacius #pan art #my art #drawing #The conversation is crazy.

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mamustreads · 18 days ago

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THIS ONE! THIS ONE IS THE GUILTY ONE THAT NOW I GOT UP IN THE PEDRO PASCAL THIRSTY TRAINNNNN!!!! IT WAS YOUUUUU!!! WITH THIS MASTERPIECE THAT'S GOT ME GOING TO THE LATE FUNCION OF GLADIATOR II AT 22:15 PM AND DRAGGING MY MOM WITH MEEEEE!!

😂😂😂

The first fic I read of Marcus Acacius and got I'm drooling for Pedro Pascal, that beautiful man and my own countryman!

Thank you for opening my eyes with this delicious piece! can't wait to read more!

Lamb to the slaughter

Summary: Your husband, the Great General of the Roman Empire, wishes for you to perform your wife duties

Pairings: Dark! Marcus Acacius x Priness! Reader

Warnings: Non con, marital rape, arranged marriage, abusive and toxic dynamics, choking, riding, slight spanking, verbal abuse, forced breeding, breeding kink, I want to make this a series, reader is Geta and Caracalla's sister but there isn't any physical description, size kink, Acacius is just huge, reader is afab, legal age gap (Reader is in her 20s, Marcus is in her 40s)

"The people of Rome are hungry."

You bellowed at your brother, glaring at him amidst the climax of your fight. He wouldn't listen; Geta had been as stubborn as he was as a child. He stood before you, draped in fine silks and gold, infuriated that you had disturbed his feast to talk about these matters.

"The people of Rome wouldn't be hungry if we had enough land to import food from." He grunted at you. "Our main aim is to conquer these lands in order to have so, is that clear, my dear sister?"

You laughed at his excuses. "You greedy little bastard, you could have the entire world and still find something to blame for your poor governing."

He glared at you, fingers twisting madly as he stepped, slowly, towards you. The slap resonated through out the empty corridor, drowning the sounds of the party just at mere meters away. Before you could place your hand in your aching cheek, his ringed fingers covered your neck, quickly cutting the air.

"I believe I have granted you too many liberties, my dear sister." He whispered with trembling calmness. "I believe you forget that if you eat, it is because I feed you, if you breathe, it is because I allow you to, and if you speak...it is because I haven't cut off your tongue yet."

You attempted to remain stoic, but the lack of air brought tears to your eyes. He watched you, grinning slightly from your position, before he let go.

"I have decided your fate;" He smirked, decisively. "I am to find a man to marry you. That will tame you."

As you gasped for air, your eyes widened, fearing whichever man your brother may choose for you. And you were right to fear it.

Two days after the fight, you continued praying that your brother forgets the threat, as he most usually does; however, as General Marcus Acacius returned from Numidia, with ships filled with fresh slaves and land conquered, the gods have decided to frown upon you.

You watched as he was paraded into the main palace in dashing white robes, certainly a spectacle fit for a Hero. He reached the steps as people chanted his name, and went directly to talk with the Emperors, not sparing even a glance at you, sitting along with your brother's pet monkey, Dundus. You caught a whiff of his scent; eucalyptus, mint and leather.

You were busy observing your nails as a shadow casted itself upon you, and you glanced to see Geta and the General standing right in front of you. You had never seen Acacius so close, the battle scars smearing into his skin, the streaks of grey in his dark curls, and his piercing dark eyes as he observed you back.

"Do you think you can handle her, my General?" Caracalla questioned, perching on his shoulder. Your brows furrowed in confusion, before it all doomed on you.

"No!" you whispered, to no avail.

"If I can handle Barbarians from the other side of the sea, I think I can handle a spoiled princess." Acacius replied, his eyes wandered down the neckline of your dress, which he could see as he was towering before you. You couldn't do more than stare into those eyes as your brothers laughed, demonically.

After that evening, you had done everything in your power to postpone the wedding. Ditching tailoring appointments, sending back any flower arrangements proposed and avoiding Marcus Acacius at all costs. But you couldn't miss the games thrown in his honor.

His presence emanated an aura of masculinity and ferociousness as the Colosseum chanted his name; you smelled him before you saw him, eucalyptus, mint and leather. You were taken a back when he sat next to you, being too immersed in thought as Geta and Caracalla announced your matrimony.

You watched as a group of slaves was tossed into the arena; as they fought and as one of them was notoriously more skilled than the others; Hanno, he was called. You wished for a second that your brother had decided to marry you to one of them instead, perhaps they'd be more discreet about staring at you, unlike Acacius.

The wedding day came, a sunny morning with games planned to be celebrated in the afternoon as an honor. Acacius stood in the altar, clad in white like the day of his parade, and you couldn't help but wonder about how little you knew about him; not a single word had he crossed with you. His face was stern, not a single ghost of a smile on his face. The evening went by quickly, quicker than you expected, and soon enough you were in his Villa, the place were you would now reside.

You barely noticed the decor of his chambers, the paintings and sculptures, the soft wool cushions and the white and crimson sheets. He walked in confidently, as one walks into his room, and you stood, long white robes and golden embellishments, looking the most gorgeous you ever felt, but the fear was overwhelming.

What did he expect of you, certainly? you were well educated, but no one had ever explained you what actually happened in a wedding night. You had some idea, a naive concept, but as Acacius disrobed himself, any idea of what to do slipped your mind.

He was soon standing in all his naked glory, and your lips parted. His shoulders were broader than you have seen, a muscled stomach scarred with evidence of his battle experience, thick thighs, and a cock that slowly grew before your eyes.

"Why are you stilled clothed?" He inquired; the first words ever directed to you. As you stumbled with your words, he neared you dangerously. You felt the warmth emanate from his body as he unwrapped your dress from your body.

"Wait," you pleaded, tugging at the dress. "I have never been with a man."

He looked at you; and for the first time, he snickered.

"You think that will change anything?" He questioned, taking the silk from your hands; he ripped his way through the fabric until you were bare, only the gold on you. His hands, rough and calloused, palmed your stomach, smoothing the skin as if inspecting you. Tears welled up in your eyes.

His fingers smoothed over your nipples, making you squirm, he observed and then he pinched them, enticed as you let out a yelp. One hand trailed down your abdomen, pointer finger touching your skin until he reached your mound; tears now poured down your cheeks. His finger graced your slit, feeling sudden wetness you haven't anticipated. His scent, eucalyptus, mint and leather.

"Have you ever rode a horse?" He asked, intrigued. You nodded, brows furrowing in confusion. "It would be pretty much like that."

Before allowing you to respond, his hand wrapped around your forearm, pulling you behind him as he made your way to the bed. Any effort against it was futile, he would easily overpower you.

As he laid against the pillows, still gripping you, he nodded at his cock, now fully erect. You stared in awe, as even the veins on it looked huge; his tan skin melting into the red hot tip, weeping precum, standing proudly enough, you thought that if could tear you apart, reach your guts.

"Put it in." He demanded, because he couldn't just rape you like a barbarian, he had to force you to do it. You breathed, trying to recollect any previous knowledge as to how to do it. Impatiently, he grabbed a handful of your leg, forcing you to straddle him. His thighs were so wide, the stretch from your legs hurt.

You let out a breathe and grabbed it, careful of hurting him in fear of his anger. Angling his cock with your entrance, you attempted to push it in, only securing a searing pain. As more tears sprouted of your cheeks, Acacius spat on his hand and pushed yours away, pumping his cock with slick. His fingers then found your cunt, and his grip on your arm tightened. Wet with his saliva, he circled the spot that sent waves of pleasures towards your stomach. Wetness grew down there, and he slipped one of his thick fingers.

You gasped from the sudden intrusion, feeling as he pumped the digit, stretching you for him. Before you could feel pleasure building up, he had taken his hand and lined his cock. Your other hand fell to the middle of his chest, seeking support as he stretched you with his mushroom top. Every ridge and vein took its place inside of you, forcing your mouth agape. He fed your cunt slowly, inch by inch until you felt as full as you could possibly be. Your crying had seized as your body processed the new feeling, of being split open.

You felt him stop, nudging at a curve deep inside of you, and you felt a slight relief that it was over before his hands went to your hips, forcing you on the half his hand had preciously been wrapping around. Quick and rough, you doubled over, attempting to find a spot were it wouldn't press against you like it did. Acacius grunted in pleasure at how your walls fitted tightly around him.

"Was that so hard, foolish girl?"He barked, and you looked at him between the strands of your hair that had fallen away from your laurel wreath crown. His hand slapped your ass, leaving pain the size of his huge hand. "Move."

You physically couldn't; shaking your head, you tried to plead for him to stop, but all he did was seize your neck with his hand, pressing similarly to your brother months before. He gave you a warning look, eyes glossy from pleasure, and you attempted to move, guided by the grip on your hip.

"There you go,"He groaned. "Didn't think you could take it."

You attempted to keep the pace of his hand, staggering. Through your droopy eyes, you could see his face illuminated by the candle light; a scar across his cheek that didn't maim his handsome face, the grey in his scruff and his hands moved you to fuck him, his brown eyes were closed in pleasure as his cherry tainted lips parted, allowing grunts and moans to escape. You felt his desire as he increased his speed, his cock burning into you in every thrust as he commanded you with his hands. He seemed to be fighting his pleasure, his eyes rolling back every now and then as he attempted to keep his gaze on you.

"That's it," he guided, voice gruff. "You look much prettier like this."

Your gaze, that had been stuck to his chest in effort to advert his eyes, rose to look at him. Oh, he was entranced by the way your crown had knocked to the side due to his maneuvering, the way tears glistening in your blushed cheeks, and how small your hands looked pressed into his chest. And finally, how your cunt pulsed around him every time he slammed you down onto his hips along with the sweet whimpers you emitted.

His hands departed from the place they have stuck to, roaming to cup your ass for more support. You gasped as he effortlessly raised you off his cock, letting it slip out with a faint "pop". Without a word he tossed you to the side of the bed.

"Enough of my amusement," he groaned as your face slammed into the pillows. He was everywhere as he positioned you on all fours, immense chest stuck against you and hands arranging your limbs. His hand fell across your cheek, igniting fire in his touch. "I am going to fuck a heir into you, stay still."

He said it with such easiness in his command that you knew he was used to giving this type of orders.

"No no please," You attempted, thrashing around to persuade him, but his cock was already lined between your legs. "Please, please don't-"

The scruff of his chin scratched against your neck a he bottomed inside of you, quieting you definitively. You could feel him in your guts, balls sticking to your clitoris due to the wetness he had caused.

"What can make a foolish little girl like you to behave more than carrying a General's heir?"

He began his assault on your core, one hand grasping the hair on your nape as he fucked you as a animals do.

"Your brother told me-"He grunted between thrusts, allowing himself to go inside, all eight inches of him. "You doubted his reign."

As you wept into the pillows, moans escaping your mouth, against your honor. He halted, hand pressing against the back of your neck.

"Answer me." He pressed, pushing your face even deeper into the pillows. "Did you?"

"Y-yes." You choked out, cock so deep inside you couldn't string a coherent word.

"Good." He admitted, to your surprise, continuing his pace. "Your brother is a foolish man; proved it himself when he gave you to me."

Your knuckles wrapped around the bed sheets, attempting to suppress the waves of pleasure that erupted as he picked a strong pace. Your cunt became wetter and wetter as it clenched, unwillingly, around him.

"What can a war torn general do to a tiny princess like you?" He mused between his sighs and groans. "Foolish Emperor."

As he said the last part, he rested once again his chest to your back, both covered in sweat from the heat of both of your bodies. His arm, strong and rough, wrapped itself around your lower stomach, holding you in place as his lips sucked your neck. The closeness felt awry, even if you were newly weds.

"Once I have fucked a child into you, no one could deny it's place in the throne."

That took you by surprise, but your eyes were closing off from exhaustion and your lips were too busy whimpering from the hot fire he had ignited in your core.

"Oh," he chuckled against your salty skin, dipping his other hand in between your body, tracing a path until he found that spot. His pointer and middle pressed against it, recollecting moisture from your pussy before circling it slowly. You felt the pressure build, as if you urgently needed to go to the bathroom. "a gentlemen as myself needs to make a girl cum before painting her insides. How could I forget that?"

He teased, managing a rhythm with his hand and hips. You felt a knot building right where he was rubbing, spreading through your nerves to make your whole body become limp. You let him fuck you, body tired and sore and unable to pose any more resistance other than gentle whimpers, swallowed by his loud groans, the sound the bed made against the floor and the squelching of his cock drilling into you. You were too gone to process any more than the pleasure washing over your body; pain bloomed, but in the most exquisite way as you felt yourself cling around the thick thing drilling into you.

"There you go," He cooed, closing his eyes as he felt it too. "there, there..."

Your mouth suddenly opened agape, as a hoarse whine left your throat and you felt it. You came undone so easily, beneath him.

He attempted to last, at least a few minutes more, prolong his pleasure, but the way you looked over your shoulder at him, as if attempting to understand what just happened, drove him wild.

It took him three final thrusts to come; You could count them as each was more punishing and rough than the previous, despite being hammered into you quickly. With a final grunt, you felt his burning hot cum pour into your insides, and his huge body collapsed on top of yours. You waited patiently for him to pull out, but as a child smitten with his favorite toy, he rolled over and continued to hold you close, hot breathe fanning in your neck.

He panted, regaining his breathe, before he actually spoke to you, who was quietly laying in his bicep. You felt tears spring from your eyes again.

"You will birth me an heir to claim the throne after your brothers have fallen."

Marcus Acacius had spoken.

#misguidedmustreads #misguidedvip #pedro pascal #marcus acacius #dark!marcus acacius

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amarmoria · 24 days ago

Text

Love and Legion

Summary: 𝑳𝒖𝒄𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒂 𝑨𝒖𝒓𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒖𝒔 adopted you almost 14 years ago, after a catastrophic invasion of your country from the two tyrannic Twin Emperors of Rome, only just two years after sending her son away, she can't help but feel pity and guilt at a little child who was just a years younger than her son should've been right now and in an indisputable argument with some of the senators, she successfully stole you away from the hands of your unknown parents.

Lucilla meets her beloved husband and courageous General, 𝑴𝒂𝒓𝒄𝒖𝒔 𝑨𝒄𝒂𝒄𝒊𝒖𝒔 many years later, and marries him in hopes of finding protection and love she once seeked in another-- and she did of course. Only a few years later when tensions began brewing between you and your beloved 𝑺𝒕𝒆𝒑-𝑭𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓, a tension that should not and should've never existed in the first place.

And even more chaos prevails when 𝑯𝒂𝒏𝒏𝒐, a Gladiator brought by the war catches your mother's undivided attention. You don't know why she's so interested in some vicious gladiator until you confronted him to cure the growing dislike h̶a̶t̶r̶e̶d̶ you have towards him.

𝑨 𝑺𝒕𝒆𝒑-𝑭𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝑴𝒂𝒓𝒄𝒖𝒔 𝑨𝒄𝒂𝒄𝒊𝒖𝒔 𝒙 𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 𝒙 𝑳𝒖𝒄𝒊𝒖𝒔 '𝑯𝒂𝒏𝒏𝒐' 𝑽𝒆𝒓𝒖𝒔 𝑨𝒖𝒓𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒖𝒔 𝐹𝑖𝑐

➪ 𝘿𝙊𝙉'𝙏 𝘓𝘪𝘬𝘦, 𝘿𝙊𝙉'𝙏 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘗𝘰𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘺.

➪ 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘢𝘯𝘧𝘪𝘤 𝘪𝘴 𝙁𝙞𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙖𝙡, 𝙉𝙊𝙏 𝙍𝙚𝙖𝙡, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘥𝘦𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝙉𝙊𝙏 𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙖𝙜𝙚𝙙 𝘪𝘯 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦.

➪ 𝙉𝙊𝙉𝙀 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘦, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘧𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘎𝘭𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘳 1 𝘢𝘯𝘥 2.

➪ 𝘌𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘪𝘴 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝘮𝘺 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘶𝘢𝘨𝘦. 𝘍𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘳 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘴.

Series Masterlist

You don't know why you remember so little from before. You recall only Lucilla, your now adoptive mother, cradling you back to her tent, washing off the dirt and grime from you in her tub, you remember feeling like you forgot something, not like you can remember everything you did when you were 5, only a glimpse of your faceless 'parents'.

You remember a big argument from the outside, you heard voices yelling and squabbling, one which belonged to your mother while her maids tended to your food and clothes. You remember her looking so tired but pleased after an hour of arguing.

Then she proceeded to help you with your hair, twisting and braiding and vice versa as she hummed that beautiful song she sang to you every single night after that.

"You're an Aurelius now. My daughter. My Carissima"

Then just several years later, you were standing in mere spaces behind your mother, and her groom, General Marcus Aurelius, feared but not feared, the one who leads rome's army to victory every time.

You were wearing a dress, an exact copy of your mother's. Your attire mirrored almost every detail of hers, a reflection of your bond. While your mother's dress was woven from fine, unblemished white wool, and tied with the intricate Knot of Hercules, yours was simpler, its fabric softened and unadorned, lacking the symbolic complexity but retaining the elegance.

Your hair, though styled in the same six braids as your mother’s, was left without the ornate pins and embellishments that crowned the bride.

Instead of the full flammeum that veiled your mother, you wore a delicate orange scarf that draped lightly over your shoulders, the hue a faint echo of your mother’s fiery veil. A small garland of fresh flowers circled your head, a token of your innocence and role as a silent witness to the sacred union.

You held your breath during the whole ceremony, even as your mother said those words that would finally hammer the nail.

"Ubi tu Gaius, ego Gaia"

'Where you are Gaius, I am Gaia'

Despite your initial resistance over having a new father— step-father, you can't deny your mother her love, because one day you'll have to find one yourself, and marry him and move in with him and leave your mother alone. But now she has her spouse, her husband, you're not sure if you're relieved or worried.

The day after the occasion you moved into his mansion, and to your surprise he had you made a room of yourself, not that you had one at home, you didn't really know him, or talk to him, but he went out of his way to carve you a space in his home, maybe that earned him point to you.

You jumped out behind your mother's back and ran around the spacious chamber, almost forgetting they were there. You hastily got on the bed that looked almost too tall to be one and bounced and bounced, even your bed at home didn't make you bounce this high.

Out the corner of your eye you see Acacius approaching the foot of the bed, his arms crossed each other as his smile widens impossibly big, he didn't have that much grey hair then, but he looked very young and joyful, you see your mother just farther behind him at the doorframe admiring the both of you.

You knew it was then she wanted both of you to get along, and you love your mother so much you didn't want to disappoint her. Your initial impression of him was questionable, the first thing that came up your mind was that he was evil, and he'd lock you down the dungeon and torture you like those step-parent books you read, and one that caught your eye was the story of Rhodopis.

And just moments later you bounced to him and jumped, you snorted at the face he made when you landed on him, your hands coiled around his neck, going in for a hug.

"Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!" You heard him laugh above you as his arms circle around your back, trapping you in a hug.

You shivered involuntarily as his fingers ghost the skin of your back. Maybe that's where it started? Everything that went on then as the years came by, you didn't draw attention to it, just pondering and pondering what it was.

Then years later you're here, standing beside your mother as she held a small white cloth to her tear stained eyes, a lavender in her other hand occupying her nose to cancel out the foul smell of Rome, you sneezed a second time, does Rome even know how to bathe?

Your thoughts were stolen away when you heard Acacius's heavy boots approaching. He was wearing this dazzling bright red cape with intricate gold embroidery in the edges, it was clasped together with a gold plated pendant. His heavy black armor designed with Medusa's head at front with gold clicked expensively as he nears the two of you, you notice how gold was also lined on the edges of his armour a big sign that he is a general.

You wonder if this time they were going to a bigger country, seeing how many battalions Acacius had behind him, they were boarding the ship one by one and the others were carrying the boxes loaded with weapons.

He didn't wear his helm yet so his curls bounced as he halted in front of you. And even if your mother was already hugging him, it felt as though his eyes were still on you, you fiddled with your dress while looking down, opting to stare at the interesting floor than look into his rounded brown gaze.

You thought he'd leave then, after bidding your mother and you goodbye, but he paused as your mother seperated from him, busy wiping her tears and refilling her lavender, you hear him laugh, his chest rumbling in the armour, his knees slightly crouch to your view, but you don't budge as you avoid his eyes still.

He suddenly reached out, his rough, calloused fingers brushing against your jaw with surprising gentleness. Slowly, he lifted your chin, coaxing you to meet his gaze. The motion was subtle but deliberate, his touch firm yet tender as it guided your face upward.

You hesitated for a moment, your eyes flickering to his lips, before your gaze finally rose to meet his. The world around them seemed to fade as his eyes locked with yours, an unspoken tension thickening the air between you and him.

"A-acacius—"

"Won't you bid me goodbye, amor?" He whispered a breath, his voice soft and low as his head tilts to the side, almost like teasing you.

"I-I was. But I wanted mother to go first." You murmured, practically embarrassed he even noticed.

"I shall be away for a good while," He clears his throat, straightening his attire.

You nod, fiddling with your dress yet again. "How long?"

"I've no certain count, but I'll be back," he paused, smiling warmly. "And quick."

You return his smile, laughing gently. "Of course you are, you're the invinsible general,"

"Oh? Am i now?"

"Yes, you are, don't try to humble it." Your smile grows wider as he laughs. "I don't think I understand what you're saying, Amor."

You roll your eyes, folding your arms over your chest. "Don't fool me, old man"

"You're calling me old now?"

"Aren't you?"

He was about to retort a comeback when you mother strided to where you were.

"Safe travels, my love," she sighs. "We will pray for you,"

"I will, Caro" he leans down to take her hand, kissing the bones of her knuckles. And for a split second you see him look to your direction "I will."

𝑵𝒆𝒙𝒕

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romana-after-dark · 6 months ago

Text

Sacrificial Lamb

Darkish!Marcus Acacius x Virgin!fem!Reader

Masterlist

Co-written with the bestest @ariundercovers thank you so so so much for helping me with this and adding so much!!!!

Summary: Desperate to win a battle, Marcus Acacius sends a request for a maiden to sacrifice her life and her body for the good of your city.

Warnings: NOT COMPREHENSIVE! This is a DARK FIC, treat it as such. Illusions and talk of human sacrifice, virginity loss, knife play, blood play, (it's not really play they are going at it), body carving, public sex, ritualistic sex, PIV sex, dark content but everyone is having a funky good time.

Immersivity: Reader is fem, had long hair, is called "little lamb" but that's not a reference to her size. Reader refers to herself as roman.

I'm a history major but this is not meant to be historical lol anchient history is not my area of interest. I tried to include things I knew, like Roman values, but thats about it.

4.5k words

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

You’d sacrifice yourself on his altar again and again if he made you feel like this.

To feel his hands explore your body, rough skin with a gentle touch. To feel him kiss your lips, undressing you as dozens watched. To feel the prick of his knife defile you just as he did.

“Look at me. Look at me, only me. I am your god now.”

You were to be sacrificed for the greater good, for the gods to favor general Acacuis in this vital battle, a battle that would decide the fate of your city and all those in it. Should his armies fail, all those you held dear could be sold into to slavery, killed, or suffered much worse fates. So, when General Acacius put out a request, the highest calling a woman could offer outside of bearing sons, it surprised you that no one took it by the time word reached you outside the city.

General Acacuis made a call to all the virgins of your city, asking to make the ultimate sacrifice, and when you stood in front of him in all his beauty, you were not fearful. You were resolute in your decision.

Now, he leans against his throne, eyeing you in your robes as you remain knelt to the ground on both knees, your body bowed before him in his parlor.

“Do you understand what you are sacrificing, little lamb?”

You don’t look up. You don’t dare. “Yes, my lord. I am to sacrifice my life so that my city and my people are safe.”

You can hear the sound of robes russling. “Not only that, but your maidenhood. The ceremony will require me to deflower you on an altar. Publically.”

Swallowing hard, you force down your anxiety. “I… I did not know that, my lord.”

He walks towards you, the sound of his footsteps the only thing signaling you of his approach. Suddenly, his voice is right in front of you. You dare not open your eyes. “Does this change your decision?”

You hesitate, body shaking. You would say yes, because of course you would, you just needed to breathe. “I… I-”

Sudden but gentle, you feel his hands on your face, coaxing you to look up at him and you do as he urges. His features strike you, angular but soft. His nose was aquiline, strong as he was, a symbol of his power and the genes he would breed into whatever woman he lay. Still, there was a softness about him, full cheeks and eyes that pooled in brown. His arms were like oak trees, dark and strong; freckles smothered his face but were only noticeable from this close.

The General’s hands held your chin firm.

“Is this your decision, fair lady?” His eyebrows raise, frown lines in his face a telling sign of his age. “It is only yours to make, none other.”

Basking in his warmth, in the glow of his pained eyes, you nod. “Yes, my lord. It is my duty and my honor.”

He gives your face a little squeeze. “Good girl.” Releasing your head in favor of taking your hand, he speaks louder now, more formal. Gone is his warmth, once again your lord. “Rise.” He aids you to stand, hands moving to your arms, playing with the sleeves of your dressage. “Now, I must inspect you. Are you ready?”

You take a steadying breath, and when you release, you agree.

Slow and steady, the general pulls down the sleeves, relieving your breasts, stomach, and soon your unscathed womanhood. Your dress pools at your feet, your nakedness laid bare before your lord. General Acacius takes a step back, admiring you as he looks down from where he stands tall and proud, in his armor. He was practicing in the courtyard when you answered his call, and he had not changed, smelling such of masculinity that you craved him, carnally. Marcus Acacius paces around you, eyeing every inch you had to offer, viewing you like an animal at the market.

“Beautiful…” The general murmurs to himself before walking up behind you. The metal plating of his chest plate connects to your back, and a shiver of cold strikes your body, but when he wraps his arms around your person you are once again comforted. His body is so warm, fire and burning, burning, burning power so evident in his grasp. A sun god in your presence… Apollo in the flesh.

He caresses your body, his large right hand rising up to hold your breast, his left lowering to your untouched maidenhood. He tweaks your nipple with his fingers, tugging at it experimentally, and the other one peaks and stiffens in response. He groans in satisfaction and dips his head to mouth at your throat, lips and teeth scraping across your exposed skin. His fingers travel across your chest to the other side then, pinching and tugging at that nipple and you gasp at the way it sends a shock straight to your core.

But his other hand… that hand teases at your mound, fingers raking through the hair there. His hand parts your legs then, stepping wider to accommodate him. When his finger parts your folds, you hear a low chuckle. “Wet already, my maiden?” His fingertip trails up and down your crevices, catching at your untouched entrance once, then twice, and then hesitating at that bundle of nerves, swirling around it a few times. The way he plays with your folds makes you whimper, eyes closing as you rest your head back against his chest, worried that you might faint at the feeling of his hands all over you. You can feel him smile against your neck before he removes his fingers from you, but not before another long swipe through your soaking wet folds, collecting some of your slick that he’s managed to make pour out of you already. “You must wait for the ceremony, I fear… Still, a taste won’t hurt…”

The general presses his fingers to your mouth, and you’re unsure for a moment, one hand lifting to grasp his thick wrist, cuffed with metal links. “Open, little lamb,” he commands, and you obey. You can only ever obey. His fingers press into your mouth, against your tongue, and you close your lips around them. The taste is foreign to you, but not unpleasant, and you start to greedily suck on his fingers, licking the tangy sweet arousal from the rough pads of his fingers.

He pulls away from you all too soon, hands groping your abdomen and ass for a long moment before he groans in displeasure and leaves you, alone and naked and overwhelmingly heated with arousal.

You were moved into the palace immediately, as preparation for the ceremony would take a few days. You say a tearful goodbye to all your friends and family; they are who you are doing this for, to protect them.

Still, you’d be lying if you had said you hadn’t found a new motivation, something else that piqued your interest. You hadn’t forgotten the general’s touch, his smell, his face. Marcus Acacius was angelic, a figure sculpted by the gods themselves; you could swear you’d seen his likeness on a statue somewhere.

He watched as you bathed, handmaids scrubbing you down every day, washing your hair. Then, he sat there still as you stood, scanning over you as the maids doused you in perfumes and oils, clothing you in silk. You were to live your last days as royalty. Since entering his home, you were treated with nothing but utmost respect, feeding you the finest foods and wines, things you’d never been afforded in your simple lifestyle. You loved that he watched you naked, and you hoped you were pleasing to his eye.

He stood. “Leave us,” General Acacius ordered, his eyes directly on yours and never leaving as your handmaidens filed out. You’re standing in the tub still, your lord offering his hand for you to step out. You should be ashamed of your nakedness, you know it, but he was to deflower you in 2 days time, mark you with his sigil and that of Mars, piercing your heart with a knife in a prayer to Mars himself.

General Acacius scans your body, his palm on your hip sliding up to cup your breast. He liked to play with your flesh, you’ve noticed, intimate moments such as these where he held you close, held you fast, comforted you even though there was no future for you past these final days.

“My beautiful sacrifice…” He murmurs, pressing his forehead to yours as you stand with heavy breaths. “Such a waste, such a shame…”

“It’s not a shame, my lord…” You assure him, firm in your stance. “It is for the good of my city, my family.”

A quiet tsk, tsk, tsk falls off his lips. “So much honor in such a young thing.” His lips brush yours, and you gasp.

“General Aca-”

“Marcus.” His voice is gruff, stern, ordering you to comply with this infringement on formality. “I will be inside you, soon enough. You may use my given name.” He places a hand on your cheek, thumb against the plush of your lips.

You nod against him. “M-Marcus, should we-”

He pressed himself fully against you, kissing you tenderly. When he pulls away, his eyes have the blackness that often accompanies these hushed encounters. As Marcus deepens the kiss, he squeezes your face so that your mouth opens to him.

“Such a shame…” He repeats, a low rumbling from his throat, pulling at your lip gently between his teeth. “To waste such a beautiful, honorable young lady… how is it no one has taken you as their wife, hm?” Ever careful not to harm his sacrifice, Marcus wraps his large hand around your throat as he licks a stripe up the column of your neck. “That no one has ever taken you to bed, ravaged your sweet body, claimed your maidenhood as theirs… seems almost unbelievable.”

Gasping at the implied doubt, you pull your face away from him but his hand remains on your throat, looking him in the eyes with earnesty, begging to be believed. “M-my lord! I would not lie, I swear to you I am intact-”

He squeezes on your delicate neck, cutting off your words and just a little bit of your breathing, his eyes, usually dark chasms, are fiery and alight, not only demanding your submission but taking it. His clothed body presses against your naked form.

Still, his voice is comforting. “I believe you, sweet lamb. No one would lie in order to die by my hand in a ritual sacrifice. Relax, enjoy these final days.” Swift as lightning, Marcus’s lips were at your ear again. “And resist the urge to stuff your fingers in your cunt tonight. Let me be the one to break you, not the fantasy.” And with that, he left you standing there in the bathing room, your legs dripping with something other than water.

Your bare feet are cold on the marble floor. The rest of you is hot with anxiety.

Your last day on this earth, before you meet your painful end and join the souls of your lost loved ones in the otherworld. Paying your sacrifice meant no others would join you until their just time.

You were bathed, your hair brushed with expensive oils before it was woven in intricate braids at the top, falling freely at your shoulders. You were crowned in a laurel wreath, painted in gold. Loose white robes fell around you, a symbol of your purity, and you were draped in a purple sash. You were royalty, if only for today.

Were there drums? Or was the beating from you? The thud-thud, thud-thud of your heartbeat made it impossible to hear the people speaking to you, so you merely nodded along. Prayers were said by your handmaidens, all of them wailing to the Gods, crying out that this not be in vain. You’d grown attached in the week you’d been together, and for only a woman you’d wished you’d been brought to the general for a different purpose, brought to become Lady Acacius.

But your wishes were short lived.

You were raised to follow all things that made a good Roman. You were brave, honorable, respected authority, respected the household gods, loved your city and your family. All this came into play when you offered your body to the general. All this was in your heart as you walked through the opening door, leaving your attendants behind, and entering a room filled with only men.

Although the strange and distorted faces in the flames of candles scared you, your eyes were quickly pulled to him.

Him.

General Acacius stood in front of the altar, clothed in white and gold; he wore a matching gold laurel wreath to yours.

The lighting accentuated his sharp angles, the shadow cast by his nose on to his cheek made your breathing stutter, drawing ever closer to him. Step by shaking step, you approached your fate.

Strong hands steadied you. “It’s alright, little lamb.” He assured you, speaking low and deep for your ears only. “I’ll take care of everything. Have no fear.”

And you don’t. Your heart rate drops to a normal pace, your body temperature cooling, save for your frigid toes. Nothing to be done there. Marcus undoes your robes, letting them fall at your feet in waves of purple and white-turned-orange by the flickering flames. When it’s all said and done, you were to be burned in a funeral pyre, the same flames burning down your body for the good of your people. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.

Next, he lays you down on the altar. The cool slab of marble sends a run of chills over your skin, but Marcus stands between your spread legs, warm hands rubbing on your goosed flesh. He makes it feel better. You try not to think too hard about the fact you are bare naked for at least 2 dozen men, but it was okay. Marcus was there. A stranger walks up and takes your hands and at first you gasp simply in shock.

“Do not worry, he is acting as instructed.”

The man goes to tie your hands, and you passively protest.

“My lord, I need not be restrained, I promise-”

“It is not to keep you here, little lamb.” He assures you, still caressing and kneading the meat of your thighs. It was incredible how large he was, how broad; his shadow swallows your body. “I do not wish to have anyone here who needs to be restrained. This is to keep your body taut as I mark you.”

When you die, you are to go to the underworld as all shall. When you meet Pluto, you are to show him the marking on your stomach, and he would know you were sacrificed and inform Mars, whose sigil would be marked next to the house of Acacius. If Mars finds your sacrifice worthy, your virginity, your life, your beauty and youth, he will grant the General good favor.

But first, your maidenhood.

The room was dead silent as the General stripped down, unfastening the clasp at your shoulder. In wonderment, you watch as his body is revealed to you, even as the candles largely shine on his back. He was stunning. The peak of masculinity, of manhood, not only his body but his stature and presence so all encompassing that you can’t help but wonder if he was Juptier himself, come down from the heavens to take another maiden as his. You would gladly suffer Classisto and Io’s fates for once chance with him.

As your eyes travel down, you can still see some scars in the dim lighting; raised pieces of flesh that make you wish you could have tended to his injuries… but your thoughts are soon distracted. You’ve never seen a cock before, barely knew what it looked like, but as the General strokes himself approaching you, you were mesmerized. It was thick, thick enough you weren’t sure it could fit, but you’d never even tried to fit anything inside you, so how would you know? The tip was covered by a layer of skin that pulled back to reveal the head with every upstroke of Marcus’s hand… fat, blunt, ready to split you open. You’re well aware of the liquid leaking from you to the altar.

“Perfect offering, aren’t you?” He asks, but it's rhetorical, his eyes distracted as he reaches between your legs to play with that sensitive spot, that place your hand wandered to on cold, lonely nights, seeking comfort in your own touch. You weren’t completely clueless, you’d pleasured yourself plenty without breaking yourself open and you had done so minutes before beginning the ceremony. You wanted to be wet for him. Marcus’s eyes connect to yours as he touches your slicked up center; he knows what you did.

“I am ready, my lord.”

“It seems you are.”

His cock spreads the lips of your cunt with agonizing slowness, your voice not even trying to hide the moans of pain and pleasure to the crowd of men, many of whom you noticed were entering states of undress. Your body is already writhing, the slow pace driving you mad and you can already tell you’re moments away from begging for more, willing to be remembered as the young woman who died begging for cock. Just as you were about to burst, to scream at him to just do it, Marcus bends over you, pressing his forehead to yours. His eyes glow in the candlelight. One hand reaches up to where you are bound, interlacing with your fingers. “Hold on to me, little lamb.”

You do as you are told, as he thrusts into your body, breaking open your hymen and spilling the blood between your legs onto the altar, staining it with you forever. Your memory would lay here in his home the rest of his life, speaking to him even in prayer.

Marcus fucks you now, his fat cock dragging in and out of your channel, claiming you again, and again, and again, and for a moment you forget where you are. You forget you’re being watched. You forget you are to die until Marcus slows his movements, pulling out the freshly sharpened knife meant for your skin.

“My little lamb, my offering, my perfect sacrifice…” He kisses your lips, something not a part of the ritual, and makes a show of him claiming your face for his audience. Marcus will take care of you, and your name will go down in honor for the rest of time.

Stuffed full of him, Marcus never stops fucking you, never stops sliding himself in and out of your cunt, teasing you as he pulls away, placing the knife at your stomach. It wouldn’t be deep; there wouldn’t be time to heal so it didn’t need to be. There was no sense in hurting you more than need be, he had said to you.

Stretched out, your arms above your head and tied down with silks, your gasp in pain as the first mark is made, scraping over your skin. He begins with his sigil, smack dab in the middle of your stomach. As you glance down, noting the size of the mark he’s making, you wonder where Mars is intended to go, how there will even be space for the second mark he had to make. But those thoughts are tucked away as he begins to move his hips again, pounding himself deeply into you. Little trickles of red droplets bubble on your skin from the cuts, morphing your body into something that was his, and his alone.

When you look at him, his eyes nearly black as the day you first entered his court, you wondered if he had any intention of marking Mars’ sigil on you.

“I’m gonna take care of you, little lamb.”

WIth one last cut, he locks onto your eyes, gripping the knife still. You think this must be it, he will now take your life and you’ll die impaled on his cock. Instead, he takes the tip of the knife to his own stomach, careful and sure movements carving your first initial onto him. And then, his body joined yours again.

Nothing in this world felt better than blood on blood.

He cut loose your binds and dropped the knife, the clatter echoing onto the floor as he climbed onto the altar, fucking himself into you with the vigor of a general on the battlefield, like winning this, winning you was what truly mattered.

Suddenly you piece it all together and realize something. You realize that you weren’t going to die today.

Fearful of the repercussions, of the others' reactions when they figure out he wasn’t going to sacrifice you, your head turns to the dozens of men surrounding you. The candles were sparse and placed away from the altar, brighter near you, leaving you without much to work with in terms of vision. As your cunt begins to tighten in that all consuming feeling, your eyes trying to close in pleasure as you try to make out the figure in the room. Dancing shadows on the wall, figures combining and moving together; bent over and close and grunting, red and orange and yellow and black swirling together. You couldn’t tell if the sounds of skin on skin were from near or far anymore.

Marcus’s hand cups your face, turning you away from the debauchery surrounding you and back to meet his eyes.

“Look at me. Look at me, only me. I am your god now.” His eyes bore into yours, pounding your pussy so harshly you could hear the wetness as you are torn apart. Marcus grips your face harshly, but his other hand swirling your over sensitive clit is tender. “You only worship me now, my sweet offering. I am the only thing that matters to you.”

And he is.

General Marcus Acacius is your god, and you will worship knelt at his feet for as long as he shall have you.

His thrusts start to falter, and he picks your leg up, notching it in the crook of his elbow as he starts to push himself deeper, touching parts of your body you hadn’t known had any feeling at all. “Cum for me.” He demands, commanding your body to his whim the way he commands his armies. “Cum on my cock, little lamb.”

Your hands reach for his forearms, fingers gripping tightly into the strong, lean muscle you find there beneath your fingertips. “W-want-” You swallow hard, staving off that feeling in your belly so warm you no longer notice the cold on your back. “Want to be filled, my lord.”

The general cups your face, brushing his thumb over your lower lip. “You will, you will, but first,” The pinch on your cheek takes you by surprise. “You must cum for me.” He lets go, but does not relent in his demand. “Let me feel you, little lamb, let me feel you cum on a cock for the first time.”

It doesn’t take much more work on his part for him to build you up into a frenzy, your walls fluttering pathetically around him as you pant, heaving oxygen back into your body from every thrust that seems to knock it right out of you. His hand still holds tightly to your face, dipping his head down now to bite his teeth harshly into your lip, your jaw, then your neck. You whimper at the feeling, eyes rolling back in your head as the combination of rough and pain and the pleasure of his cock and his fingers working you, and you finally fall apart for him, your body spasming beneath his, back arching up into his movements.

“There it is, sweet one. Give it to me. Give it to your god.” His face turns positively wicked as he hikes your leg up a little higher, the hand on your face now moving down to your throat as he squeezes lightly, reminding you of exactly who you belong to, exactly who you’ve been promised to, urged to as the very sacrificial lamb. He only barely starts to cut off your breathing with his grip, but one of your hands reaches for his anyway, holding onto his wrist as he puts the added pressure against your throat.

Your body is still quaking beneath him as he works you right through that orgasm and sends you hurtling quickly toward another. Or, was it actually just the same one? There aren’t an thoughts left in your head to try and make sense of it, nothing left to try to figure out what’s going on in your body.

It doesn’t matter now, anyway. You were his. Only his. You were General Acacius’ to do as he pleased with, and if he preferred to kill you with cock, you’d die happily that way, too.

Your blathering and bumbling beneath him slows as he lets go of your throat, growling with a frantic need above you. His thrusts stutter, hips spearing into you erratically, and you have a sense that perhaps his pleasure might come soon, too.

“Please! Please, my lord, fill me. Fill me properly, I only want to please you-” Your words come out pathetic and whining, the strength of your orgasm short-circuiting your brain as you try to make sense of the situation, make sense of the pleasure and panic you feel.

“You’ll take my mark, and my cock, and my seed, little lamb. You’ll take everything I give you.” He groans lowly, a sound that bubbles up from deep in your chest, and you can feel the way he twitches inside of you. Then suddenly, he roars above you and there’s an explosion of warmth, a feeling that spreads throughout your belly, welling up into your chest and face, heating you from the inside out. You’re burning again, burning in white hot flames as he empties himself deep into your womb.

Everything pauses, pleasure soaking into your body, the sweat cooling on your skin as your God’s full weight crashes on you, protecting your body from the view of the onlookers finishing in and on each other around you.

“Leave.” He barks, his face tucked into your neck.

A beat of silence.

“My lord… the sacrifice…” A nameless, faceless man objects from the corners.

You begin to turn to him, but Marcus adjusts up and keeps you from looking. “They don’t deserve your gaze, little lamb.” Then, he sat up on his knees, cock still buried inside you. He looks to the crowd.

“I’VE HAD A VISION!” Marcus exclaims, shouting to the others. “Mars does not desire her to be sacrificed to him, but to be taken as my wife!” He looks down at you, brown eyes swimming with continued lust even as his cock softs in your channel. “Our children shall be blessed by him, great warriors and ladies… and we shall win our battle. Do you accept, little lamb?”

It wasn’t even a question for a moment.

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

Thank you thank you thank you for reading!!! I appriciate every like, reblog, and comment!!!!

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thehydraethereal · 6 days ago

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MASTERLIST

✶ 𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐔𝐒 / she/her / 19 / dark content fanatic / "your love carved me open, and I bled burgundy." ✶

CARNATIONS YOU HAD THOUGHT WERE ROSES...

✶ REQUESTS: opened.

⋆ important links: ✦ blog and writing rules / ✦ characters list /

...THAT'S US

©thehydraethereal 2025. My work might contain triggering elements. You are responsible for your media consumption. Do not translate or repost my work without my consent.

⋆ masterlist and blog inspired by @highonmarvel

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mamustreads · 18 days ago

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OH MY THIS WAS SUCH A ROLLERCOASTER!!!

I loved ittttt

Bloodline

Pairing: Dark!Marcus Acacius x Reader

Summary: The General needs an heir.

Warnings: 18+. NONCON. FORCED IMPREGNATION. Unprotected p-in-v. Arranged marriage. Throatfucking. Face-slapping. Breeding kink. Praise and degradation. Age gap. Dacryphilia. Fear play. Omitting one tag to avoid spoiling the ending—please read at your own risk.

Note: Silphium and pennyroyal (or ‘glechium’) were herbs commonly used for contraceptive purposes in ancient Rome.

Word count: 4.4k

You woke up knowing you were fucked.

In more ways than one: today brought your husband home from his latest campaign in Germania, and last week, your only batch of contraceptives was running low. Now, it was gone. You cursed the apothecary who had sworn she would procure your silphium drink before you were to see the General again, but presently, there was nothing more to be done. You had tracked your cycle and knew you were ovulating that week. You just hoped your husband would be too battle-weary and overwrought to seek a place in his bed, between your own legs, tonight.

‘Down’ came the order before the door to your chambers had even closed behind Marcus Acacius later that day.

Down meant he wanted you lying back.

Down meant your thighs had better be spread apart by the time he reached the bed. He wasn’t a patient man.

Down meant your meticulous menstrual contrivances had all been for nothing; you had been married to the General for almost a year, and in that time, you had promised yourself you would never bear him a child. While the only reason for your being forced to wed in the first place was to give him a son, you despised the idea of being the Emperor’s pawn. A vessel for the next awful bloodlusting boy to be born—you had been a present from your uncle Geta to Acacius, and ever since then, you had come to hate them both. You drank your herbal teas daily, without them ever knowing, and you feigned ignorance when, after months and months of the General’s best efforts, you never fell pregnant by him.

Today might very well be the day to change all that, if you had to judge by the look in your husband’s eyes, though.

The harsh, dark irises were alight as he approached you. Their gaze betrayed little more intrigue—or curiosity to know how you had been these last three weeks he was gone—than sheer lust. You could see it in his movements while he peeled his armor apart and drank your body in.

He shrugged the last scrap of metal and fabric away and climbed over you in bed. His motions were graceless, and his body was heavy. He smelled of dirt and blood.

“Wider,” he told you.

Wider your legs spread. He slipped between them, and with an affectionless, rough grip, he grabbed your wrist.

“Touch,” he commanded.

You obeyed that, too. Your fingers were guided to, and wrapped gingerly around, the thick, warm base you had come to know well since marrying Acacius. He pulsed proudly beneath your hand, and the grunt he gave said he was expecting this the whole long while he had been away. You stroked him slowly. Firmly. Contemplating.

“My love—” you started, low.

“Quiet.” Your husband’s voice swiftly supplanted yours.

It bid you to do as you were told, and open your mouth for nothing else but to pleasure the appendage you held.

You knew better than to speak in moments like these. But you also feared, for very good reason, that if you didn’t interject now, you may never get a chance to prevent this dreaded thing. It would only get harder.

He would only get harder.

“Husband,” you tried more warmly, stroking his cock as though you loved him, like weren’t repulsed by the thought of birthing his son. You forced your gaze up, too.

And no sooner had you done that when a hand landed across your face. Your cheek flamed; your skin bristled.

“My sweet wife insists on being heard, does she?” the General broke in, and you could tell it was through teeth, “Does it look like I’ve even begun to fuck you yet, girl?”

You shook your head that it didn’t. Your face stung, and you were about to look away when you felt the same hand that had delivered the last blow take your chin.

The General tilted it back up to his.

You felt him harden even more seeing tears start to well.

“Whatever it is, tell me after. I’ve waited too long for this.”

From his tone, you could tell that meant more than sex.

An heir.

He must have known you were withholding something.

Your hand moved quicker. More nervously. Worrying.

“Allow me to…to use my mouth, then. I-In other ways.” You hated even saying it. Your voice trembled as you did.

Silently, you braced yourself for another hit. Your wrist worked relentlessly, moving up and down the man’s shaft with little more intelligible thought in your head than the fear of being punished by him, when it stopped.

The General halted all movements of your hand. He eyed you once, uncaring, and then shook his head. The next thing you knew, you were being shoved off of the bed.

You never thought you would feel such relief sinking to your knees on the floor. You were good at this—could finish your husband off in under two minutes, easy—and for once, you were happy to feel the man’s fist in your hair. Holding you firm, guiding you fast, and being his normal gruff, callous self to force you onto his cock.

He filled your mouth quickly. Though it might not have meant much to a girl who had never seen, much less sucked, a dick in her life before becoming a wife, Marcus was big. He fit uncomfortably between your lips and stretched your jaw until it ached. At length, you let him move your face up and down, again and again, wetting his shaft with your slick, shiny, delicate strings of saliva. You almost felt grateful to be made to move so fast, so your tongue couldn’t get fully acquainted with his taste. You gagged lightly when he shoved you down to the base. Your eyes rolled back; his belly grazed your nose.

“You look better when I’m in you,” Marcus said coldly.

He dragged your head back, and you inhaled a breath. Your eyes rose to his, and he smiled—he saw tears again.

You blinked and let your expression fall limply, knowing how much he loved seeing you weak. You took the tip between the seam of your lips, and you kissed it once. Then you kissed it again. Your mind grew dizzy with the idea that you might actually get to swallow his load and be left alone the rest of the night if you only kept going.

You opened wider to do just that when next you heard:

“You’ll look better with my child inside you.”

As if galvanized by some sharp, unseen electric current, you wrapped your lips around his head. Fully. You tried enveloping the rest with your mouth, desperate to get your husband’s mind off of putting himself anywhere but at the back of your throat, and you hummed. The man above you gladly pushed himself further. You choked.

And just when you were about to force a breath through your nose, flatten your tongue and prepare to go deeper on the man you disliked most in this world, you felt him coax your gaze up to him. Tears were streaming down your cheeks at this point. You had to blink once or twice to even see him. When you had, you found him beaming.

For once, the General’s gaze was soft as he watched you.

You felt him tug your hair forward, and your lips went with it. Your throat resisted at first, but then it relented. In just a few moments, he was sliding down your throat.

You felt powerless. Your husband seemed to know.

“We’ve been unlucky, haven’t we?” he asked.

Surely, the question was meant to be rhetorical, for you couldn’t move your mouth without gagging on his cock.

Instead, you blinked. More tears flowed down your face.

“Nearly a year of being my wife, and still no child.” If you hadn’t known better, you might’ve taken him for contrite.

He sounded like he could’ve been forlorn, but the tone he used was too smooth. Slow. His voice was like molasses, almost. And then he moved his hips and sank in deeper. Your throat opened because it had no say in the matter.

You blinked harder, and more tears fell.

Please cum, please cum, please cum—

“I have it on good authority that a girl your age should be as fertile as anything. It shouldn’t take this long to take.”

—just finish, just finish, just finish where you are.

Marcus shifted again, and this time, you couldn’t control the spasm in your throat. You just coughed, and sputtered, and gagged down his length. You jerked your head pathetically under his hold, and just barely were you able to steal a gasp of air. The man loosened up.

And though his touch was less tight, his voice almost soft, and his eyes as bright as they had ever been, the words that followed after struck your senses like a fire.

Practically searing the insides of your skull when it came:

“You wouldn’t happen to know why that is, would you?”

You would’ve liked to swallow, but your esophagus was too chock-full of cock. Your lips were stretched, tongue flattened along his length, and your cheeks were now glistening with tears—from the strain of your husband’s intrusion, for one, and the fear of what he might already know, for another. You felt the head of his cock slide deeper down your wet and velvety channel before carving a path back up. Its ascent was slow. Teasing.

The fingers that were threaded through your hair held your head in place as he withdrew all the way to the tip.

“Answer me, wife.”

When you hesitated, the General slapped you again. His cock fell out of your mouth, and you coughed reflexively.

“I-I-I don’t…I don’t know what—”

“Think harder.”

A hit was shortly delivered to the other side of your face. You flinched, and winced, and right before you tried answering again, you felt your jaw forced open for something else. Rather than being made to let words fill the space, your husband’s cock was thrust in. It went far.

Your mouth was leaking with drool now. You couldn’t contain the spit. If anything, the General seemed to enjoy that as he slid himself further. Then he grunted.

“Why is it I’ve filled you with enough cum to paint the fucking Coliseum, and you still haven’t give me a son?”

You gagged. Your hands flew to his strong, bare thighs to grab the flesh out of habit, and once again, he withdrew.

“Why?!”

“I don’t know!”

Of course you did.

Still, you shook your head and kept your gaze plastered on his, begging for some shred of lenience. If he’d had any within him, you reckoned you weren’t seeing it that day. Before you could stop him, the General forced his way back into your mouth, and shortly down your throat.

“I think you’re a lying—” He jerked his hips once, to stab the very back of that place, “—pathetic fucking whore.”

You tried to whine in protest, but the sound was shortly muffled by his cockhead gliding back and forth in that wet, fleshy passage. Its path was suffocating. Your eyes almost rolled back from how fucking awful he tasted.

Please, please, your nails scratched at his legs like some kind of wordless entreaty. Your gaze was glossy and wet.

You could scarcely muster the strength to meet his own, but when you did, you found your husband smiling back.

He slid out of your mouth, and you could breathe again.

“We’ll try once more,” he said, pulling you up to your feet by your armpits, like he might treat a toy he didn’t like. When you were standing upright between his legs, you felt a shudder pass through your frame, and you tried to hide it. He leaned in: “Why haven’t you given me a son?”

“My body must not be r-ready.”

Wrong answer, apparently.

He slapped you again.

By now, your face was blooming with pain. Your skin stung, and your eyes burned, and you could still feel a trace of his precum trickling down your throat, and you hated him so much. But you had to be stoic. Insensitive.

Inventive.

“Silphium,” you stuttered out, before swallowing the awful tang you sensed and recollecting yourself, barely, “Pennyroyal, too. I hear there are…concoctions that help to make the womb more…more…hospitable, I believe.”

You were lying through your fucking teeth. Knowing your husband was far too dense and war-crazed to have ever consulted an apothecary in his life, and hoping he’d be stupid enough to accept whatever it was you said. When it came to things concerning your health, he rarely cared.

You swallowed hard and for once, felt a little more stable.

Then you were shoved onto the bed again, and any semblance of composure was sucked from your bones. You fell pathetically against the plush, satin covers of maroon and gold and were prone for no more than two seconds before the General started tearing your clothes.

“We’ll see,” he said simply.

He flipped you onto your back, and you writhed without really meaning to. You were operating on pure instinct, feeling a man nearly three times your age moving his hands across your front and ripping fabric left and right. It wasn’t fair. You could hold your tongue if he hit you hard enough, but your muscles fared worse when it came to constraining their natural inclinations. You kicked your feet, you squealed, then you begged him—

“Please, stop! I’m not ready yet! I can’t— I can’t— STOP!”

This was just like your wedding night. Only worse, because you knew exactly what lay in store with harrowing clarity and certainty. The General grinned.

“Pennyroyal, huh?” he sneered, yanking your clothes away while you thrashed and tried to push his hands off, “Is that what my wife needs to be ‘ready’ to bear sons?”

“Yes!”

“Silphium?”

“Please, please.”

There were fresh tears brimming in your eyes when he peeled the last scrap of covering off of your body and shoved you back down. You were shaking, and he was smiling, and as much as you knew the man hated being defied, you reckoned he took pleasure from the chase. Seeing the moisture well up and spill, feeling you crawl back in bed, meet his greedy, calloused hands and beg him over and over again not to make you do it, not now.

You could hardly even see him through your tears, but you felt him. Sensed his lower half forcing its way between your legs and then his member coming to rest on your belly. You squirmed at the feeling of your spit still coating him, and now brushing against you. You sobbed.

“You can’t keep forcing yourself inside me—”

“I can.”

“Won’t make a baby stick if you just—”

“I will.”

You felt betrayed. All your life you’d been force-fed these sunny, sanguine ideals of what motherhood was going to be, and this was all it was? After cherishing that prized thing between your thighs—like virginity were some real gift to be given—for so long, this is who owned it now? The General hadn’t had so much as a fraction of the compassion or patience a wife needed to feel secure. He didn’t treasure you, or care for your pleasure, or do anything to soothe the ache of his repeated intrusions. You couldn’t begin to think what he’d be like as a father.

Presently, he smoothed your hair from your face; not to comfort you any, but to make sure that he could see your expression when he sank himself in. When he took again.

“We’ll have to seek the Emperor’s best,” he murmured.

Your husband gripped one of your knees, and at the same time, held himself. You felt his thick, leaking head trail from your navel to your pubic bone, down exactly where you wanted him least. You tried to protest, but his grasp on your leg only tightened. He pressed you down into the mattress and wiped his cock between your folds.

“This pennyroyal you mention…” Marcus went on.

For some reason, your legs tensed as he said it.

“Or silphium. Whatever it is. Can we get it?”

His tip teased your soft, swollen clit—a place he rarely cared to touch—and, against your will, your body started.

Some minuscule ripple of pleasure there. You swallowed.

“Yes. We can. Please, just—” You glanced down between your body and the General’s then, and the sight nearly sent your head spinning. He looked so big. And cruel. And dripping with precum across your puffy, wet skin.

He knew this act well. You knew this act well enough, but for some reason, you thought your actions aimed at forestalling the inevitable might succeed this time.

You reached for his wrist, and your eyes pleaded with his.

“Don’t do this again,” you whimpered, feeling pathetic.

The General only shook his head, and he held on tighter.

“As your husband, I’ll do this as often as I please. And you’ll learn to like it, if you just stop fighting,” he said.

He found your dripping entrance, like he always did.

“Just let me in. Let me feel her, honey, I deserve it.”

You shook your head, but he pushed on anyway. Your stomach clenched, your walls tensed, and, in spite of your body’s strongest attempts, your husband notched the first inch of himself inside. He let out a happy sigh.

“That’s it. That’s a good wife,” he told you contentedly.

His girth was too much. It was always too much. No matter how slow he went, or how much you tried to prepare yourself, it always hurt. You whimpered at that feeling and had to bite your bottom lip to keep the sound from slipping out. Marcus nodded and kissed your cheek

“Sweet girl. ‘S’all she needed, see? One little inch, or—”

His words were cut short. Then he thrust in all the way.

“—eight, maybe.”

You shrieked and met his palm. It clamped over your lips.

That first stroke was torture. Dragging back was even worse. Re-sheathing himself and making you listen to his wretched grunts and groans of pleasure was pure agony.

“Will the herbs help? Pussy feels plenty ready to me.”

He was mocking you now. Your whines were stifled under his hand and your walls were forced wider for his girth as he sawed back and forth, over and over, without mercy.

“Nod if you want it,” he panted, “Nod if you need that.”

You weren’t sure if he meant the herbs or him. Slowly, and knowing he’d hit you if you didn’t, you nodded.

The General grinned. He didn’t hesitate to speak again.

“Good. Now you can stop soliciting apothecaries behind my back and using these same herbs as contraceptives.”

Your stomach dropped. Your eyes widened, though you knew it was a stupid thing to do when the man’s gaze was practically scorching through your own. You froze.

Your husband wedged his cock even deeper, and you felt him in your cervix—unprotected from any medicine now.

Medicine that he knew about, too, apparently.

You had no choice but to whimper when he kept digging his strong hips into yours, repeatedly, battering that soft, sensitive, defenseless place with his dick like he owned it. You wanted to kick your legs but sensed it was useless. General Acacius would get what he wanted.

What he needed was a son. You could see it in his eyes.

“My stupid, silly wife,” the General chided you, now fucking in deeper than he’d done before. Taunting, “I hope our son gets my brain, or the poor boy’s fucked.”

You wanted to cry. You were still sobbing, but the tears had come with such force before that there didn’t seem to be enough moisture in your body to allow them now. Any wetness, it seemed, was inside your legs, allowing your husband to pound into you with complete abandon.

Skin slapped skin. The man’s breaths grew quicker, more frantic, while your own you wished would halt altogether. His hand moved from your mouth to take your chin in his palm; he looked proud as he drilled your soft, limp body.

“Finish. Please,” you whimpered, all fight extinguished.

You didn’t know what else to say. Your husband had caught you, somehow, and probably knew as well as you that your body would now be forced to accept whatever he gave it. When that warm, throbbing member between your legs had had its fill and the man had decided he’d humiliated you enough, he’d paint your insides white. He’d shoot thick, hot ropes of cum where you’d dreaded him most, and in all likelihood, that seed would take. If not today, then tonight, tomorrow or the next day—there was no clear end in sight until the General had secured the heir he so desperately wanted. What Geta promised.

And you would be a mother, whether you liked it or not.

Every subsequent thrust, grunt, and groan rang hollow to you then. It was like your mind was lost from your body, your brain an open wound, and what was left of you simply splayed on that bed. Unmoving. Unfeeling. Being fucked and filled up without a modicum of concern for your humanity. Or what remained, anyway.

When he was finished and he could feel your body stuffed with his greedy, sticky release, the General leaned down and planted a kiss on your forehead.

He seemed more confident than ever as he spoke.

“I can feel my legacy has already been cemented.”

As it turned out, a month was enough.

Within the year, you gave birth to a son.

This was no great shock to you—getting forcefucked every night for five weeks straight would’ve done the trick for any woman in your position, you supposed.

What surprised you most was how gentle the General became after learning you were pregnant with his child. Ever the paragon of paternal affection and husbandly devotion to you from that moment forward, you were convinced the man had been transformed overnight. He never spoke so much as an unkind word to you, or gave a glance that said anything less than that he was in love and elated to help you bring new life into this world. He never forced himself on you in bed. You could sleep again

One morning, you were cradling your baby in your arms. In just a few short weeks, you had already memorized every inch of his soft, sweet face. And you knew from the first you’d never love a single creature more on this earth

When your husband approached, you smiled—beaming.

“How is my son?” came the deep warble of his voice.

You drew the blanket back an inch with just your finger; beneath the soft cloth, the two of you could see that the infant was sleeping peacefully. He made a delicate sound, and you were half-certain you could hear the General’s heart splintering in two along with it. He dropped to his knees beside you, where he leaned in near and let his eyes say all the rest. They were cheery. Wet.

Sometimes, you, too, enjoyed seeing him cry.

You pet his wavy grey locks and gave them a tug.

“Is he exactly as you pictured? Your legacy?” You smiled.

Marcus blinked, letting two warm tears trickle down.

“Better than I could have dreamed him myself.”

That made your heart swell with a still larger ache. This was all your husband had ever wanted—wrapped up in your arms and swaddled with wool. Your son looked like him, too. You could see the General’s appreciation of this every time his eyes fell to the child, and every time his gaze drifted to you. There was admiration. Adoration.

Love, for once.

“Will he be a soldier like his father?” you asked next.

“A much braver one than I ever was.”

“Will he do Emperor Geta proud by this calling?”

Once more, your husband’s eyes flitted from the baby up to you. His look was soft as he reached out for your hand.

“There isn’t a doubt in my mind of that, my love.”

You squeezed his palm. You couldn’t help yourself.

“And will he carry the Acacius family name with pride?”

At that, the General’s hesitation was even shorter than the last. He swiftly confirmed that his son would, indeed, wear his name like a badge of honor. There wasn’t a shred of uncertainty on that front, he assured you.

His smile was so wide you couldn’t help but mirror it.

Even as you slid the knife from in between the folds of your son’s blanket, you were smiling at him all the while.

“And what if he doesn’t?” you asked quietly.

The General’s gaze fell to the blade next.

You thought he might die on the spot.

“What if he bears no name at all?”

The serrated edge now hovered over the baby’s throat. When Marcus jerked toward the thing, instinctively, you only lowered it more. Brought the silver closer to skin.

“Please— You— you can’t— can’t— can’t— please stop.”

He was fumbling for words. You didn’t blame him.

“Your precious legacy is a fragile thing, General.”

And with that, you drew the knife closer.

Your husband let out a strangled noise.

Right when he rose to knock the weapon out of your hand, you took it and flipped it back around to him.

Your first stab was swift. Into his chest.

“My child will never know your name.”

It was clear the injury stunned him.

When you plunged the knife in again, the man let out another sound—this time, a grunt of pain—and you wedged it deeper. You didn’t flinch when his face twisted

“My son will take my name.”

Frankly, with the trauma your blade had already inflicted on his chest, you didn’t expect the General to be able to say a word. Or resist. By the look of horror in his eyes, you could tell he was capable of listening, though.

Now, he would be forced to hear it all.

See his own life taken away from him.

And feel the blade thrust in when you punctured his front for the third and final time. Your eyes were shining now.

Still cradling your child, still holding his gaze, still smiling like this was the single greatest day you’d lived to see.

“Acacius, your bloodline dies with me.”

#misguidedmustreads #marcus acacius #dark!marcus acacius

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pedrorascal · 7 months ago

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i'm either gonna post it today at 2am or in a month i'm just about to start screenshotting

#turns out i'm not exactly reliable when it's about following up on my plans #also i'm not sure about the colourssss warm yellow? light blue? dark red? anything else???#gladiator 2 #marcus acacius #pedro pascal #rambling tag

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sinful-mind-joyful-thoughts · 6 months ago

Note

omg PLSSSS do a sequel to ‘under a false alter’ like PLSSS ANDDD i wanna know everything about them

how’s married life? how has she adjusted to marriage? what does he think about her? i need banter i need sexual tension I NEED EVERYTHING PLSSS oh and lots of smut THANK YOUU

ᴜɴᴅᴇʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴠɪʟʟᴀ ᴡᴀʟʟs

⤷ Credits: Pinterest

Summary: No matter how hard you try, you can't seem to escape your new husband, not that your father makes it any easier for you.

Warnings: DUB-CON (Forced/Arranged marriage) SMUT, grinding, unprotected pinv (wrap it before you tap it), Implied age gap, Scars, Voyeurism, Spitting, both give switch vibes, the reader has a little angsty past, biting, misogyny, almost drowning

A/n: I've never been so grateful for the amount of love this has received. I hope I do it justice with this part two. Lots of love and joy. ALSO, WE GET A MARCUS POV AT ONE POINT hehe

It had been three days since your "marriage" to Marcus, and the silence between you two had been a welcome respite. The tension in the air was thick, each of you occupying your own space, minding your own business. You hoped it would stay that way. Mornings were spent in relative peace, with Marcus at one end of the breakfast table and you at the other.

Taking a bite of a grape, you glared across the table where your father sat with his mistress, Aurelia. The sight of her playing with your father's hair made your stomach churn. The woman who had tormented you for so long was now lounging comfortably in your home, smugly flaunting her relationship with your father. They exchanged whispered words and glances filled with a shared history that excluded you. Aurelia's laughter echoed off the walls, a sound that grated against your nerves.

You noticed Marcus watching them too, his expression unreadable as he observed the easy familiarity between your father and his lover. As if sensing your gaze, Aurelia's eyes flicked towards you, a knowing smirk playing on her lips. She raised an eyebrow, a silent challenge in her gaze as if daring you to disrupt their blissful morning routine. It was a calculated move, a reminder that despite your marriage to Marcus, some things remained unchanged.

"My love, we should go to the villa," Aurelia cooed, her eyes darting towards you with a malicious glint. She was clearly enjoying your discomfort. You could practically taste the bile rising in your throat at the sight and sound of her.

Your father chuckled, his voice warm and affectionate. "Ah, my dear Aurelia, always full of wonderful ideas," he replied, his hand finding hers across the table. His gaze met yours briefly, a hint of apology in his eyes before returning his attention to Aurelia. "Perhaps we should make a day of it. Just the two of us."

Aurelia leaned in closer to him, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Or we could make it a family affair," she suggested with a sly smile, her gaze flickering towards Marcus and then back to you, her implication clear.

Marcus tensed beside you, his jaw clenching subtly as he watched the exchange. His eyes briefly met yours, a silent question lingering between you. You shrugged imperceptibly, unsure of what to make of Aurelia's suggestion.

"We'll see," Marcus finally interjected, his tone neutral but his gaze fixed on Aurelia. "It might be a good idea to get some fresh air."

Aurelia chuckled softly, her gaze lingering on Marcus for a moment longer than necessary before turning back to your father. "Yes, fresh air could do us all some good," she agreed, her smile widening as if she had won some small victory.

The comment landed heavily, striking you with a mix of embarrassment and anger. "Father, that is not—" you began to protest, but Marcus cut you off.

"Parents don't come on a honeymoon," Marcus interjected firmly. "We'll go alone. It's tradition."

Your father looked to protest, but Marcus continued, a subtle urgency in his tone. "It’s important for us to have time alone to... solidify our bond," he explained, casting a meaningful glance at your father. "Besides, it would give her a break from the current... dynamics here."

Your father's brows furrowed as he considered Marcus's words, his gaze shifting between you and Aurelia. It was clear he was torn, wanting to spend time with his lover but also recognizing the benefit of giving you some space away from Aurelia's influence.

"Very well," your father conceded, though his expression remained stern. "But remember, you must be back by fall. And I expect you to return with news of an heir."

The ultimatum hung heavily in the air, weighing down your heart. Visiting your mother was a rare privilege, one you couldn't afford to pass up. But the thought of being with Marcus, of possibly bearing his child, filled you with dread.

"You can't be serious," you whispered, turning to face your father. "You can't make me do this."

His expression was unwavering, a stern reminder of the power he held over you. "It's for your own good," he said simply. "And for the good of our family."

Marcus's gaze remained locked onto yours, a blend of authority and challenge. "It's settled, then," he declared firmly. "We'll leave in the morning."

You bristled, your skin tingling with a mixture of anger and an unwelcome flicker of desire. "This isn't over," you warned, your voice quivering with emotion. "I won't be your pawn."

A dark chuckle escaped Marcus, his eyes glinting with amusement. "I never thought you were," he replied coolly. "But we are bound together now. Whether you like it or not."

The next morning, you found yourself in a lavish carriage, the countryside rolling by in a blur of green and gold. Marcus sat opposite you, his gaze unwavering as he watched you. The silence between you was heavy, fraught with unspoken words and simmering tension.

"I hate you," you said suddenly, the words spilling out before you could stop them. "I hate everything about this."

He raised an eyebrow, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Do you?" he asked, his tone almost mocking. "Or do you hate that you can't control it?"

You glared at him, your fists clenching in your lap. "You think you're so clever," you muttered. "But you don't know me. You don't know anything about me."

"Maybe not," he conceded. "But I intend to find out."

You turned your gaze away from him, looking out the window as the scenery shifted. The villa was near the ocean, a place you knew well. It was where you had grown up, where you had spent countless days playing in the sand and swimming in the waves. The familiarity of the landscape brought a rush of memories, both comforting and bittersweet.

Despite the beauty of the place, the reality of your situation weighed heavily on you. The promise of seeing your mother again was the only thing that had convinced you to agree to this honeymoon, but the thought of returning pregnant filled you with dread. You knew your father’s ultimatum was a trap, a way to ensure your compliance and submission.

"I won't return pregnant," you said firmly, breaking the silence. "I'm only doing this to see my mother."

Marcus leaned forward, his eyes narrowing slightly. "You think you can control that?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous. "You think you can decide what happens between us?"

"I can try," you retorted, meeting his gaze with defiance. "I won't let you dictate my life."

He chuckled darkly, shaking his head. "You’re stubborn, I'll give you that. But you underestimate the power of our bond. We are married now, and that means something."

"Not to me," you said, your voice trembling with anger. "This marriage is just a prison, a way to control me."

"It doesn't have to be," he said, his tone softening slightly. "We could make it something more, something real."

You scoffed, turning back to the window. "I doubt that," you muttered, your heart heavy with resentment and fear.

As the carriage continued its journey, you lost yourself in thoughts of the past and the uncertain future. The villa by the ocean, once a place of joy and freedom, now seemed like a gilded cage. The waves crashing against the shore were a stark reminder of the turbulent emotions within you, a mix of anger, sadness, and a glimmer of hope that you couldn't quite extinguish.

When the carriage finally arrived at the villa, you were both relieved and apprehensive. The grand entrance and the familiar scent of the sea filled you with a sense of nostalgia, but the presence of Marcus at your side was an ever-present reminder of the new reality you were forced to accept.

As you stepped out of the carriage, Marcus placed a hand on your back, guiding you forward. The touch was both possessive and surprisingly gentle, a contradiction that left you feeling even more conflicted.

"We'll make a fresh start here," he declared, his voice tinged with sincerity. "No more fighting. Let's give this a real chance."

He reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. "Then we keep trying," he said simply. "Until we do."

You studied him intently, trying to gauge the truth in his words. The weight of his gaze held yours, earnest and unwavering. After a moment of contemplation, you spoke, your voice tinged with skepticism. "What makes you so sure we can make this work?"

Marcus sighed softly, his hand falling to his side. "Because I'm not here to control you," he explained gently. "All I want is communication. That's all we need to make this work—open and honest communication."

His words resonated with a truth you hadn't expected. Despite your reservations, a flicker of hope stirred within you. "Communication," you echoed, testing the word on your tongue. It sounded simple, yet laden with potential.

You'd been at the villa for two days, and despite everything, you had managed to avoid Marcus and even sleep in separate bedrooms. Meal times were awkward, the silence between you both louder than any words could have been. You had resolved to stay like that for the entire three weeks your father had given you to "get pregnant." But your alcohol tolerance had other plans.

Each morning, you found yourself waking early to escape to the farthest corners of the villa, the sprawling gardens and the serene lake providing a much-needed sanctuary. You spent your days wandering through the lush greenery, finding solace in the chirping of birds and the rustling of leaves. Marcus, it seemed, had taken a similar approach, retreating to his own activities and leaving you undisturbed. The villa was vast enough to make this evasion possible, yet each evening you couldn't help but feel the walls closing in, the loneliness amplifying your homesickness.

The memories of your mother haunted you. The villa, though beautiful, reminded you painfully of the home you'd left behind and the loving presence of your mother. You missed her gentle voice, her comforting embrace, and her wisdom. The separation weighed heavily on your heart, each passing hour a reminder of the emotional distance that now lay between you.

It was late afternoon when you asked one of the maids to bring you a drink. A mistake, you realized too late, not specifying how strong it should be. Without your father's supervision, you had indulged far too much. The room spun around you, and your vision blurred as you stumbled your way toward the dining room.

You pushed open the heavy door, the sudden light from the chandelier making you squint. Marcus was already there, a book in his hands, but his eyes snapped to you the moment you entered. You could feel his gaze like a weight on your skin, making the room feel even hotter than it already was.

"Well, if it isn't my estranged bride," he said, his tone laced with sarcasm. He put down his book, his posture straightening as he watched you struggle to find your footing.

You squinted at him, the light from the chandelier making your head throb. "Don't start," you warned, though your voice came out more slurred than stern.

Marcus raised an eyebrow, amusement flickering in his eyes. "Start what? Observing the obvious? You're drunk."

You staggered forward, trying to maintain some semblance of dignity. "I'm fine," you insisted, though you nearly tripped over your own feet.

"Fine?" he echoed, his voice dripping with skepticism. "You're a mess."

You shot him a glare, your temper flaring. "Like you care," you spat. "You're just loving this, aren't you? Seeing me like this."

He stepped closer, his expression darkening. "No, actually, I'm not. You're making a fool of yourself."

"Better a fool than a tyrant," you retorted, your fists clenching at your sides. "You think you can control me, just like my father."

Marcus's jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing. "I don't need to control you," he replied, his hands gripping your arms. "I just need you to stop acting like a child."

You tried to pull away, but his grip was unyielding. "Don't touch me," you hissed, your anger boiling over. "You don't get to tell me what to do."

His eyes flashed with irritation. "Someone has to since you clearly can't handle yourself."

"You're such a pompous ass," you shot back, your voice rising. "Do you really think I wanted any of this? To be stuck with you?"

His grip tightened, but his voice remained dangerously calm. "You think I wanted this either? To be saddled with a spoiled, reckless girl who can't even hold her liquor?"

Your heart pounded in your chest, the alcohol fueling your reckless words. "I hate you," you said, your voice trembling with emotion. "I hate everything about this, and I hate you."

Marcus's eyes darkened, his grip on your arms firm but not painful. "Good," he said, his voice low and intense. "Use that hate. Let it drive you. But don't you dare make a fool of yourself in front of everyone."

Tears of frustration welled up in your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. "You don't get to tell me how to feel," you choked out. "Or what to do."

He sighed, his expression softening slightly. "I'm not trying to control you," he said quietly. "I'm trying to keep you from hurting yourself."

You glared at him, your vision blurring. "I don't need your help," you insisted, though even you knew how weak it sounded.

"Too bad," he said simply, lifting you into his arms with ease. "You're getting it anyway."

You struggled weakly, your head spinning. "Put me down," you demanded, though your voice lacked conviction.

"Not a chance," he replied, carrying you toward his room. "You're staying where I can keep an eye on you."

You hated the feeling of being so helpless, so dependent on him. "You're insufferable," you muttered, your voice barely more than a whisper.

"And you're stubborn," he retorted, his grip on you firm but gentle. "But I'm not leaving you like this."

He pushed open the door to his room and set you down on the large, plush bed, his hands lingering on your arms for a moment longer than necessary. You tried to sit up, but your body refused to cooperate.

"I'm sleeping in my room," you said, trying to push yourself up, but failing miserably.

"Not tonight," Marcus said, his tone leaving no room for argument. He knelt in front of you, removing your shoes with careful precision. "You're staying here where I can keep an eye on you."

You glared at him, though it lacked any real heat. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

He looked up, meeting your gaze with a small, knowing smile. "Maybe a little," he admitted. "But only because I finally get to take care of you, whether you like it or not."

Your heart fluttered at his words, a confusing mix of emotions swirling inside you. "I don't need your help," you repeated weakly.

He stood, his eyes never leaving yours. "Maybe not," he said softly. "But I'm here anyway."

You tried to maintain your defiance, but your vision was blurry and your body was betraying you. The alcohol had dulled your senses, leaving you vulnerable and exposed. You attempted to sit up straighter, to keep the conversation going, to keep your mind sharp. But the effort was in vain. Your head felt heavy, and your eyelids were drooping despite your best efforts.

"Don't fall asleep," you murmured to yourself, the words slurring together.

Marcus's expression softened, and he crouched down beside the bed, his face level with yours. "You need to rest," he said, his voice gentle.

"I can... stay awake," you insisted, but your body had other plans. Your limbs felt like lead, and the comfort of the bed was becoming impossible to resist.

Marcus reached out, his hand brushing a lock of hair from your face. "Just sleep," he urged. "I'll be right here."

You tried to fight it, tried to keep your eyes open, but the pull of sleep was too strong. As you stared into his eyes, the intensity of his gaze was the last thing you saw before everything went dark. His eyes held a depth that made your heart ache, a mixture of frustration, determination, and something else you couldn't quite name.

Your breathing slowed, and you felt yourself slipping away, the warmth of the bed enveloping you. Marcus's presence beside you was a strange comfort, a reminder that despite everything, you weren't alone. His hand lingered on your face for a moment longer, his touch surprisingly tender.

The last thing you saw before sleep claimed you was his face, the worry and care etched into his features. Your final thought was a confused jumble of emotions, a mixture of anger, defiance, and a reluctant sense of safety.

I watched her struggle to stay awake, her eyelids fluttering as the effects of the alcohol took hold. Her earlier defiance had melted into a fragile vulnerability that tightened my chest. Despite everything, there was something about her that stirred a protective instinct in me.

She hated me, and I couldn't blame her. This marriage wasn't her choice, just as it wasn't truly mine. But here we were, bound together by circumstances beyond our control. I had accepted the arrangement with a single, desperate hope – to escape the life of a gladiator. To live a life where survival wasn't measured by the swing of a sword.

I sighed, running a hand through my hair as I watched her sleep. She looked so peaceful now, a stark contrast to the fiery woman who had spat venom at me earlier. Her reputation had preceded her – wild, unladylike, with a rebellious streak that made her father's blood boil. Any other man would have turned her away, seen her as too much trouble. But not me.

I was no stranger to trouble. Hell, I lived in it every day in the arena. So when this opportunity arose, I took it. Perhaps, deep down, I saw a bit of myself in her – trapped, fighting against the current, desperate for a way out.

I leaned back in my chair, the wood creaking softly under my weight. The villa was quiet, save for the soft sounds of the ocean outside. It was beautiful here, far removed from the chaos of our everyday lives. Maybe, just maybe, it could be a place for new beginnings.

But that was wishful thinking, and I knew it. We were too different, too stubborn, and too caught up in our own struggles to see eye to eye. Still, I couldn't help but feel a glimmer of hope. Maybe over time, we could find common ground. Maybe I could help her see that not all men were out to control her, to use her.

As she slept, I couldn't help but reflect on our wedding night. I had been a little drunk, my senses dulled by the wine and the weight of what lay ahead. I hadn’t known what to expect, and the confusion of hate and passion made me feel odd, out of place in my own skin. She had initiated sex that night, surprising me with her boldness. Yet now she pretended I was nothing more than a rodent, something to be tolerated.

But I wasn’t blind. I saw the way she looked at me, the physical attraction she tried to mask with disdain. It was confusing, this mix of desire and loathing. I wanted her, but I wouldn’t force it. I refused to become the monster she seemed to believe I was.

My eyes wandered over her sleeping form, taking in the gentle rise and fall of her chest, the way her hair splayed out over the pillow. She looked peaceful, and for a moment, I allowed myself to imagine a future where she looked at me with that same peace when awake.

I remembered the way she had clung to me on our wedding night, her body warm and pliant against mine. The way she had moaned my name, her defenses lowered, just for a moment. It felt like a betrayal that she could feel so passionately in bed yet treat me with such coldness during the day.

Watching her now, I felt a strange sense of accomplishment. She had fallen asleep in my presence, a small step forward in this tangled mess we found ourselves in. It wasn’t much, but it was something. A sign that maybe, just maybe, there was a way for us to find common ground.

The exhaustion from the day's events washed over me, and I settled into the chair, unable to tear my gaze away from her. She shifted slightly, a soft murmur escaping her lips. The urge to go to her, to hold her and comfort her, was strong, but I stayed put. Pushing her now would only drive her further away.

As my eyelids grew heavy, I thought about the road ahead. The days would be long and difficult, filled with arguments and misunderstandings. But for the first time, I felt a flicker of hope. Maybe we could make this work. Maybe we could find a way to understand each other, to build something real from the ashes of our forced union.

With that thought, I let myself drift off, the rhythmic sound of her breathing a strange, comforting lullaby. Tomorrow would bring new challenges, but for now, we had this moment of fragile peace. And in the quiet of the night, it was enough.

You woke up with a slight headache, the overwhelming scent of a man filling your senses. It was a heady mix of sweat, leather, and something distinctly masculine. You sat up, and the room spun a little. A groan escaped your lips as you checked to make sure your clothes were still on. You didn't remember him taking off anything other than your shoes, but he was still a man, after all. Your eyes landed on Marcus, uncomfortably slouched in a chair facing the bed, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. The sight of him asleep, vulnerable, stirred something unfamiliar in you, but you quickly pushed it aside.

Swinging your legs over the edge of the bed, you stood up slowly, testing your balance. The headache pounded behind your eyes, a painful reminder of your overindulgence. You made your way to the washbasin, splashing cold water on your face, hoping it would help clear the fog in your head. After a moment, you straightened, took a deep breath, and left the room, eager to put some distance between yourself and Marcus.

The villa was quiet as you made your way to the dining room, the only sounds the distant call of seabirds and the gentle lap of waves against the shore. The familiarity of it all made you ache with a longing for simpler times. You remembered your childhood here, playing on the beach, carefree and happy before the world became so complicated.

As you entered the dining room, a maid appeared, carrying a tray with a bowl and a single, raw egg. She approached you with a polite smile, her eyes downcast.

"Good morning, my lady. I've brought you something to help with... pregnancy," she said, her voice hesitant.

Your eyes narrowed, and you snapped, "I'm not pregnant. The only remedy from an old wife I want is a hangover remedy."

The maid's eyes widened in surprise and fear. "I'm sorry, my lady. It's just that raw eggs are believed to help with getting pregnant. I meant no offense."

You sighed, rubbing your temples. "Just bring me something for this headache, please."

She nodded quickly and scurried away, leaving you with the bowl and the raw egg. You stared at it with a mixture of disdain and curiosity. The idea of swallowing a raw egg made your stomach churn, but you knew that in the world you lived in, old wives' tales often carried weight.

Moments later, the maid returned with a cup of herbal tea and a damp cloth. "Here, my lady. This should help."

You took the tea gratefully, sipping it slowly. The warm liquid soothed your throat, and the bitter herbs began to work their magic on your pounding head. You sat down at the table, placing the cloth over your eyes and leaning back in the chair.

The quiet was interrupted by the sound of footsteps. You peeked from under the cloth to see Marcus standing in the doorway, his expression unreadable. He had changed into fresh clothes, but the scent of him from the night before still lingered in your nostrils.

"Feeling better?" he asked, his voice gruff.

"Not really," you replied, your tone sharp. "What do you want?"

He walked over, sitting across from you. "I just wanted to make sure you were alright."

You glared at him, the words from the previous night echoing in your mind. "I don't need your concern."

He leaned back, crossing his arms. "You were quite the handful last night."

"Well, if you hadn't dragged me off to bed like some helpless damsel, maybe I wouldn't have been," you shot back, the anger flaring up again.

"You're right," he said, surprising you. "But I didn't want you hurting yourself. Despite what you think, I don't want to control you."

You scoffed, lowering the cloth and meeting his gaze. "You keep saying that, but your actions say otherwise."

He sighed, rubbing his temples as if he, too, had a headache. "Look, I know you didn't want this marriage any more than I did. But we're in this together now. Fighting each other isn't going to make it any easier."

You stared at him, the sincerity in his eyes catching you off guard. You wanted to lash out, to keep up the walls you had built, but something in his demeanor made you pause.

"Why did you accept this marriage?" you asked quietly, the question that had been nagging at you since the wedding.

He looked away, his jaw tightening. "I hoped it would be a way out," he admitted. "A way to escape the life of a gladiator. And yes, I knew of your reputation. But I also knew that any other man wouldn't have accepted you, not with the rumors."

His honesty disarmed you, the anger slowly seeping out of you. You wanted to understand his motives further, but another question gnawed at you.

"So, you did this for your freedom?" you asked, trying to grasp his intentions.

"And maybe for yours too," he said softly, his eyes meeting yours again. "I know what it's like to be trapped in a life you didn't choose."

The room fell silent, the weight of his words hanging between you. For the first time, you saw a glimpse of the man behind the mask, and it left you feeling more conflicted than ever. You didn't know if you could trust him, but you couldn't deny the small spark of hope his words ignited.

The sound of the waves outside grew louder in the silence, as if echoing the turmoil within you. You took another sip of the tea, letting the warmth spread through you, grounding you in the moment.

Marcus shifted in his seat, breaking the silence. "Do you want to visit the pier?" he asked, his voice tentative.

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden change in topic. "The pier?" you echoed, memories flooding back. You remembered visiting the pier with your mother, the laughter, the carefree days. Since returning to the villa, you hadn't gone to see it. The thought of revisiting that place brought a mix of nostalgia and longing, but also a sense of trepidation.

"Yes, the pier," Marcus repeated, watching you closely. "I thought you might like to see it."

You felt a surge of conflicting emotions. Part of you wanted to reject his offer out of sheer stubbornness, to prove you didn't need anything from him. But another part of you, the part that missed the simpler times, yearned to go.

"Why do you care?" you snapped, crossing your arms defensively.

Marcus sighed, running a hand through his hair. "It's not about caring. I just thought it might be nice for you to see it again."

You glared at him, trying to keep your walls up. "You think taking me to the pier will make everything better? That I'll suddenly forget everything and be grateful?"

"No," he said firmly, his eyes locking onto yours. "I don't expect anything. I'm just offering."

The sincerity in his voice made you falter. You hated the way he could make you feel so uncertain, so conflicted. But the thought of the pier, of the memories it held, was too tempting to ignore.

"Fine," you said, your tone laced with defiance. "I'll go."

Marcus nodded, standing up. "Meet me at the front door when you're ready."

You finished your tea and stood up, taking a deep breath. You made your way to your room to change into something more suitable for the walk. As you dressed, your mind wandered back to the days with your mother, the laughter and the joy of simpler times. You hadn't realized how much you missed it until now.

When you stepped outside, Marcus was waiting by the villa's front door. He gave you a brief nod, his expression unreadable. You walked down the steps and joined him, the air thick with tension.

"Let's get this over with," you muttered, starting down the path that led to the pier.

The walk down the small hill was silent at first, the only sounds the distant calls of seabirds and the gentle rustling of the trees. You kept your eyes forward, determined not to let Marcus see the turmoil within you.

"Did you ever come here often?" Marcus asked, breaking the silence.

"Yes," you replied curtly. "With my mother."

He nodded, glancing around. "It's a beautiful place."

"It was," you said sharply, quickening your pace.

Marcus matched your stride easily. "You know, you don't have to be so hostile."

You shot him a glare. "I wouldn't have to be if you didn't keep treating me like some delicate flower."

He chuckled, shaking his head. "Trust me, there's nothing delicate about you."

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. "And what exactly do you know about me, Marcus?"

"Enough to know you're stubborn as a mule," he retorted, a smirk playing at his lips.

You bristled, your temper flaring. "Well, at least I'm not a brute who thinks he can solve everything with his fists."

Marcus raised an eyebrow. "Is that what you think of me?"

You turned to face him, your eyes blazing. "That's exactly what I think of you."

He opened his mouth to retort, but you cut him off, quickening your pace down the path to the pier. The sand and salt air grew stronger as you neared the shoreline, the familiar sights and sounds stirring a bittersweet nostalgia.

When you arrived at the pier, you paused, taking in the scene before you. The wooden structure stretched out over the water, the waves gently lapping against the posts. You could almost hear your mother's laughter, feel her hand in yours as you walked together.

Marcus stood beside you, his presence a steadying force despite your irritation. "Shall we?" he said, gesturing towards the pier.

With a sigh, you stepped onto the weathered planks, the wood creaking slightly underfoot. You walked in silence, the only sound the distant call of seabirds and the gentle lapping of the waves.

As you reached the end of the pier, you leaned against the railing, gazing out at the horizon. The sea stretched endlessly before you, a vast expanse of blue that seemed to hold all the secrets of the world.

Marcus joined you, his gaze also fixed on the horizon. "It's peaceful here," he said quietly.

You nodded, feeling a strange sense of calm. "It is."

For a moment, the tension between you seemed to fade, replaced by a shared appreciation for the beauty around you. But the peace was short-lived.

You turned to leave, but your foot caught on a loose board. The world tilted as you stumbled, losing your balance. With a yelp, you plunged into the water below. The icy shock of the sea stole your breath, and you struggled to stay afloat, panic surging through you. The water was a merciless force, dragging you under. Your limbs flailed wildly, but you couldn't seem to break the surface. The salty liquid filled your mouth, choking any attempt at calling for help. Your heart pounded, every beat a frantic plea for air as you fought against the pull of the sea.

In the midst of your panic, a shadow loomed above you. Through the haze of water and fear, you saw Marcus diving in. His strong arms encircled you, pulling you upwards with a force that felt both powerful and reassuring. "I can't swim!" you wanted to shout, but the words were swallowed by the water. Instead, you could only gasp, your chest burning as you fought to breathe. Marcus's grip was unyielding, his strength a lifeline. He hauled you to the surface, your head breaking through to the sweet relief of air. You coughed violently, expelling the seawater that had threatened to drown you. Your vision blurred, but you felt Marcus's steady hands guiding you to the shore.

The sand was a rough but welcome texture beneath you as Marcus laid you down, his grip loosening now that you were safe. You continued to cough, your lungs heaving as you expelled the last of the water. You were soaked to the bone, the chill of the sea clinging to your skin. Marcus stood over you, an amused glint in his eyes despite the concern etched into his features.

"I thought you said you grew up here," he remarked his tone light but edged with teasing.

You glared at him through your exhaustion, still catching your breath. "Just...shut up," you managed to rasp, feeling a fresh wave of embarrassment as you realized how helpless you'd been.

He crouched beside you, his expression softening slightly. "You should have told me you couldn't swim," he said, a hint of genuine concern breaking through his teasing demeanor.

You sat up slowly, brushing sand from your wet hair. "I didn't think it would matter," you muttered, annoyed more at yourself than at him. "And I didn't expect to fall in."

Marcus chuckled, shaking his head. "Well, it's a good thing I was here to save you."

You shot him a withering look. "Don't let it go to your head."

He grinned, clearly enjoying your irritation. "Too late."

You pushed yourself to your feet, shivering as the cool breeze hit your wet skin. "I need to get cleaned up," you said, more to yourself than to him.

"Do you need help with that too?" Marcus asked, his tone mischievous.

You glared at him again, but there was a reluctant smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. "Not a chance."

As you made your way back to the villa, you couldn't shake the conflicting feelings that Marcus stirred in you. His arrogance was infuriating, but there was something about his confidence and the way he had jumped in to save you without hesitation that you couldn't ignore.

"Your father said you grew up here, and you can't swim?" he mocked, shaking his head. "What kind of life have you led?"

You glared at him, anger and humiliation warring within you. "Not that it's any of your business, but my mother didn't want me learning. She was afraid of the sea."

He raised an eyebrow, his expression softening slightly. "And you? Are you afraid of the sea?"

You looked away, the memories of your mother's fear mingling with your own. "Maybe," you admitted quietly.

Marcus sighed, helping you to your feet. "You could have told me."

"And you could stop assuming you know everything about me," you shot back, refusing to meet his gaze.

He paused briefly, then chuckled softly. "Fair enough."

Standing there, dripping wet and shivering, the earlier bickering had faded, leaving behind a tentative peace. The walk back to the villa had taken an unexpected turn, yet as you gazed out over the water, a curious sense of calm settled within you.

He remained quiet, and you welcomed the respite of silence as you reached the villa. You marched inside, heading straight for your room. The maids hurried over, their eyes wide with concern.

"Prepare a bath," you ordered, stripping off your wet clothes. "And make it quick."

The maids hurried to obey, filling the tub with steaming water and adding fragrant oils. You stepped in, sinking into the warmth with a sigh of relief. The water soothed your aching muscles and washed away the sand and salt.

As you soaked, the events of the day replayed in your mind. The bickering with Marcus, the fall into the water, his unexpected rescue. You couldn't deny the conflicting emotions he stirred in you, the blend of anger, frustration, and something else you couldn't quite identify. The bathwater's warmth wrapped around you like a comforting embrace, and you let out a long, slow breath, trying to relax.

Just as you were beginning to feel at ease, the door to your room creaked open. Your eyes snapped open, and you saw Marcus standing in the doorway, his eyes widening as he realized you were still in the bath.

"Gods above, Marcus!" you shrieked, sinking deeper into the water and grabbing a towel to cover yourself.

He quickly turned his back, holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "I didn't know you were still in here!"

"What part of the closed door didn't you understand?" you snapped, fumbling to wrap the towel around yourself.

"I just wanted to talk to you," he said, his voice slightly muffled as he faced away from you. "About what happened today."

"Can it wait until I'm dressed?" you asked, your voice dripping with sarcasm.

He sighed. "I suppose it could, but I thought we should clear the air sooner rather than later."

You finished securing the towel and stood up carefully, stepping out of the tub. "Fine, just... turn around and give me a moment."

Marcus nodded and stepped outside, closing the door behind him. You quickly dried off and pulled on a simple, comfortable dress. The fabric felt soft against your skin, and you let out a small sigh of relief.

"Okay, you can come back in," you called, tying your hair back with a ribbon.

The door opened again, and Marcus entered, looking slightly sheepish. "Sorry about that," he said, scratching the back of his neck.

You waved a hand dismissively. "Just don't make a habit of it."

He chuckled, then grew serious. "I wanted to talk to you about learning to swim."

You raised an eyebrow. "Learning to swim? Now?"

He nodded. "Yes. After what happened today, I think it's important. You grew up by the sea, but you can't swim. It's something you should know, for your own safety."

You crossed your arms, narrowing your eyes. "And you think you're the one to teach me?"

"Who else?" he replied with a shrug. "Besides, it might be a way for us to... not bicker so much."

You let out a huff of laughter, shaking your head. "You really think swimming lessons will solve our problems?"

Marcus gave you a small smile. "It couldn't hurt to try."

You thought about it for a moment, the memory of the cold water and the panic still fresh in your mind. As much as you hated to admit it, he had a point. Learning to swim would be useful, and maybe it would help ease the tension between you.

"Fine," you said at last. "I'll let you teach me. But if you mock me, even once, I'll throw you into the sea."

Marcus laughed, a genuine, warm sound that surprised you. "Deal."

You nodded, feeling a mix of apprehension and determination. "When do we start?"

"Tomorrow morning," he said. "We'll go down to the beach and start there."

You gave a reluctant nod. "Alright. Tomorrow morning."

As Marcus turned to leave, you couldn't help but feel a small glimmer of hope. Maybe this would be a step towards something better. Or at the very least, it would give you a chance to prove you weren't as helpless as he seemed to think.

You were dreaming so sweetly, the air from the balcony streaming into the room, bringing with it the scent of the sea. The gentle rustling of leaves and the distant call of seabirds blended into a lullaby that cradled you in its arms. In your dream, you were walking along the beach with your mother, her laughter mingling with the sound of the waves.

Suddenly, a hand on your shoulder jolted you awake. "Get up!" Marcus's voice was a harsh whisper in the pre-dawn darkness.

You blinked, disoriented, your mind still clinging to the remnants of your dream. "What...?" you mumbled, sitting up and rubbing your eyes.

"It's time to start your training," he said, pulling the curtains open. The sky was still a deep indigo, with the faintest hint of light on the horizon.

With a groan, you swung your legs over the side of the bed and stood up, still half-asleep. "Alright, alright. I'm up."

"Good," he said, a hint of satisfaction in his voice. "Get dressed and meet me outside."

You quickly changed into a simple tunic and tied your hair back, the cool morning air nipping at your skin. As you stepped out onto the balcony, the first rays of dawn painted the sky in shades of pink and orange. You made your way to the front of the villa, where Marcus was waiting, looking annoyingly alert.

"Could you be any more enthusiastic?" you muttered, stifling another yawn.

He smirked. "I'm just trying to make the most of the day. Unlike some people who would rather sleep through it."

"Some people prefer not to be woken up at the crack of dawn," you retorted, crossing your arms.

"Maybe if some people had learned to swim earlier, we wouldn't be here now," he shot back, starting down the path towards the beach.

You followed him, the cool sand squishing between your toes. "Or maybe if some people weren't so insistent on dragging others out of bed, they could have a more peaceful morning."

He chuckled. "You know, you could just admit that you need the lessons."

"I don't need them," you grumbled, "I just don't want to drown."

"Same thing," he said, shrugging.

The beach stretched out before you, the waves gently lapping at the shore. As you walked, the sound of the sea grew louder, filling the air with its soothing rhythm. The familiar scent of saltwater brought back memories of playing on the sand as a child, carefree and happy.

"Alright," Marcus said, stopping at the edge of the water. "We'll start with the basics. Just try to relax and trust me."

"Trust you," you repeated, raising an eyebrow. "That's a lot to ask."

He gave you a patient look. "I know. But if you can't trust me, trust that I don't want to have to save you every time you fall into the water."

You rolled your eyes. "Fine. But if you mock me, even once, I swear I'll throw you in."

Marcus laughed, a genuine, warm sound that surprised you. "Deal."

As you waded into the water, you could feel your tunic growing heavier, clinging to your skin. You paused, looking down at the soaked fabric. "This tunic is going to get ruined," you muttered, more to yourself than to Marcus.

With a huff, you turned your back to him and carefully pulled your tunic over your head, tossing it onto the shore. The cool air brushed against your skin, sending a shiver down your spine as you stood bare before him. You waded back into the water, feeling exposed but determined not to let it show.

Marcus watched you with an appraising gaze, his eyes tracing the curve of your shoulders and the lines of your back. There was a moment of silence between you, the only sound the gentle lapping of waves against the shore. Then, without a word, Marcus reached for the hem of his own tunic and pulled it over his head.

The sight of his bare chest took you by surprise. His skin was bronzed from days under the sun, muscles defined and powerful. Droplets of water clung to his torso, catching the sunlight in a way that made you momentarily forget your irritation. His presence was commanding yet strangely comforting, like a force of nature you couldn't resist.

You tore your gaze away, feeling a rush of heat to your cheeks. "Alright, enough staring," you muttered, more to yourself than to him.

Marcus chuckled softly, stepping into the water beside you. "Just making sure you're not the only one feeling exposed," he remarked his tone light but tinged with something deeper.

You scowled at him, but there was a hint of a smile playing at your lips. "Don't get too comfortable," you warned, trying to regain your composure.

He raised an eyebrow, his grin widening. "Who says I'm not comfortable already?"

You rolled your eyes, but there was no venom in the gesture. "Enough of your smugness. Let's just get this over with."

He raised an eyebrow, his grin widening. "Who says I'm not comfortable already?"

You rolled your eyes, trying to hide the flutter in your chest. "Just focus on the lesson, Marcus."

He nodded, the teasing glint in his eyes softening. "Alright, let's get started then."

Marcus led you into the shallows, the cool water lapping at your ankles, then your knees. He moved with an easy confidence, his presence reassuring despite the lingering tension between you.

"First, we need to get you comfortable with the water," he said, his tone more serious now. "Can you float on your back?"

You hesitated, the memory of your earlier panic still fresh. "I can try."

"Good," he said. "I'll support you. Just relax and let the water hold you."

You lay back, feeling his hands under your shoulders and lower back. The sensation of the water buoying you up was strange, but Marcus's steady grip kept you grounded. You focused on the sky above, the blue expanse calming your racing heart.

"See?" he murmured. "You're doing fine."

You glanced at him, a small smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. "For now."

Marcus chuckled, his hands firm and reassuring. "Now, try to kick your legs gently."

You did as he instructed, the water resisting your movements. It felt awkward, but you persisted, trying to find a rhythm.

"That's it," Marcus encouraged. "Just like that. You're doing great."

You let out a breath you hadn't realized you were holding, feeling a small sense of accomplishment. "Maybe this isn't so bad."

Marcus grinned. "I told you. Now, let's move a bit deeper."

He guided you further into the water, his grip never faltering. As the water reached your waist, you felt a flicker of unease but pushed it aside. You were determined to prove you could do this.

"Alright," he said, stopping when the water was up to your chest. "Let's try some basic strokes. I'll show you, then you copy me."

You watched as he demonstrated a simple stroke, his movements smooth and confident. His muscles rippled under the water, every action purposeful and efficient. You tried to mimic him, feeling clumsy in comparison.

"Good," he said, nodding. "But keep your elbows higher. Like this."

He corrected your form, his touch gentle yet precise. You adjusted, trying to follow his guidance.

"Better," he praised. "Now, let's keep practicing."

You continued the lesson, each new skill building your confidence. As you practiced, you couldn't help but feel a growing respect for Marcus. Despite his arrogance, he was a patient and effective teacher.

After a while, Marcus called for a break. You waded to shallower water, grateful for the reprieve. As you stood catching your breath, Marcus studied you thoughtfully.

"You're not afraid of the water, are you?" he asked suddenly.

You shook your head, surprised by the question. "No. I just... never learned to swim."

"Why not?" he pressed, curiosity lighting up his eyes.

You hesitated, the memories tugging at your heart. "My mother... she despised the sea," you began softly. "She preferred the safety and serenity of the countryside. My father, on the other hand, adored it. Most of our family's wealth came from his sea trade ventures. He built his entire empire on the waves."

Marcus's eyes narrowed slightly, clearly intrigued. "So your mother didn't share his love for the sea?"

You let out a bitter laugh. "No, quite the opposite. She was terrified of it. She hated the constant worry every time he left on a voyage, the endless nights spent alone. She never understood his obsession with the sea. Their marriage was arranged, just like ours. But unlike us, they never found common ground."

"And your father?" Marcus asked, his tone gentler now.

"My father loved the sea more than anything," you said, your voice tinged with sadness. "He saw it as a source of freedom and wealth. He would spend months at a time on his ships, overseeing his trade routes, and ensuring our fortune grew. The sea was his true mistress."

Marcus seemed to consider this, his expression thoughtful. "So your mother lives in the countryside now?"

You nodded. "Yes. She moved away a few years ago. Couldn't stand the sight of the sea anymore, or the memories it held. She wanted peace, a life without the constant fear and loneliness."

"Do you see her often?" he asked, his curiosity genuine.

"Not as much as I'd like," you admitted. "She visits sometimes, but my father keeps her at a distance. He's still bitter, even after all these years. He sees her as weak, unable to embrace the life he chose."

Marcus sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Sounds like we're both products of difficult marriages."

"Indeed," you replied, meeting his intense gaze with equal fervor. "But I don't want to be trapped like my parents."

Marcus's eyes softened as he stepped closer, his hands finding your waist with a gentle certainty that sent a thrilling shiver through you. Without hesitation, you wrapped your legs around his torso, feeling the strength of his body supporting you effortlessly.

"We won't be trapped," Marcus assured you, his voice low and steady, filled with promise. "Not like them. We'll find our own way, together."

His words, spoken with such conviction, resonated deep within you. The vulnerability in his eyes mirrored your own, forging an unspoken bond between you.

As the first light of dawn painted the sky with hues of gold and pink, casting a serene glow over the water, Marcus leaned in closer. His warm breath mingled with yours, creating an intimate cocoon amidst the tranquil sounds of the sea.

With a tenderness that belied his usual stern demeanor, Marcus brushed his lips against yours in a feather-light kiss. It was a moment suspended in time, charged with unspoken desire and the promise of something more.

You responded eagerly, your heart racing as you deepened the kiss, surrendering to the intoxicating connection between you. The barriers that had once stood firm melted away with each tender caress of his lips, leaving only the raw, undeniable truth of your shared desire.

As the kiss grew more fervent, Marcus's hands roamed your body, their touch both possessive and tender. He guided you out of the water, each step a testament to his strength and control. The cool breeze hit your wet skin, but the heat between you and Marcus was undeniable, a fire that neither the sea nor the morning chill could extinguish.

He laid you down gently on the sand, the grains rough yet grounding beneath you. His eyes bore into yours with an intensity that made your breath hitch. "Would it really be so bad to at least try for a baby?" he asked, his voice a mix of longing and challenge.

You bristled at his words, your defenses rising again. "I'm a child myself," you retorted, your voice trembling with both defiance and uncertainty. "How can I bring another life into this world when I'm still figuring out my own?”

Marcus's gaze softened, his hand brushing a strand of hair from your face. "No one said it had to work," he whispered, his lips grazing your ear. "But we can try. Together. We can make our own Path.

His words were a balm to your fears, a promise of partnership rather than domination. As he leaned in, capturing your lips in another searing kiss, you felt the last vestiges of resistance crumble. The passion between you was a living thing, a force that demanded to be acknowledged.

Marcus's hands moved with purpose, exploring every inch of you with a reverence that made you shiver. You arched into his touch, your body responding to his in ways that felt both foreign and achingly familiar. His lips trailed down your neck leaving a path of fire in their wake.

"Marcus," you breathed your voice a mix of need and wonder. He paused, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that took your breath away.

"We don`t have to do this if you're not ready," he said, his voice strained with the effort of holding back. "But know that I want you. I want us to have a chance."

You searched his eyes, finding a sincerity that both scared and exhilarated you. "I want you too," you admitted the words a leap of faith. "But this... it changes everything.”

"Then let it change us," he murmured, his lips finding yours once more. The kiss deepened, a blend of urgency and tenderness that left you both breathless.

You felt the rough sand beneath you as Marcus pulled you closer, his hand gripping your cheek firmly as he kissed you passionately. His touch was both possessive and reverent as if he were handling a precious porcelain doll. His hand traveled down your body, caressing every curve with a tenderness that sent shivers down your spine.

He pulled away from the kiss, the sun reflecting off his body, making him glow with an almost ethereal light. His eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that made your breath catch. His hand traveled lower, caressing your upper thigh before spreading them, giving him a place to stabilize himself. You felt his length prod at your thigh, the heat of his desire palpable.

Unable to resist, you pulled him in for another kiss, feeling his hips move into your body, his erection grinding against your thigh. "God, you're hard," you murmured, pulling away from the kiss to take in his disheveled appearance.

"I've been hard as a rock since we started the lesson," he teased, his voice thick with lust. He captured your lips again, his hand wandering down to your clit, circling it in slow, teasing motions.

"Marcus," you gasped your voice a mix of need and frustration.

He smirked against your skin, his lips trailing down to your neck, where he bit softly, making you wince. "You dick," you muttered, but your protest was cut short by a moan as he rubbed his length up and down your slick wetness.

Leaning over you, Marcus positioned himself at your entrance, his eyes dark with desire. "I know you want my dick," he said with a smirk, pushing into you with a slow, deliberate thrust.

Your body arched at the sensation, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he began to move. He lifted your legs slightly, pushing your knees to your chest, the new angle allowing him to thrust deeper. The stretch was intense, the feeling of him filling you completely almost overwhelming.

You bit your lip, trying to stifle your whimpers, but they quickly turned into borderline screams as he brutally fucked into you. Each thrust sent shockwaves of pleasure through your body, making you arch your back and frantically grab at the sand for some stability. You could swear he was rearranging your insides, his cock hitting your G-spot with relentless precision.

Your vision blurred, and all you could feel was the intense pleasure he was giving you. You didn't think getting fucked like this was physically possible, didn't think you were capable of feeling such intense pleasure at the hands of a man.

Marcus's smirk widened as he leaned down, his eyes following the bulge on your lower belly. "Yeah, feel it," he mocked, resting his forehead against yours as he bottomed out again. "Got you stuffed all the way in, huh?"

You couldn't even argue, your eyes brimming with tears as he pressed his palm harder against the bulge. Your eyes clenched shut, but his relentless thrusts only edged you further. He gripped your jaw, forcing you to keep looking at him. "No, you keep looking. Taking me so good, gonna—fuck, gonna have to ruin you."

Tears welled at the corners of your eyes as the pressure within you built to an almost unbearable peak. You were so close, so desperately close to the edge. Sensing your state, Marcus's gaze flicked to your face, taking in your flushed cheeks and the tears that threatened to spill over.

"Ask nicely, goddess” he grunted, picking up the punishing pace once more. "Use your manners and I'll give you whatever you want." His hands moved to your thighs, forcing them against your stomach, letting him push into you deeper. The sensation made your head spin, the knot in your stomach tightening immediately.

"Please... for fuck's sake, let me cum or I'm gonna rip your stupid perfect cock off the second we're done," you managed to grunt through gritted teeth.

He chuckled breathlessly, his hand returning to your clit, pressing rough and rapid circles against it. "We'll work on that," he laughed softly, feeling you rapidly slipping towards the edge. He didn't let up on his ruthless motions, finally pushing you over the brink.

You were loud. Probably too loud. Your scream of release echoed along the shore, your body convulsing with the force of your orgasm. Marcus followed you over the edge, his thrusts becoming erratic as he spilled into you, the warmth of his release sending one last wave of pleasure through your already trembling body.

As the intensity of the moment faded, you both lay there, tangled together in the sand, breathing heavily. Marcus's forehead rested against yours, his eyes filled with a mix of satisfaction and something deeper.

"Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to try," you whispered, the vulnerability in your voice surprising even you.

Marcus's smile widened a glint of mischief in his eyes. "If it feels that good every time," you added with a playful smirk, "I might not mind at all."

He chuckled, the sound rich and warm, and leaned in to brush his lips against yours once more. Just as you were beginning to lose yourself in the kiss again, a voice suddenly called out from behind you.

"Hey! What are you two doing here?" The voice was stern, and authoritative.

You and Marcus scrambled to cover yourselves, a mix of embarrassment and amusement bubbling up as you fumbled with your discarded clothes.

Realization dawned on the guard's face as he took in the sight of Marcus's distinctive, regal features and your own disheveled state. His expression quickly turned from stern to horrified as he realized who he was interrupting.

"I-I'm so sorry, my lord, my lady," he stammered, turning an alarming shade of red. "I didn't realize—"

Marcus, still half-naked and laughing, held up a hand to stop him. "It's alright," he said, amusement dancing in his eyes. "Just a little... misunderstanding."

The guard's eyes darted around, clearly trying to avoid looking directly at either of you. "I'll just... I'll just be going now," he mumbled, backing away quickly before turning and sprinting down the beach.

You couldn't help but burst into laughter, the absurdity of the situation breaking the tension that had been lingering. Marcus joined in, his laughter a deep, infectious rumble that made you forget all your worries, if only for a moment.

Once the laughter had subsided, Marcus turned to you, a mischievous look in his eyes. "You know," he said, his voice dropping to a flirtatious whisper, "there's always the sea. No guards to interrupt us there."

You raised an eyebrow, your own smile widening. "Is that so?" you asked, the idea sending a thrill through you.

"Absolutely," he replied, standing up and offering you his hand. "Shall we?"

You took his hand, the warmth of his touch sending a shiver of anticipation through you. Together, you made your way to the edge of the water, the cool waves lapping at your feet. Marcus's presence beside you felt grounding, his touch a comforting anchor in the midst of the playful breeze and the gentle rush of the sea.

As you reached the water's edge, Marcus pulled you into his arms. The sea welcomed you both with its refreshing embrace, its coolness a stark contrast to the heat that had built between you. You chuckled softly at Marcus's promise, spoken against your lips.

Marcus pulled you into his arms, the sea providing a refreshing contrast to the heat between you. "I promise," he murmured against your lips, "no interruptions this time."

PART 3

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oceandolores · 2 months ago

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ℜ𝔢𝔩𝔦𝔤𝔦𝔬𝔫 | masterlist.

General Marcus Acacius x f!reader

"Fata viam invenient | The fates will find a way."

warnings: 18+ only, 14 YEARS AFTER GLADIATOR 1, ANGST, Fluff, A LOT OF SMUT, Unprotected Sex, Exhibition Kink, Age-Gap, Ancient Rome, mentions of violence, Gladiators, Blood, Gore, Politics, Sexism, Forbidden Love, Loss of Virginity, mentions of death, Innocent and pure reader, Infidelity, more warnings will be added throughout the story

𝐞𝐩𝐢𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐡

❝They call you Rome’s lion, her indomitable shield, yet to me, you are the flicker of warmth in a palace carved from ice.

Your hands are calloused from war, but they cradle my soul with the tenderness of spring rain. Your voice commands legions, yet it whispers my name like a prayer, as though the gods themselves might hear and envy us our stolen moments.

If love were not a sin, I would adorn you with laurel not for conquest, but for the triumph of your heart over mine. Yet here we linger, caught in the webs of empire, where every glance is a rebellion, and every touch a battle lost.

Ad te anhelo, quasi ad caelum ipsam, (I long for you as though for the heavens themselves,) but our stars burn too brightly, and even the gods avert their eyes.

So I am to love you as Rome loves her champions— for eternally.❞

thꫀ ρᥣᥲᥡᥣเ᥉t! (on spotify) 🏛️

in love with marcus acacius

ꪑᥲ᥉tꫀɾᥣเ᥉t!🌞

Chapter I: "in her eyes shone the sweetness of melancholy."

Chapter II: Soon

Chapter III: Soon

Chapter IV: Soon

Chapter V: Soon

Chapter VI: Soon

Chapter VII: Soon

Chapter VIII: Soon

Chapter IX: Soon

Chapter X: Soon

Chapter XI: Soon

Chapter XII: Soon

Chapter XIII: Soon

Chapter XIV: Soon

Chapter XV: Ending

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punk-in-docs · 18 days ago

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how would you rate the geta fic in terms of darkness?

In terms of my Geta fic? I think it does prescribe to some amount of darkness. We see Salacia plucked from her home. Imprisoned. Held at the will of men and embroiled in a plot where a lot of good people she meets die for no reason. And the rot in Rome seems to prevail.

I think it does tackle some dark themes in terms of her marriage to Geta. Cause let’s be real that’s basically non-con in terms of consent cause she feels like she has no other choice - she is a prisoner in the marriage bed. So that in itself is dark. She’s used and poised and told to do this and posed as the new empress.

I think she is pulled into this plot to turn Rome into the republic with Lucilla and Marcus. But on the other side there’s Caracalla and Macrinus still trying to do her harm. So who knows which way the knife will fall—??? I hope this answers your question.

(Sincere apologies if you didn’t mean my Geta fic aha but if not then happily tell me which one I should rate ! )

#punkwrites #joseph quinn #gladiator #gladiator 2 #emperor geta #emperor caracalla #lucilla #marcus acacius #macrinus #a lot of darkness id say #but will Salacia prevail?#time will tell

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punkshort · 2 months ago

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The Farmer's Daughter

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x f!reader one-shot

Summary: Forced to sell your body after your father's farm went under, you find yourself hand picked to service the Roman army on their latest battle away from Rome. What you didn't expect was to be selected to share General Acacius's room for the duration of the journey.

Warnings: language, smut (18+ MDNI), heavy talks of prostitution, mentions of SA but none occur, reader is a (new) prostitute, virginity loss (no blood mentioned just some discomfort), descriptions of battle wounds/blood, food and alcohol consumption, one bed trope, enemies to lovers-ish, unprotected piv sex, thigh riding, angst, possessiveness

WC: 10.2K

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

A/N: I know by this point his character is mostly referred to as Acacius in the film but I'm sorry, I can't wrap my head around someone moaning that name in bed. So let's just ignore that, okay?

How did this happen? Why did fate play you such a cruel and twisted hand?

When you were younger, you expected to be married off to be a housewife to a solider. From what you heard growing up, it wasn't a terrible life. The men were gone most of the time which allowed the women to run the household and raise children in peace. Unfortunately, your mother died during childbirth and your father, a humble farmer, passed away too early in life, leaving you and his few workers to keep the farm operating for as long as possible. To make money, you spent much of your time at the market, selling the food you made on the farm and the goods you weaved and molded from the scraps.

It wasn't enough. You lost the farm after a handful of years and you were on the brink of becoming destitute. Already you were malnourished and dehydrated, but as hard as you tried, you couldn't find work.

That was how you found yourself in a long line of women, standing silently with your heads bowed and your hands clasped as you were all throughly inspected by a senior officer of the Roman army. They were choosing their group of whores to hire to accompany the men on their next battle across the sea. You were left with no other option but to sell your only remaining asset. The thought turned your stomach, but the idea of starving to death was worse.

One by one, women were hand picked to step forward and exit the room. All in all it had to have been close to forty whores hired to service an entire army.

The odds were not in your favor if you were picked.

It came as a relief when you ended up not getting chosen. You breathed a deep sigh and lifted your chin, scanning the room of remaining women and senior ranking soldiers. You would make do somehow. At least you wouldn't be spreading your legs multiple times a night for different men after they've spent the day fighting and working up their appetite.

You turned to follow the women back out onto the streets of Rome, no doubt searching for another way to sell their bodies, when you heard a deep, familiar voice call your name. You froze in disbelief, wondering who could possibly know you, and then you slowly turned.

It was General Acacius. The fearless leader of the Roman army, but you knew him from your stand in the market. Whenever he was home from battle, he always found you and purchased more than he could possibly need, feeding you and your farmhands for weeks. He never said much and neither did you, but you had grown fond of seeing his greying curls and dark, smoldering eyes approach your stall, albeit with a new wound or scar to show for his travels.

You did not even realize he knew your name.

His eyes drifted up and down your worn tunic, noticing the stains and rips and your poor fitting sandals. Your gaze flickered nervously around the room at the other men impatiently looking to wrap up their work and begin their long journey, but remained silent, deferring to the general.

"You will come with us," was all he said, his voice booming in the small room. Your blood ran cold and panic seized your throat.

"But the choices have already been made-"

"I am paying. I believe I am allowed to decide how many whores we bring along."

You clamped your mouth shut, brows furrowing in anger. How foolish you were to assume he was a man of honor, a man who wanted to help you when he bought your meager wares in the market. As it turned out, he was no better than any other, only out to seek pleasure between your legs.

At that point, you knew better than to argue. Your fate was sealed. Begrudgingly, you forced yourself to follow after the other chosen women, walking past the high ranking officials who sized you up as you went.

The army was to travel by ship. Or multiple ships, to be exact. The women were counted off and told to stand in smaller groups, one handful of whores for each ship of hungry soldiers. When your group was assigned, you heard that familiar powerful voice come out of nowhere once again, stopping everybody in their paths.

"She is to travel on mine," General Acacius announced. A few men exchanged confused glances and Acacius grew irritated. "That one," he clarified, pointing directly at you. The other men quickly nodded and shuffled you into another group, and you thought that would be the end of it, but then he spoke again as the others began to board.

"She will stay in my chambers."

If the soldiers were surprised, they hid it well, but you didn't. You whipped around and glared at him defiantly, a litany of disrespectful curses on the tip of your tongue. Thankfully, you remembered your place and who you were speaking to and caught yourself before you got killed, but as you turned to board the ship, you noticed an amused smirk play across the general's lips.

A young solider shoved you into the general's quarters, ordering you to not go through his things or they would cut off your hands, then slammed the door shut, leaving you all alone. The rest of the women had gone below deck, most likely to a shared room that was filthy and freezing cold. You, on the other hand, had a beautiful soft bed and a roaring fire to warm yourself by a small wooden dining table. There was a bookshelf tucked into the corner and your fingers itched to pull the books out and examine them, but you didn't dare. Instead, you sat on the small cushioned bench next to the only porthole in the room, tucking your knees against your chest protectively while you waited for the inevitable.

Sleep took hold of you at some point while you waited for the general to retire. The last thing you remembered was the open sea and the glorious golden sun beginning to dip just below the horizon. When you awoke, it was dark, the only light in the room coming from the fire. You rubbed the sleep from your eyes and unfurled yourself from your bench to look around, then nearly yelped when you found the general quietly sitting at the table pouring himself wine.

Your heart raced violently in your chest, knowing full well what he expected of you. And despite offering yourself up earlier that day as a whore, you had decided you would not do it for this man. Because this man came to your booth in the market under the guise of kindness that turned out to be a lie, and it simply did not sit right with you.

"I will not lie with you willingly," you announced boldly with your arms crossed. The general quirked an eyebrow and took a long sip of his wine.

"When was the last time you have eaten?"

You scowled, body vibrating with energy and ready for a fight only to be met with indifference.

"I am not hungry."

"You will eat or you will die," he said, avoiding your eye and standing to collect a plate of food by the door. He dropped it onto the table and pointed angrily at it. "Eat."

"Why?"

"You need your strength, you are frail."

"You do not like your whores thin, then?" you shot back. Acacius clenched his jaw, eyes still cast down. "You wish to fatten me up so you have something to hold onto when you force my legs apart?"

"That is enough!" he roared, fiery eyes finally finding yours and pinning you with an intense stare that had you trembling. "I will not be forcing you to do anything except eat. Now sit down, do not test my patience."

It was a combination of fear and hunger that made you obey, sinking down into the chair opposite his where the plate of lukewarm food awaited you. Acacius sat down and picked up his goblet, watching you from over the rim as you slowly began to pick at the food. You both remained silent while you ate and he drank, the only sound to be heard was the crackling from the fire and the distant laughter and yells from his men in the galley below.

He was right. You hadn't eaten in days. It was no wonder you fell asleep so quickly earlier. You wanted to express your thanks, but you were too stubborn. Instead, you finished your food and put the plate in the basin of water by the door before looking around the room once again. It was easily the nicest room on the ship. You had to imagine most of the soldiers would be sleeping in hammocks stacked on top of one another down below, but the general had the biggest, softest looking bed you had ever seen in your life.

But there was only one.

He watched you from his place at the table, studying your face as you worked out the mechanics.

"I will not force myself upon you if we share the bed," he said, dragging your attention back to him. He was still in his armor, all shiny and clean from the public celebration that took place prior to the army's departure.

"Why am I here, if not to pleasure you?" you asked. You sounded calmer than before but you were still very much on edge.

"You believe I would find pleasure in forcing myself upon a woman?" he questioned before draining his cup. You thought about it for a moment and shrugged.

"Perhaps. Yes."

He stared down at his empty chalice, your heinous opinion of him rolling around in his head and making his chest ache.

"Well, I do not," he proclaimed, standing up quickly and causing his chair to almost topple backwards. He began to unhook his heavy armor, dropping it into a pile on the floor until he was down to his tunic.

"If we were to lie together, it would be because you wish it so," he said softly with his back to you. You swallowed thickly.

"What am I to do here, then?" you asked as he began to turn down his sheets. He slid his tired body into bed and sighed.

"Whatever you like. So long as you stay in this room, you will remain unharmed."

You blinked rapidly, desperately trying to put the pieces together.

"That is all?"

"Yes. That is all. My only wish is you are safe and fed."

You couldn't help it. You had to ask.

"But... why?"

But the general rolled onto his side, effectively ending your conversation and leaving you wondering what you had gotten yourself into.

That first night, you did not share his bed. You slept on the bench by your porthole, curled up small, arms wrapped around yourself protectively until the sun rose. When you awoke, the general was gone, but a plate of food was left on the table for you.

The first week on the ship went exactly the same. You stayed in his chambers, staring out at the sea or sleeping until he returned way past dark with some food for you and a tired look in his eye. And every night, you slept on the bench, still far too distrusting of him.

The second week, the general brought a game with him at dinner time. Two cups and two wooden dice. The idea was you had to guess what you would roll. If you won, you got whatever you bet on the round. It wasn't that entertaining at first since you had only the clothes on your back and nothing else, but what you did have were stories or songs or a slight of hand trick your father taught you when you were young.

You wouldn't realize until much later that it was his way of getting to know you better.

"You released all the cows from the pasture?" Acacius repeated in disbelief. You giggled and nodded.

"I was only six years old! I thought they were being held against their will!"

Acacius laughed, the sound making you grin like a fool and your cheeks warm.

"Alright," he said once he got ahold of himself. "Go on."

You picked up the die and tossed them into a cup, giving it a firm shake and smiling when he shot you a playful wink.

You clapped the cup firmly over the table and before you raised it up, you announced, "One three and one five."

"What is your wager?"

You nodded towards his bookshelf. "One of your books."

He looked up at you in shock. "You can read?"

You gave him a fake look of disgust and nodded. "Of course I can read."

"And you have been here this whole time without picking up a book?"

"Your men told me they would cut off my hands if I touched what is yours."

His face softened and he sat back in his chair.

"No one will touch you," he told you firmly. You stared at one another, the heavy moment weighing between you, the implication of his words impossible to deny. No one will touch you because you are his.

To break the tension, you smirked and said, "So I suppose that means I do not need to wager the books?"

Acacius grinned and shook his head. "Too late, little one."

You rolled your eyes and lifted the cup, pouting when you saw two six's.

"Your turn," you said, pushing the cup to the side.

Acacius collected the dice and dumped them into the cup, shaking it while looking at you curiously from across the table and admiring the way the light from the fire flickered over your beautiful face.

"You can still take a book."

You perked up but shook your head. "That is against the rules of the game, General."

"I make the rules. Take a book tomorrow," he insisted before slamming the cup down. His large hand gripped the top of the cup, keeping it pressed tightly against the table.

"Your wager?" you asked, cocking your head to the side.

He swallowed, wondering if he should say what he wanted to say. The fear that you would pull away from him again fought against the insatiable attraction he had harbored for you for years. But the wine must have won the fight because he said, "One kiss."

Your eyebrows shot up in surprise and for a moment, he thought he made a horrible mistake. But then you squared your jaw and narrowed your eyes and said, "Go ahead."

He grinned, pulse thrumming excitedly in his throat when he said, "One one and one four."

But when he lifted the cup, his face fell. A three and a six.

"Ah, well," he said, shoulders drooping. He yawned and stood to collect the dice. "Better luck tomorrow."

Before you could stop yourself, you stood as well and leaned up to peck a chaste kiss against his scruffy cheek. He looked at you in surprise and you gave him a crooked grin.

"For the book."

He smiled and nodded, doing his best to hide his disappointment as you got yourself ready for bed. You had a small pillow and thin blanket to curl up with by the porthole, and it irked him that you wouldn't take more. He feared you would catch a sickness and your malnourished body wouldn't be able to fight off an infection, but you were so stubborn that he couldn't convince you otherwise.

However, the third and final week at sea had you shivering on your bench. Acacius could hardly sleep knowing how cold you were. He could hear your teeth chattering from across the room.

"I beg of you, please sleep in my bed," he said one night as you began to make your little nest by the porthole. You shook your head.

"I am fine, I swear it."

"You are not fine. Please, I will not touch you, you have my word."

You chewed on your lower lip and looked over his shoulder at his warm, plush bed. He could see your resolve begin to falter, so he offered to sleep on the bench in your place.

"No, do not be ridiculous. You have an army to lead tomorrow, you cannot be tense as a knot because you slept on a too small bench."

"I will if it means you are safe and warm," he said softly, his vulnerability taking you off guard.

"General-" you sighed, but he cut you off.

"Please. I promise I will remain on my side of the bed. Just stop being so stubborn for once in your life."

You scoffed and propped your hands on your hips. "For once in my life? And what would you know of it?"

He squinted at you and crossed his arms. "I know more than you think. I know you would not quit until you broke in that filly when you were twelve years old. I know you nearly pushed a boy down a well when he tried to kiss you in front of the whole school. I know you argued with your teacher over the correct spelling of amaranth and I know you poured every last bit of yourself into a dying farm just to keep the memory of your father alive."

Your jaw hung open in surprise, taken aback by the way he stored all of the little snippets of your life you had given him over the past two weeks only to end it with his own observation of you at the market.

You could feel yourself growing weak for him, the temptation to give in too much to bear. He had been slowly wearing you down since you arrived and perhaps he was right, perhaps you were far too stubborn because the last thing you wanted to do was go back on the proclamation you made that very first night.

So, you chose to be defiant.

"Fine," you snapped, swiveling on your heel and stomping towards his bed. "If you wish to share your bed with a whore so badly, then so be it."

Acacius rounded the bed and slipped in beside you, making sure to leave plenty of space.

"You and I both know you are no whore."

"Oh, you know so very much about me, I forget."

You tugged the heavy blankets up to your chin and tried not to audibly sigh at how comfortable it was in his bed.

"If you are a whore, tell me then: how many men have you laid with?"

You clenched your jaw, angry that he was able to figure you out so easily. Instead of answering, you rolled onto your side, your back to him, and muttered, "good night."

Acacius grinned and closed his eyes, proud of himself for besting you.

"Good night."

The following morning, you awoke earlier than usual. When your eyelids fluttered open, the first thing you noticed was the ache in your bones was gone. The large, soft bed had been enough to cure you in just one night.

Not something you planned on admitting to the general, of course.

The second thing you noticed when you sat up in bed was that the ship was not moving. It was completely still, and you could hear loud, quick footsteps outside your door and above your head. Men were shouting to one another and the clink of swords and armor were echoing throughout the halls. Then, through the walls somewhere above you, you heard the general's deep, booming voice yelling orders to his men. You threw off the blankets and hurried to the porthole, your eyes widening when you saw land and small boats being lowered into the water.

You had arrived at whatever distant land the emperors demanded Acacius claim for Rome, and the soldiers were getting ready to depart for their first fight.

You chewed nervously on your nail, curled up against the wall and peering out the window for hours until the very last boat sailed away. In the distance, you could see the general's broad back covered in armor, his dark curls fluttering in the sea breeze and his massive sword tucked dutifully at his waist.

He had left for war and didn't even say goodbye.

Why would you care if he said goodbye? Maybe if they all die, you could escape to shore and be free, find a new city and make a home for yourself.

Even you had to admit that fantasy was foolish. No matter where you went, your fate would always be the same. You had no money, no prospects, no skills and no family. Your destiny was already written and it was a miracle your first attempt at prostitution landed you in the cushy quarters of Rome's surprisingly respectful general.

Your nerves kept your feet moving all day. You tidied up the general's desk, sorting his papers and maps. You scrubbed at the dishware until they sparkled and you made the bed, fluffing up the pillows and tucking in the loose edges until you had nothing left to do. The room was as neat as possible, not a single item out of place, and yet you still floundered around looking for something to occupy your busy mind.

When the sun began to dip and his room grew darker, you went around lighting candles to allow for more light. You were in the middle of lighting the last candle when you heard a timid knock at the door.

Nobody had ever come to his chambers the entire three weeks besides the general himself. You swallowed anxiously, wondering who it could be and if you should answer when you heard a woman's small voice from the other side of the door.

You decided it was safe and opened the door a crack to find one of the whores you had boarded the ship with waiting on the other side with buckets of water and a basin.

"For the general," she said softly. You nodded and dragged the buckets into the room, trying not to stare at the bruises and dirt littering her dry skin. Your stomach twisted with guilt after she left and you locked the door. The other women were living like cattle and you were living the life of luxury. Not only was the general not forcing you to fuck him, but you were giving him sass at every turn.

It was a harsh reminder of your fortune, of what your life could be like. The thought of living the life of the women below deck frightened you, so you had decided that evening when the general returned, you would give yourself to him to show your appreciation, as well as out of fear he would soon get rid of you if you didn't give him what he wanted.

You remained at your post, staring out at the dark sea until you could see the bobbing of lanterns making their way across the black expanse, letting you know the men were returning for the night. You rushed to warm up his water over the fire, dumping it into the large basin. You poured some scented oils into the bath just as the door unlocked and opened, revealing a very filthy and exhausted looking general holding two plates of food.

"Good evening," you said, standing obediently. Acacius paused at the door, confused by your formality before closing it with his heel and setting down the food at the table. "I have a warm bath ready for you, General," you added, pointing towards the basin. He nodded tiredly and began to work on the hooks of his armor. You rushed forward to help him, once again taking him by surprise until he was stripped down to his red tunic.

"Would you like to eat or bathe first?" you asked. The general sighed and looked longingly at the bath.

"I will clean myself while you eat," he said. He pointed towards the table and motioned for you to turn around.

"May I assist you instead, General?" you asked with your back turned. You could hear the shuffle of fabric falling to the wooden floor and then a sharp hiss when he sunk down into the warm water.

"Assist me with what? Cleansing myself? I believe I can manage," he chuckled. You turned around to stare at the back of his head, his body now submerged in the water and hidden from view, but you could still see his shoulders and arms. They looked bruised and bloodied.

He didn't notice your eyes on him, of course. He was busy scrubbing the dirt and blood from his skin while he looked around the tidy room.

"It is very nice in here, you did not have to straighten up."

It was the least you could do and you knew it but said nothing.

Instead, you shakily lifted your worn tunic over your head and let it crumple to the floor. Nerves fluttered in your stomach as you slowly approached him, the general completely unaware as he continued to scrub his skin.

"I can think of another way to assist you," you said nervously as you stepped into his eyeline. His chin tilted up and he did a double take when he saw your naked form standing before him. His cloth dropped into the water and his jaw fell open in surprise, eyes wide and greedily raking over your body.

"Wh- what is this?" he stammered, gaze glued to your chest. Your fingers fidgeted at your sides under his scrutiny.

"I thought I would show you my appreciation for your hospitality," you explained. "I would like to repay you in some way for choosing me to share your quarters."

A small smile tugged at his lips as he eagerly reached forward, then stopped when he registered your words. He looked up at you questioningly, excitement falling from his face when he asked, "What do you mean, repay me?"

You shrugged and took a hesitant step forward, close enough now so he could reach out and touch your cunt if he chose.

"I realized today my fate could have been much harsher," you explained. "I have not been showing you my appreciation and respect, and in return, I wish to give you my body to use as you see fit."

Acacius frowned and turned his head away, searching for the cloth so he could continue cleaning himself.

"I do not want your body as payment, I believe I told you that weeks ago."

"You said we would not lie together unless I wished it so," you protested. "I now wish it."

"You wish to lay with me out of obligation, not desire. That is not something I want."

Embarrassment and confusion flooded your mind as you slowly stretched your arms across your exposed body, trying to hide yourself out of shame.

"I apologize-"

"Get yourself decent and eat," he commanded without looking up. His voice sounded hard and cold and for some reason, it made you want to cry. You did as you were told, dragging your dirty tunic over your head and sat quietly at his table to pick at your food. You were confused and ashamed, sitting in the tense room with him while you tried to work out what he wanted from you. The idea of wanting a man out of desire never occurred to you. You had grown up under the impression women of your station did not get to experience the luxury of desire, and instead came to terms early on in life that you always had one asset to use at your disposal.

Not one time did you ever imagine being with a man out of affection or love.

"I apologize," you tried again after he had dried off and joined you. He had changed into a clean, white tunic and was clenching a similar one in his fist.

"You may use this," he said, ignoring your apology yet again. He thrusted the tunic towards you and you fumbled when you took it from his grasp. "The one you are wearing looks as if it might fall apart the moment you step outside and feel the sea breeze."

"Thank you," you murmured, fingertips brushing over the soft and expensive material in your lap.

"I will also call for more water tomorrow so you may wash yourself," he said before biting into a chunk of bread.

Your cheeks went hot with shame, still feeling guilt over the mercy and generosity he had shown you.

"I do not know what it is to desire someone," you said after a few quiet moments. Acacius continued to chew and kept his focus fixed on his plate. "I never imagined it would be a part of my life. May I remind you we come from different worlds."

He grunted in response but you noticed his shoulders begin to relax.

"I understand. But you must stop treating yourself as a whore. You are so much more than that, I have seen it with my own eyes. And to watch you debase yourself, to think so lowly of yourself, breaks my heart."

Your breath caught in your throat and you felt tears begin to well up, quickly threatening to spill down your cheeks. How could you have been so wrong? How could you not see the man for who he really was? He was a man who was gentle, kindhearted, protective and most importantly, cared very deeply for you. To what extent, you were unsure, but if he wanted you to desire him and he saved you from being used by countless other men, he certainly must have harbored stronger feelings than you ever thought possible.

"Alright."

His dark eyes flicked up to yours when you spoke.

"I will not debase myself," you said flatly. The corner of his mouth twitched before he looked back down at his food.

"Very well. I am pleased that has been sorted," he replied before shoving his plate off to the side and standing to collect the cups and dice. "Shall we play a few rounds before bed?"

You grinned and nodded, gathering up your plates and dumping them in the water by the door to clean later before joining him back at the table. And somehow, the awkwardness from the evening faded away after a few rolls of the dice.

It had been two weeks docked off shore on some foreign land. You hadn't left his room in over a month and you were beginning to feel insane. You told him as much early one morning when he was dressing for battle. It was still dark outside. Acacius had mentioned he wanted to arrive on shore before dawn so that he might get into position under the cover of night.

"When I return tonight, I will take you up on the deck for some fresh air," he promised as he cinched up his armor. "Do not leave this room when I am not here."

"Why not? Are your men not with you during the daytime?" you asked from his bed.

"It is not my men I worry about," he explained, sheathing his sword after lacing up his sandals.

"Then what do you worry for?"

"I worry about everything," he confessed. His hand was on the doorknob poised to leave, but he stopped to turn to you one last time. "I do not trust the soldiers from this city not to try to climb aboard the ships whilst we are gone. It is important the ships appear empty."

You nodded in understanding before burrowing back in his sheets and he couldn't help but smile at the sight of you looking comfortable and radiant in his bed.

"Behave, my dove, and we may dine on the deck tonight," he said, making you smile wide. He slipped quietly out of his room and locked the door behind him, fearful if he lingered any longer, he may not leave the ship the whole day.

You spent the afternoon reading and bathing and cleaning the general's dirty clothes in the extra water he had brought up after he left. You weren't sure how it happened, but the two of you had fallen into a life of domesticity amidst war without even sharing so much as a kiss.

What surprised you the most was you enjoyed it. You enjoyed tending to his things and cleaning what you could during the day, and then caring for him at night when he returned all bloodied and tired.

It had not once crossed your mind that he may not return until it happened.

That night, you saw the lanterns bobbing over the water, your signal to begin heating up his water for a bath. Your hair smelled like the expensive oils you poured into his water from your own bath earlier. You smiled to yourself when you thought of smelling like him, and him of you.

Heavy footsteps landed on the wooden floorboards above your head and outside your door. At first, nothing seemed amiss. Acacius usually didn't come to his room right away. He typically visited the wounded soldiers in the infirmary, making sure they were well tended to and fed before doing his rounds, assigning a night crew, and then finally gathering food for you both before retiring for the evening.

But more time passed than usual. You could tell because your stomach began to rumble and his water grew lukewarm. You paced around the room, ears straining to hear the voices from the other soldiers, trying to discern anything from their muffled conversations.

It wasn't until two hours went by that you heard a sharp rap at the door and a man's voice echoing on the other side, announcing he brought you food.

Your blood went cold and you wondered if you should open the door, but then you remembered Acacius told you he wasn't worried about his own men, the underlying message being that his soldiers would never touch what was his. So after a moment's hesitation, you swung open the door.

"Here," a young man said, shoving one plate of food towards you. His face was stained with dried blood and dirt and you frowned before taking the food and thanking him softly.

"Where is the general?" you asked timidly.

"He fell in battle," he grumbled before turning away. Your heart plummeted as you reached out and grabbed his shoulder, taking him by surprise.

"What do you mean?" you exclaimed. Fear and adrenaline mixed with something foreign coursed through your veins as you felt your lower lip tremble. The solider shook you off with disgust before stepping back.

"He was struck down. Last I saw of him he was lying still on the battlefield."

When he saw the look of despair on your face, he took pity on you.

"Others were assisting him, his body will return to Rome," he assured you before giving you a firm nod and disappearing down the long hall, leaving you to collapse into a fit of sobs behind the locked door.

The feeling you had in your chest was similar to the way you felt when your father passed, but something was different. It felt like a piece of you went dark, like you may never smile or laugh ever again. Grief consumed every fiber of your being and you found yourself crawling into his bed, face streaked with tears so thick you could hardly see your hands reach for his pillow. You pulled it tightly against your chest and you curled up around it, muffling your wails until your head began to pound and your body felt weak.

You drifted in and out of sleep, tossing and turning until the room grew cold and the fire dissolved into embers. You stood and wrapped a blanket around yourself, sniffling and shuffling over to the fire to stoke the flames wearing the general's spare tunic he had gifted you. After a few minutes, the fire roared back to life and you sat back with a heavy sigh.

Just as you were wondering what you would do come morning and how you would ever be able to move on without him, you heard footsteps approaching. You whipped around in fear and tightened your grip on the blanket. With the general no longer around to protect you, you had assumed the other men would eventually come looking for you, but you had to admit you didn't expect it so fast.

You curled yourself into a ball on your old bench, staring at the doorknob, expecting to see it jiggle and eventually forced open from the other side, but to your surprise the lock clicked quietly and the door slowly creaked open.

When you saw the general appear, limping and bloodied but still alive, you practically screamed. You jumped to your feet and rushed over, moments away from throwing yourself into his arms before you caught yourself.

"Acacius," you whispered in disbelief, the informality slipping easily past your lips for the very first time. He gave you a tired smile and locked the door behind him.

"I apologize for missing dinner," he said. You laughed as two fresh tears trickled down your cheeks. Your hands hovered nervously over his armor as if you weren't sure where you could touch him.

"Apology accepted," you replied before gingerly unhooking the armor around his shoulders. He groaned with relief when you lifted the heavy metal off him and set it against the wall by the door to polish another time. When you turned back around, you gasped at the blood that had seeped through his tunic, staining the yellow fabric a dark red.

"You are hurt," you whimpered, then hurried around his room for clean cloths, healing oils, and salves he kept in his desk. "Take that off and sit down. Allow me to tend to your wound."

He wordlessly lifted the ruined tunic over his head, wincing slightly when the wound at his side pulled, and he sat down at the table just as you instructed. You collected some of the unused water from his bath and set it over the flames to warm up before scooping up some more and setting it on the table next to him.

"They stemmed the bleeding on the boat," he explained. "It just needs to be cleaned and perhaps -"

"I will handle this. You just rest and eat," you told him, pushing your plate of uneaten food in his direction. His eyes fell onto the food and he frowned.

"It is untouched," he said, "why did you not eat?"

"How could I when I thought you were dead?" you snapped as you brought a soaked rag to his side and began to gently pat at the nasty looking gash.

Acacius took a bite of food, the flavors melting onto his tongue and making him groan. He didn't realize how hungry he was and before he knew it, he had eaten all of the food except for the grapes. You were leaning across his lap, bandaging up his wound with intense focus. He sighed contentedly, basking in the warmth from the fire and the soft touch of your hand on his skin. He could already feel his strength beginning to return.

"That should hold," you said, sitting upright to inspect your work. He glanced down and raised his eyebrows at the neat little bandage you had adhered to his wound.

"You did a very good job. Where did you learn such things?"

You shrugged and began to clean up the salves and oils. "On a farm, many accidents happen. You learn quickly how to tend to a wound."

He smiled and sipped from the wine you had poured for him while watching you move around the room, disposing of his soiled clothes and rags and then bringing the bucket of warm water over to the table with a fresh cloth.

When you pulled the other chair closer and sat, fitting your legs between his knees so you could reach him, he began to protest.

"You do not need to -"

"I want to," you said, cutting him off with a warm, wet cloth on his aching shoulders. His eyelids fluttered with a groan, leaning back into his chair and giving in. It felt so wonderful to be washed by your hand, to have you so close and safe while tenderly caring for him. It was all he had been dreaming about for years, ever since the first day he saw you at the market.

"So many scars," you whispered, swiping the cloth down his broad, strong chest. His breathing stuttered when you reached his stomach and he tensed.

"I have been in many battles," he murmured with his eyes still closed. You hummed to yourself and continued to work, diligently and carefully scrubbing away the layers of blood and grime until you cleaned everything you could see.

"Can you lean forward, General?" you asked, "I would like to cleanse your back."

He nodded and with a grunt, sat upright so he could lean forward. You stood from your chair and positioned yourself behind him, taking great care with every swipe of your cloth, afraid of unearthing a new wound under all the filth.

"Back to general now, are we?" he asked.

Your hand paused on his shoulder blade. He sensed your confusion and he chuckled.

"When I first arrived, you called me Acacius," he explained.

"Oh," you breathed before continuing your work. "That was disrespectful, I -"

"No, I quite liked it," he said before you could finish apologizing. "You may call me Marcus when we are alone, if you prefer."

Your eyes widened and although he couldn't see you, he could tell you were surprised.

"That would be highly irregular," you finally said softly, putting down the wet cloth and picking up a bottle of perfumed oil. You sprinkled a few drops into your palm and you rubbed your hands together. "That name should only be used by those closest to you."

He opened his mouth to respond but when your slick hands found his shoulders and your fingers began to dig into the knots in his muscles, he moaned and felt himself go lax.

"Oh gods, that feels incredible," he rasped. The deep timber of his voice sent a wave of arousal right to your core. You continued to work on his back and shoulders, privately marveling at his broad frame and firm muscles under his scarred, bronzed skin. He was truly something to behold. So strong, handsome, and fearless. Yet also kind and gentle. The proximity of his body and the ricocheting emotions you had experienced that evening had you reacting to him in a way you never had before. It was confusing and strange yet also exciting, and the noises you were drawing from his mouth with every roll of your thumbs was causing a dull ache to form between your thighs.

You blinked and cleared your throat, trying to shake the heavy curtain of lust that clung to you.

"What happened out there? One of your men informed me you were dead."

Marcus sighed and sat up straight, the angle causing you to drop your hands from his tight shoulders. One of his massive hands reached back to take yours so he could lead you to stand in front of him, between his knees.

"They had called a truce. They requested to discuss terms of surrender, so I called off my men and went to speak with their king," he began, his hand still engulfing your own as he gazed up at you with his soft, dark eyes. "It was a trap. They ambushed me when I got out of range. It must have been twenty of them," he continued solemnly, his thumb brushing against your wrist as he spoke. "I slayed them all, one by one, but once I took down their final solider, an archer took aim from the wall. I was able to dodge the arrow but I was not quick enough," he chuckled and looked down at his wound. "I am not the young man I once was."

"I cried for hours," you admitted quietly. His eyes darted up to yours again, holding his breath as you spoke. "I had never considered you would not return to me at the end of the day. However, when I got word you had died-"

You paused when a sob got lodged in your throat. You knit your brows together, hoping to stave off your tears while Marcus patiently waited. Eventually, you gave him a watery smile and lifted your free hand to cup his cheek.

"I felt a grief I never thought I would feel again," you said, voice shaking. His eyes searched your face, watching the way your anguish rolled through you at the memory. He swallowed tightly and, with his other hand, gently gripped your waist.

"Tell me," he whispered, "did you feel these things only because you feared for your safety if I was not here?"

You shook your head as one singular tear trickled down your cheek.

"No," you breathed, "it was because I felt like a part of me died, too. Because I could not imagine my life without you."

When you saw the joyful look in his eye, you quickly closed the remaining distance between you, leaning down the rest of the way and slanting your mouth desperately over his. He moaned and dropped your hand so he could cup the back of your neck, pulling you even closer so you were forced to straddle his lap.

"Do you know what you do to me?" he groaned amid kisses that were growing increasingly messy as the heat between you grew. "How badly I want you? How long I have waited?"

Your mind was blank. You couldn't think of a single thing to say, but Marcus didn't give you a chance to respond, anyway. His tongue slipped past your lips, greedily swirling in tandem with yours and forcing your jaw to open wider. The hand on your waist dropped to flatten against your lower back and he pressed you forward so not even a sliver of moonlight could sneak between your bodies.

Underneath your gifted tunic, you were bare. When you joined the other whores all those weeks ago, they told you there was no use for undergarments, that the men would just destroy them if you bothered to wear any, so just like all the others, you never did. It had never been a problem until that very moment, when Marcus had you writhing in his lap, hips stretched wide and cunt free to rub against his thigh. When you first made contact with his leg, the firm muscle brushing against your sensitive clit, you jumped in his lap and moaned into his mouth.

"Tell me, sweet thing," he murmured when he finally broke the kiss. You were panting heavily, eyelids drooping with need as you gazed down at him. "I know you have not sold yourself to a man, but have you ever laid with one before?"

You shook your head and wrapped your arms around the back of his neck, holding him close. His lips brushed up against your throat and he began to suck on the sensitive skin there as both of his hands fell to your hips. Gently, he rocked you back and forth, sliding your slick, bare cunt over his thigh. He heard you sigh and smiled against your skin when your head dipped backwards in pleasure.

"Does that feel good?"

"Yes," you whispered, voice raspy and thick. "Oh, yes, it feels... heavenly," you told him with a sigh.

"Good," he grunted, "keep going. Do not stop until you come. I will need you soft and wet before you take my cock."

"Yes, General," you replied obediently, making his cock jump behind his thin loincloth.

Marcus tugged at the back of your loose tunic, stretching the material across your breasts so your hardened nipples poked through. With a low growl, he lunged forward and wrapped his mouth around one, cloth and all. His teeth added a surprisingly tantalizing amount of pressure that had you gasping for air as your hips quickened their pace over his thigh. You must have been leaving streaks of arousal all over him but something told you he didn't mind.

"You desire me, yes?" he questioned when he switched his attention to your other breast. You nodded feverishly, face tilted towards the ceiling as you chased your pleasure.

"Yes," you gasped, "yes, Ge- Marcus."

He groaned so loudly you thought he might wake up the whole ship.

"Fuck, say that again."

You smiled and circled your hips faster, grinding down onto his thick leg. You were so close, you could taste it.

"Marcus," you whined, "oh, Marcus. I cannot wait to feel you inside of me. I just know you will make me feel so good, will you not?"

Suddenly, his hand was back on your neck and his mouth was pressed tightly against the underside of your jaw, not unlike a wild animal pinning his prey against his sharp fangs. You could feel his hot puffs of air fanning across your skin and his teeth scraping your throat. His intensity might have frightened you if you weren't on the brink of an earth shattering orgasm.

"I will make you feel so good, you will never want to take another lover again," he said darkly. The hairs on your arms stood up but you continued to rut yourself as fast as you could against his thigh, your own chest heaving as you fought for air. "And if I have it my way, you never will," he added.

His words were what tipped you over the edge. You cried out his name and clutched at his shoulders for support as your orgasm rolled through you, covering him with your slick.

Your body was still trembling in his arms when he lifted you up and carried you to the bed. You blinked rapidly in response, poised to argue with him about potentially reopening his wound, but before you could get a single word out he had tossed you onto the sheets and climbed on top of you, caging you in.

"Before I ravish you, my sweet, what do you know of coupling?"

You scoffed. "I am no fool, I know how it works."

Marcus chuckled at your snark and sat back on his heels to peel your tunic over your head, exposing yourself entirely to him. A groan rumbled through his wide, bare chest as he stared down at you hungrily, all spread out and ready for him.

"I cannot lie. Ever since you first stood before me naked, your beautiful body has consumed my every waking thought."

"It shows incredible restraint, then, for you to share a bed with me each night," you teased, eyes dancing playfully as he stripped himself of his loincloth.

"You have no idea," he growled, falling back onto his forearms. The tip of his nose nudged against yours affectionately. "I have waited years for this, my sweet."

The idea of any man pining after you, let alone the mighty General of Rome, was a strange and foreign concept.

"I am just the daughter of a poor farmer," you muttered, fingers brushing his peppered curls behind his ear.

"Your station means very little to me," he replied, looking down between your bodies so he could notch the thick head of his cock at your opening. "The heart wants what the heart wants."

Your pulse quickened when you felt the slight bit of pressure he applied. Knowing how it worked was one thing, experiencing it for the first time was another.

"I-I was told it may hurt," you said meekly. Marcus's eyes found yours and he tenderly cupped your jaw.

"Yes, that is true, but I promise it will not last long," he assured you. You swallowed and nodded before spreading your legs wider and hooking your ankles around the backs of his thighs.

"Tell me if it is too much," he murmured. He pressed your foreheads together, lips hovering above yours, ready to soothe you from the pain.

"Go on, then," you said bravely.

Slowly, he breeched your opening and sunk one inch inside of you. You gasped and dug your heels harder into his thighs, but Marcus held steady.

"Speak," he demanded after a few seconds of listening to your heavy breathing.

"It stings," you admitted, "but it is not... unpleasant."

He nodded and pecked a chaste kiss against your lips before giving you another inch. You whined and squirmed a bit but once you settled, he took it as his cue to continue. It went just like that until he finally found himself fully seated inside of your tight heat.

"The worst is over, my sweet," he told you.

You wiggled underneath him, moving this way and that until you got used to the feeling of him inside you. Your hands wrapped around the backs of his biceps and you stretched your neck so you could bite and nip playfully at his prickly jaw.

"I enjoy being full of you," you admitted shyly, eliciting a grunt from the back of his throat.

"Good," he grumbled before drawing back his hips and slowly easing himself back inside your warmth. "Because I intend on having you full of me as much as possible. I fear I will never have enough now that you have given me a taste."

Your jaw dropped open when he began to move faster, gently and steadily working you open, carving a space for himself inside of you forever. The only thing you wanted was to have him as close as you could, so you wrapped your arms around him and buried your face against his neck, molding your bodies together as one.

"My sweet girl," he panted, mouth hunting for yours. "You feel better than I ever dreamed. So fucking tight and wet. I cannot believe my fortune, that you would give yourself to me. I wonder if I did indeed die in battle and have ascended to the heavens."

The stretch was divine, his heavy length dragging in and out of you and nudging against a spot that made your stomach clench and your head grow fuzzy.

"Do not say such things," you scolded him breathlessly. His hips stilled for a moment, waiting for you to continue. "Do not jest about your death. My heart cannot handle it."

His eyes softened and his mouth crashed against yours with a groan, overcome that you would feel so strongly for him. He began to roll his hips again but kept his mouth latched onto yours, swallowing down your whimpers and moans.

"I will never leave you," he whispered against your lips. His thrusts grew quicker but he tried his best to be careful and not drive himself too deep for fear of causing you pain. "I will always return now that I have you waiting for me. I shall be invincible in battle."

You laughed lightly, dragging your mouth down his throat and tasting his freshly perfumed skin.

"Was that all it took for you to become immortal?" you teased.

"Yes," he hissed, "a cunt as snug and perfect as yours is all a man needs to give him purpose."

His hand slithered between your back and sheets, pressing his palm firmly against your spine so you arched underneath him. His knees spread wider so he could get better leverage, and he began to roughly snap his hips. You gasped and grabbed onto his hair, giving it a sharp tug and making him groan. It was lewd yet somehow romantic, hearing the sound of your skin slapping together in the otherwise quiet room.

"Does it hurt?" he managed to ask through clenched teeth.

"No," you whimpered inbetween the soft moans he drew every time his cock slammed back into you. "Oh gods, Marcus, please-"

"What do you need, my love?"

He sounded breathless, his voice slightly strained, and your chest burst with pride. You loved the idea of being the one who made such a strong man so very weak.

"I- I am not sure," you admitted truthfully. "It feels so wonderful, but it is different than before."

As it turned out, you didn't need to figure out what you needed because Marcus knew. Somehow, he managed to know your body better than you. He knew how to make it sing and thrum just for him.

His hand snuck between your bodies and the pad of his thumb found your clit. He rubbed firm, slow circles over the sensitive bud, and his name instantly flew from your mouth, loud and wild. You likely could be heard from shore, but Marcus never shushed you. In fact, he smiled and worked his thumb faster, drawing out more delicious moans with every stroke.

"You are so beautiful," he murmured while sucking a mark into your neck. He could feel your lower belly begin to tense and heard your breath waver, so he circled his hips faster, cock greedily plunging in and out of your soaked cunt, chasing his release with reckless abandon now that he could feel you were close.

"I have obsessed over you for years. Dreamed of having you all to myself, just like this," he continued. He could sense his words had a great effect on you. Your walls fluttered and pulsed around him when he admitted his deepest secrets, so he kept talking.

"Long nights spent on the cold ground in the middle of war, I would dream of you. I would wonder what you would be doing back in Rome. I would pray you did not find a husband while I was away."

Marcus gasped when your cunt gripped around him so tightly that it took his breath away. "The thought of you belonging to another was enough to drive me insane," he groaned before capturing your lips with his.

"I am yours," you rasped when he pulled away, and when your eyes locked, he could see the adoration he felt for you reflected right back. "For as long as you will have me, I am yours."

Marcus's eyes slid closed in bliss after hearing the words he so longed to hear. "Come for me, my love. Come for me and when we return home, I shall make you my wife. I will take care of you. I promise you will never go hungry again."

Your hands grappled with the back of his head, fingers threading through his unruly locks as you pulled him down for a searing kiss. He muffled the sounds of your orgasm, cries of his name dying in your throat while your body bucked wildly beneath him.

It only took a few moments before he joined you. With his hand roughly squeezing your hip, he yanked you towards him. His body stilled, pumping you full of his seed while your tongues danced together in tandem until his shoulders sagged and you began to shake.

Marcus flicked the sheets so he could toss them over your trembling bodies. He planted kisses along the side of your head and jaw, then brushed the hair away from your face until your breathing leveled and your eyes reopened.

"Are you alright?"

You nodded and gave him a weak smile. "I am tired."

Marcus withdrew his hips, sliding his softening cock out from your clutch. You cried out in pain and he instantly jolted out of bed to soak a clean rag in some leftover warm water, then hurried back to press it between your legs.

"Better?"

"Yes," you sighed. "Thank you."

He gave you a quick kiss and slid back under the covers. He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into his chest so he could nuzzle your hair and murmur sweet nothings in your ear.

"Must you leave me in the morning? Can you not spend just one day recovering from your wound?"

Marcus kissed your bare shoulder and shook his head.

"The war is almost done. Tomorrow, I will make them surrender so we may sail home and start our life together."

You grinned and burrowed deeper under the covers. "Did you mean that?"

"What is that, my love?"

"When you said you would make me your wife," you said sheepishly. "Or was that just your mind getting lost to desire?"

"No, I meant every word," he said before rolling over and snuffing out the candle next to the bed. "When we return to Rome, I will make you my bride. You will bear my children and I will watch them play in the garden with you by my side."

You hummed and closed your eyes. "That sounds lovely."

You had very little idea of the politics in Rome and how the highest ranking general of the Roman army could possibly announce he was going to wed a poor farmer's daughter, but you knew deep down if Marcus wanted it, he would somehow make it happen. You knew this because his determination always won, on and off the battlefield.

After all, you were living proof of it.

#marcus acacius #marcus acacius x reader #marcus acacius x you #marcus acacius x female reader #Marcus acacius x f!reader #gladiator 2 fic #gladiator ii #gladiator 2 fanfiction #gladiator 2 fanfic #the farmer's daughter fic

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pedrosyouknowwhat · 23 days ago

Text

Hold them down

Summary: After years of missing your husband, your suitor decides to take matters into his hands.

Pairings: Dark! Suitor! Marcus Acacius x Queen! Reader

Warnings: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, Noncon, unprotected sex (p in v) forced infidelity?, plotting of rape, historical inaccuracies, manipulation, rough rough sex, loss of virginity (and related blood), breeding kink, size kink, corruption kink, bondage, planned murder, dark dark and dark,

Inspired by the Epic Musical and the original Odyssey!

Series Masterlist

After the Twin Emperors had fallen, the Gladiator Hanno rose to power, being recognized by Lucilla as his long lost son, Lucius Verus. Succeeding his rise to power, his first order was to have Macrinus, a wealthy businessman and slave owner, executed for his treason against the Democracy of Rome and clear General Acacius' name.

Having decided not to love another woman after the death of his wife, he opted for a political marriage to benefit the city. Cherry picked by senators as the finest of eligible bachelors, you were a perfect match for the new Emperor.

Arriving to Rome from your certainly smaller yet blooming city, Lucius had clarified that he didn't intend in taking you as a lover, rather than as a companion and ally for his ruling; and when the day of giving the kingdom a heir came, the affair would be short and, well he didn't exactly said that word but, meaningless.

You weren't discontented in his boundaries, you weren't there to find a lover but to enlarge the possibilities of your kingdom. As years went by, Lucius had become tender with you, unlike the city that suddenly demanded a Prince. However, as Rome transitioned into a prosperous city, the people seemed to be appeased by being fed and war-less.

As a way to erase Geta and Caracalla's history, Lucius decided to free the colonies in Africa himself, so two years after your marriage he had embarked.

"Take care of Rome for me." He smiled in your bittersweet goodbye, holding your hands in his.

"And who will take care of me then?" You joked, feeling the rough finger pads of his work torn hands; his eyes fell behind your frame, with a confident smile.

"I actually have that covered;" You followed his eye line to see the broad, dark figure behind you. General Marcus Acacius himself, for some a Valiant Hero of Rome, for others, another victim of the deceased emperors' terror. "Acacius will be your personal Guard, in case anyone attempts anything against the Empress of Rome."

Despite the eerie way the General's big brown eyes seemed to narrow over you, you learnt to feel safe with his presence, despite being behind you at all time. It kept you calm as people begun questioning the Emperor's absence, a you begun to question it too.

A year passed, and rumors spread about wars breaking out in the colonies due to their new found freedom. Exploited colonies at war trying to survive from spoils of war, predictable really, but Lucius had wrote to you, soothing you that he was aiding the reconstruction of those societies. That was the last time he had wrote.

Another year went by, and the flourishing nature of Rome kept people from questioning the Emperor's absence, but not you. Your nights became sleepless, as you pondered around your room, perhaps hoping for sudden news, confirmation of something, anything. It was a cold night when your insomnia made you think about the man standing outside your bedroom door. General Acacius.

Silently, in case you regretted it, you tiptoed towards the big ornate door from your shared chambers, and cracked it open. There he stood, clad in his armor as the dim lights of the hallway torches illuminated his face; his right cheekbone held a scar, visible in the warm lighting as he slowly came to look at you. In his two years as your shadow, you had never taken your time to look at him.

"My Queen," He whispered sternly, eyebrows furrowing. "Why are you still awake at this hours?"

You licked your lips guiltily, and his gaze fell onto the thin, almost see through sleepwear you had on under the blanket draped over your shoulders. He could trace the outline of your navel...

"May you come in?" You asked, tucking a stray piece of hair behind your shoulder as you realized how inappropriate this was, but you didn't care; perhaps his war experience could help you calm down. "I cannot conceal sleep, and someone to talk to could be nice."

He obeyed silently, sneaking through the crack on the door. The Emperor's chambers held an extravagant amount of luxuries, left behind by the old Emperor Geta; Lucius had wanted to get rid of them, but as producing an heir, he never got the time to do it.

Acacius' gaze fell over the bed, only your side disrupted as if Lucius was coming back anytime soon. You had sat down in a velvet chair beside the fireplace, hands clutched over a golden cup of raspberry wine. He walked over to you in slow steps, as if expecting you to tell him the issue and leave when commanded. If you hadn't gazed expectantly at the chair beside you, he probably wouldn't have sat down.

"I am unease by Lucius' absence," You confessed, despite the obviousness. "I heard rumors he was fine, back in Numidia, building houses, but he hasn't written to me in over a year."

Acacius hummed, showing he was listening, however your wild eyes indicated that you wanted an answer. "Your concern is reasonable, my Empress, the city shares your discomfort."

You furrowed your brows at his words, surprised the matter was relevant enough to discuss. "I had only heard some questions, but I believe the people knew his circumstances."

"It isn't that they dislike you;" He clarified, sending relief down your stomach. "In fact, they adore you."

You felt your lips twist into a small smile in his words.

"They adore you so much they trust you to rule if, of course let's pray not, Lucius doesn't return."

Your stomach sank once again at the possibility, but Acacius gave you a warm smirk, as if it was a compliment.

"The issue is..." He hesitated, and you saw the reflection of the flames in the brown of his eyes as he looked at you, seriously. "the succession."

You hummed, intrigued to what he was meaning. Your eyes asked him to explain more, and he let out a breathe when the blanket slipped off your shoulders, allowing him to see the outline of sometihing far more tempting than your navel.

"If Lucius hasn't been home for almost two years by now, and you haven't been with child yet, the senate fears the throne may spiral once again to a tyrant after your passing."

You shook your head in confusion, a new worry appearing and attaching itself to your chest. "Why haven't I been informed of this fear?"

Acacius chuckled lightly, as if you were too naive to understand; it made you feel small, stupid.

"They do not wish to offend you, my majesty." He explained, and you scowled. "Now, you are in your prime age for...carrying an heir...but if Lucius is to be gone for longer, let's say four more years, you'd be pass that age, and thus..."

"Anyone could take the throne." You completed, understatement dooming in your features. "But I couldn't...Lucius could be back tomorrow for all I know."

"There still is time," He reassured, taking the cup of wine from the table. "but the lack of knowledge of his stance is, as you say, uneasy for most of the Senate, and of course the people of Rome."

As you sipped more wine, you leaned over the armrest of your chair, as if wishing to keep the conversation as private as possible, but all he could see was the way your breast, unconsciously, became visible from your neckline. His breathe hitched.

"As a knowledgeable and prestigious General," You asked, eyes wide and frantic. "what should I do?"

He pretended to think for a while then sighed. "In confidence, I believe you should wait for him, perhaps a year or two, and if he isn't here by then and you haven't received any notice, you should remarry, just for the sake of your wellness and the city's."

You almost gasped from his words, the alcohol inhibiting your senses. "My sake?" You manage to question him, words starting to slur. Of course they did, you had been drinking for hours trying to catch sleep.

"The people may believe that you are intertwined in the fall of the city," he whispered, eyes wild as if he was personally offended by what the people may do. "They can believe you have arranged it all to set someone in the throne, they might riot, and we know from our old Emperors that rioting never goes well; imagine what they could do to a women such as yourself."

Acacius' words stained your mind for the next year, as Lucius failed to prove his existence once again. You had proposed the idea to the Senate, who seemed surprised by your initiative; Acacius had later told you that they didn't expect a woman as devoted as you to determine that if Lucius didn't appear or made himself known in the next year, you would seek another man to remarry to provide the heir, but that it was what all of them believed to be correct. You had grown fond of him in the last year, inviting him for wine in those restless nights and him informing you from what the Senate was too scared to tell you. As Lucius had grown to be a close friend, so did Acacius.

Which is why, after two years had passed and you had to teary-eyed greet the suitors that had came wishing to become the Emperor of Rome, you were taken a back when General Acacius presented himself before any of them, asking for your hand. His thick frame, clad in his white honorary attire along with ten of his best trained soldiers trailing behind him, had profusely scared all the other suitors that stumbled and staggered on their words after him.

Which is what made you jump on him like a rabid dog once they had gone to their rooms and Acacius was the only one i the throne room with you. Standing up from your golden throne, identical to the empty one beside you, your feet stomped near him. He was awfully tranquil, almost smirking at you.

"May I know why you have proposed as a suitor?" You bellowed at him, praying this was a sick, twisted joke, like you had joked that your "Guard dog" of a General would scare them off.

"Because, my Empress, the senate and I believe that a true Emperor needs to be one who knows how to handle the rise of Rome into democracy." He explained, and you felt a pang of betrayal, jealousy even, as the Senate had allegedly preferred to discuss such matters with him rather than the actual Empress. "One that has aided in it's rise and is skilled at controlling the city; one that could guide you through ruling."

"You said they trusted me." You protested, looking up at him; despite being furious, you could see by the way he craned his neck to look down at you that he didn't feel threatened, at all.

"They do, I assure you that; but the uneducated and starved people of Rome won't take a women as an Emperor, much less if she has some foreigner as a husband." The way he sneered at you told you he had this planned. "But you and I know that you are smart enough to know I am your best opportunity; I am a war Hero and a symbol of democracy, my Empress, the people would riot if you chose any other man."

You glared, never expecting this from him. He enjoyed the way you stormed out of his view, silky dress swishing as he laughed so hard, he almost dropped the carefully stacked letters that told him Lucius would be home in six months.

Almost as if you knew, you had delayed your choice for four months by then, posing impossible challenge after challenge, simply to get on Acacius nerves. But he did not even falter; even if it was bringing dozens of water buckets across the city, taming wild horses or swimming with crocodiles to retreat minuscules gold pieces from the bottom of the murky river, Acacius managed to have win after win. For most people, it was becoming clearly ridiculous how adamant you were against Acacius.

If he had proposed the idea to you things would have been different, but he had planted seeds of doubts in the Senate about your capabilities, evidenced by your revengeful behavior in presenting tasks. The more you fought with Acacius, the more the Senate seemed to become wary of you and the more the people of Rome called you frivolous. You acknowledged the last part, as you were now dedicating more time in plotting unachievable tasks than governing the city.

As grief for mourning Lucius meddled with the new issues of the city, Acacius looked at you victoriously; naked war torn torso and a shining emerald in his hand as he retrieved from the river, almost waving goodbye to the last bunch of suitors you have scared away.

Almost 5 months had passed since you had greeted the suitors, and the only one still standing was Acacius. As you walked into the Senate's room, you caught wind of something that drove you wild.

"If the wedding is going to be next week, then we would need to at least levy taxes until the end of the season to compensate for the rise-"

"What wedding?" You bellowed, and the Senator who was speaking quickly silenced himself as the whole room turned their heads towards you. Marcus stood, dressed in his best, before rising his goblet to you; it took you a while to see from where he was rising from, Lucius' throne.

"There aren't anymore suitors," He informed, and his name rolled out of his tongue mockingly. "Next year you'll turn 28, and we cannot risk it anymore."

"And has this council decided this over me, their Empress?" Your gaze fell on the senators around you, men who rolled their eyes as if you were taking up their time; as if calling your self the Empress was a mockery. "Has the council forget Lucius had chose me to rule by his side and not just to produce an heir?"

"This Council had chosen you," Acacius corrected, and you felt the tips of your ears burn up in embarrassment. "and if Lucius had given the city an heir this wouldn't be an issue, but he didn't and thus, I am the most suitable option."

You dug your nails into your palms, seething at him.

"And this Council believes it is correct to plan a wedding without consulting the bride?" You hissed at them. “What do the people think?”

"There had been riots in the south due to the succession," A senator informed you. "You would have known if you had attended the last meeting."

You felt fury pile up in your throat, as if itching to scream, because no one that even told you about the last meeting. You felt caged by these men, and Acacius grinning peacefully at you, that conniving snake of a man had turned the Council against you.

You sighed, tears kissing the brim of your eyes in frustration before clapping your hands together. “If the people of Rome wish me to marry, I will, however please give me a week to mourn, properly, the loss of our Emperor. I will marry Marcus Acacius in two weeks time, without complaint.”

Acacius’ smiled fell, and you believed your surrender had annoyed him.

“Haven’t you got two years already to do so?” He bit at you, and the Senate looked around bewildered by Acacius sudden lack of manners.

“Oh I know it is a selfish desire, but it would facilitate the process for me.” You pouted to the people of the Senate, who became more understanding after you agreed to marry him. “If that is all, I am to leave.”

You walked through the door calmly, running the second the Council could no longer see you. He had trapped you, backed you up against a wall and showed your scared self to the whole Senate of Rome. As you unlocked the door, precaution you took everyday since Acacius had proposed, you felt a shadow lurk around the corner. You almost jump when you saw him, striding towards you. If you were to open the door, he could have pushed inside, and if you stayed there, god knows what he could do. So you stayed frozen.

He called your name, rather than my Empress; it was a way of stabilizing dominance. You glared at him, hand on the door knob.

“I hope that you can come to see our marriage as more than a political ploy.” He grinned, as if he was one of those brand new suitors that attempted to gain your trust while flirting. “I certainly can’t wait to give the city an heir.”

The way he looked at you urged you to run and hide.

“I have nothing to discuss with you, Acacius.” You responded, pushing the door slightly open to slip inside. “You have betrayed my trust.”

As you were about close the gap from were to entered, the General placed his big hands on the door, speaking to you from the ajar door.

“What is it, my Empress?” He pressed, the door becoming thousand times heavier under his strength. “Are you scared about the consummation, because you and Lucius had never really…?”

With a burst of strength you managed to push the door closed, resting your sweaty eyebrow to the cool ornate door as tears begun pouring from your eyes. Since Acacius had proposed you stopped inviting him at night, and locked the door. Some nights, as wind rustles trees and all you heard was his feet creaking the floorboards outside your room, you could also hear a faint rustle, and attempt to open your locked door, as if you could have forgotten to lock it some day.

That was another thing that was slowly driving you mad.

The next week went by organizing wedding affairs, and you begun to question what your plan was after begging to get married in two weeks. It had been stupid, you guessed, something that had strikes over your head as you looked over at a statue of Athena. You prayed for her strength.

Acacius loomed over your figure as he had done years before your friendship had bloomed, although the ghost of a creeping grin appeared in his face more than usually. You attempted really, to see the good side, but the fact that he had manipulated you into proposing the idea and then used it to his advantage deeply sickened you.

It was about two days from the wedding day when Acacius had disappeared almost all day, and you felt at peace by his absence. As the tailor arranged your wedding dress, clearly just a reconstruction of the old one, you heard him gallop through the entrance of the Palace, holding something on his hand.

“The Emperor is dead.” He told the Senate, holding up a letter he had received from the colonies. “Let the news not startle us from guiding Rome towards glory.”

You furrowed your brows, Lucilla next to you breaking into a deep sob.

“What does the letter say?” You asked him, and he looked at you as if you were testing him.

“Would be cruel to discuss the details of the dead infront of his mother, my future wife.”

You almost felt bile rising up to your throat from the words he said.

That night you became even more restless, so much it physically hurt. The night had been one of the coldest the was and a thundering storm had grown from the coast of Rome up until the palace. It felt like a message from the Gods, with all the thundering you couldn’t hear the door knob nor the hushed whispers behind it.

Your eyes were closed but just a thin layer of drowsiness was on top of you, not enough for you to peacefully sleep without the hammering at your temple. That is when you felt the bed dip beside you, and his scent brought you jumping up.

“Lucius?” You questioned through the darkness of the night, his perfume thick in the air.

“I am so sorry to inform you that Lucius is gone.”

Acacius. Your blood froze as your eyes fluttered open. In the darkness, the door hadn’t been opened because you could have seen the torch lights from the crack. There had been another way he had gotten in.

“However, he will return tomorrow night, to find his wife has remarried.”

You looked over his figure, lit by the moonlight entering from the balcony.

Broad shoulders and the willowy of his Roman nose.

“But he might as well return tomorrow morning, and that is why I must secure my claim.”

He spoke with such tranquility it send shivers down your spine. The fireplace had gone off, leaving burning embers. You looked at the door once again, still locked, by the time you could have gotten there he would have caught you. He was stronger, faster and more agile.

“Why are you doing this?” You asked him, voice quivering. He begun untying his armor, letting it clank slowly into the ground, accompanying the sound of lightning outside.

“Because I had been tempted with you from the day you arrived, little girl.” The nickname felt warm, but it spat out of his tongue like poison. “I was the one who had saved the city, but Prince Lucius got the crown, the power, and he got you.”

“Wh-What is it about me that you want?” You choked out, breathing startling as his robes pooled at his feet.

“If Lucius is set to return and you have already consummated your marriage to me, my heir would be on the throne.” He explained, and you got a deja vu of that night when you had invited him in; the same tone. “You’ll probably still be married to him, due to the coincidence, but you will be carrying my child. It will be our secret to history; an Emperor, son of a General.”

You slowly pulled the blankets from your body, thinking that if you were to arrive to the balcony, perhaps you could scream for help.

“Wasn’t it me that you wanted?” You persisted, entertaining him to distract him as you feet softly touched the cool marble floor, he had hunched over to undo his sandals.

“Well, of course, but the Emperor is gone a lot, he is too busy to notice-“

The sound of your feet padding against the floor made him turn, seeing you race until the balcony. He jumped over the bed, eyes rabid as a predator chasing a prey. The cold air of the balcony struck you, along with droplets of rain that all over you. Gripping onto the bannister, you screamed, but no sound came out, his hand clapped tightly over your mouth as his other clung to your torso, securing you to him.

“Stupid girl.” He bellowed, dragging you inside. You could feet the heat of his naked body, chest pressed against you, as you felt his stiffening cock against your lower back. It all felt too real, suddenly. He tossed you to the bed, climbing on top quickly and caging you. Just his immense back was enough to restrict your movements. You cried and punched his chest, attempting to push him to no avail.

As one hand splashed across your chest to keep you still, the other moved down, slipping between your silk gown. It dragged punishing between your tights, forcing them apart with his thick waist. It found the patch of pubic hair, hiding something sweet for him in its center. You could almost hear him smirk.

“Are you wet?” He asked, teasingly as his index finger ran across your slit. He then took his hand back out, presenting two fingers to you. “Suck, and make them wet or I’ll fuck you as dry as you are right now. Don’t you dare bite.”

You opened your mouth slightly, and he introduced two thick digits into your mouth; your tongue swirled around them, tasting the strong taste of perfume. He had taken the time to put on Lucius’ scent, perhaps to taunt you.

Once pleased, he pulled them out of your mouth and directed them to where they were before, bunching your dress at your hips. His fingers now grazed more softly, wet, and he rubbed them into your slit, finding a beaded nerve at the top.

You had touched yourself before; sometimes Lucius would come back drunk after dealing with claims and work all day; you excused him such actions, he had a lot to deal with. And he wouldn’t touch you, but he would hug you and hold you close, and that minimum amount of contact would drive you wild. You knew what was coming when he began circling around your flesh, the wetness that spread and threatened to burst at the tip of your lips.

“Feel how wet are you getting for me? has your husband ever get you like this?” He pressed, slipping one thick digit inside; your walls swallowed it, hugging it tightly; he almost moaned at the heat, the tightness of your core. “Are the rumors true? that you have never consummated your marriage?”

His voice was stern once again, as if he was one of the court ladies asking you about it; you thought to tell him the typical lie, that you had consummated but the stress of running the rising Rome had taken a toll on you, and that you will wait. However, you thought for a second that if you were honest perhaps he would stop.

“Yes,” you spat, eyes shut tightly as you felt your body betraying you, hips almost buckling. “we never…never had the chance.”

He chuckled, deep in his chest. “Then I’ll have another thing he doesn’t.”

His jealousy was almost childlike; he wished you because you weren’t his.

His fingers worked inside you, preparing you. Your mind, fogged with pleasure, attempted to see any way you could fight back; perhaps he’d be weaker once he entered you. Perchance you’d loose that part of you but escape his seed.

Seeing you still, the hand holding you down came up to rip the top of your night gown as a thunder cracked the sky. Your peaks hardened under the unforgiving cold night, and your body started to yearn for the heat of his body. His gaze roamed your tits, recalling the first night you had invited him in, perfect in form and size for him despite you not being keen on them.

“Such a fucking good pair,” He murmured, hand skimming over them, groping them barbarically as his other hand sped up, adding another finger, eliciting a gasp from you. “once you are my wife you aren’t going to parade around court with those skimpy dresses you love, or invite any guards inside at such hours of the night.”

Through your gasp you had realized that his words were becoming sloppier, he was forgetting his plans. You had to wait. He pinched your nipple as he begun curling his fingers, sending a jolt of energy and pressure to your core, places you had never reached.

You felt sudden emptiness when he pulled out his fingers, and you met out a shuddered sight of relief. Tears ran into your scalp, tears you hadn’t notice you were crying. His hand dipped between his naked body as the other finished ripping your nightgown, and as he let out a grunt you knew he was grabbing his cock. It bumped against your leg, and its own weight made you cry harder; you knew he was big.

“Still,” he commanded, seeing you shake. “Or I’ll shove it all in.”

You did your best, clenching your eyes as you attempted to wake up from this nightmare. Praying that it was once, that is.

He pressed the tip in, almost as big as your fist. The big head slowly broke through your walls, and he was shaking now too, lips parted and eyes clenched, that was all you could see as lightning striked the sky once again. “Feels so good,” he muttered under his breath, gripping your shoulders tightly. “I’m sorry-I can’t-“

He pushed in, all eight inches of himself and you let out a sharp cry he shushed pressing his lips towards him. Full and tasting of wine, a breathe than had fanned over your cheek but you had chosen to ignore. The scruff of his beard scratched against your face, but the pain of his cock was worse.

Thick and long, it had broken through the thin barrier of skin; your hymen or constricting walls, you didn’t know. He planted his weight in his knees and forearms, caging you as your legs dangled at the side of his imposing hips.

“I am not sorry for what I am doing.” He clarified, voice airy from delight. “But I am sorry for this, my queen, I cannot control it.”

Before you could confuse yourself about what he meant, he begun thrusting into you, curling his hips as some animal in heat. Your moans were in pain and his were in pleasure as he melted onto you; he was fucking you so hard you felt as if he was trying to imprint the shape of his cock into you; it felt like hours, and it probably was too, his lips momentarily trying to catch your unresponsive ones, silencing moans and cries.

You knew then that there was no escape, no way you could push this man off you. You felt something wet growing, but now you were sure it wasn’t arousal.

“So good of a pussy,” He grunted into your ear, now gripping your thigh as if he was attempting to spread you even more open. “gonna fuck a son into you, make you finally mine.”

His words only created more tears, as if that was their only aim.

“Such a sweet Empress, s-so eager to please everyone, such a fucking. Good. Girl.”

He synced his thrusts with the last words, each more punishing than the previous.

“So loyal too,” he cooed, mockingly, teeth kneeding at your neck. “loyal to her absent husband.”

He was leaving marks, you knew that. His arm suddenly wrapped around you waist, muscle flexing as he hoists into the air and you fell down deeper into his cock. Your arms braced itself in his shoulder for support, sheets almost sticking to your back due to the sweat that had pooled. One hand in your lower back and and the other groping your ass tightly as he fucked into the air, making you feel every ridge and vein in his member.

“Gonna cum,” he confessed, unashamed. “right into this cunt.”

“No no please-” you mustered all your strength to say, but he was far too gone, plopping you once again on the bed but then bringing your thighs together and slinging your legs over his shoulder, clutching them together as his cock came in and out almost fully. His final thrusts felt as if he was trying to reach your guts, cock tensing and twitching inside you, before shooting hot ropes of cum right into you as his full body weight fell onto you, stretching you to the point your knees almost touched your face. He caught himself in his hands a few moments later, pulling out.

You hadn’t noticed, but the sun begun to peak from the balcony, signaling morning. The tears had dried from your face. As your legs fell back onto the bed, you saw the blood. Around your thighs, into the bed and around his cock and pubic hair. Staining the scene as a gruesome crime scene.

You felt your cunt start to throb, painfully. Your hand stopped by your pelvis, also in pain alike your legs.

“Took it so good,” he praised, and now you could see him better. Body scarred, some fresh scars from your scratching, wild brown curly hair, his take tell scar on his left cheekbone and blown out dark eyes. He was terrifying as he observed your core, blood and cum and arousal just peeking through the swollen folds. “but I forgot something.”

No, you thought, too tired to protest as his fingers found your sensitive pussy once more. You shook your head as your hand attempted to grip his, but he looked at you as a warning.

“Need to make you cum.” He demanded, fingers slipping in way easily than before. “Quickly.”

It sounded like a promise, but it was his aim. Two fingers lodged inside you, a thumb in your clit and his other hand gripping your fighting wrists. Curling his fingers and rubbing you, was all it take. You felt the pleasure build up, and shame spread through your face as the faucet turned on and you sobbed once again.

If he was to rape you, that was one thing, but if he was to make you cum on his fingers, make you feel pleasure in all of this, that was twisted. That was a blow in your honor.

He wouldn’t stop, a bit more forceful that you would have desired, but he was a man on a mission. You suddenly felt as if you needed to pee, shame flickering over your body as you tried to shut your legs, but his hand was stern and no amount of pressure would make him retreat.

He managed to bring you to your climax, pleased smirk plastered on his face as your pussy begun shooting arousal. You cried harder, choking through moans from the pleasure he was forcing upon you, seeing how you soaked his softening cock and hand. He took his hand out, wet and crimson stained, and brought it to his lips. He hummed at the taste of you.

“Gotta taste this pussy some day, perhaps tomorrow in our wedding night.”

You were too gone to actually listen to his words as he used the scraps of your night gown to clean the blood on his body, and slipped into his armor once again.

He then walked over to you, picking once again the scraps and tearing them into long pieces. He grabbed your wrists and you allowed him, too tired to fight him.

He used the straps to tie you to the bedhead; then pulling another piece to go around your mouth. It was futile to attempt anything.

“A Numidian ship is embarking today, carrying your precious husband, let’s see if I can get to him first.”

And he left you, bound and naked.

#dark fic #dark! marcus acacius #dark! marcus acacius x reader #marcus acacius x reader #gladiator ll #gladiator ii #gladiator 2 fanfiction #marcus acacius #pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader

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lovebugism · 2 months ago

Text

✶ ┄ HOLY GRAIL !

part one | part two

summary: in ancient rome, where survival is determined by the whims of a mad ruler, the empire's beloved general gives you – his first and only love – to the crazed emperor to ensure your safety. (6k)

pairing: marcus acacius / fem!reader, emperor geta / fem!reader

contents: established relationship, strangers to lovers, angst, hurt/comfort cw for mentions of war and violence, mentions of sex work, swearing, smut 18+ (dubcon, m receiving oral, unprotected sex, cuckholding, exhibitionism) (this is a pretty dark fic so pls heed the warnings!!!)

Marcus Acacius was the name on the lips of a thousand fallen empires. His ledger ran a deep scarlet color, which dripped like proof from his sword. The war had destroyed the General over the years — had turned the man into an empty thing filled only by untamable ghosts. The relentless battle had wrung his boyhood from his body like a slow, merciless death. Any remaining innocence has since been replaced with violence.

Rome made a legacy of his grotesque evils, turned him into a saint. Marcus Acacius did not want to be a saint. He did not want to be angry; he did not want to be cruel. He only wanted to love and to be left alone with his tenderness. His mouth filled with blood instead.

You loved him like all doomed, grotesque things are meant to be loved. In the dark. In the shadows of war. In the depths of the soul.

“This is me,” he confesses, the great General Acacius, returning to you like a ghost to its haunt. “This is who I am.”

His golden armor is sullied from a victorious battle, tainted now with blotches of soil and dried blood that’s not his own. His dirtied, unholy fists tremble at his sides as he fights the urge to cross the threshold of your quarters to meet you. Marcus knows he doesn’t deserve to be held by you now. Not when he still wreaks of death.

He can still feel the breath of a fist on his bruised cheek, but the way his sword felt plunging through the beating heart of an enemy soldier plagues him most of all.

“Love turned on me long ago— It is not a burden I compel you to carry.”

So, please, do not love me, he doesn’t say. I only know how to destroy you.

You smile at him, eyes soft with sympathy, and cross the threshold of longing with an admirable effortlessness. You cradle his weathered, war-torn face in your palms, willingly staining your delicate hands with the blood stained there.

“I love you despite. So I imagine I’ll carry it anyway,” you coo to him, gentle eyes locked firmly with his heavy ones. “And I’m certain you love me in return, regardless of what you think the siege has made of you.”

“There is naught I can do about it,” Marcus admits, words heavy with choked-back emotion. He melts into your touch but continues to deny himself the want to hold you back. “Not while I still oversee this campaign. Not while there is a war to be won—”

“We love each other, don’t we?” you interject, pleading eyes searching for emotion behind his dark, stoic gaze. Marcus swallows hard. His scruffy chin scrapes your palm as he nods once in response. You grin and say the unforgiving truth out loud. “So fuck the war.”

You pull him down by his face to press a kiss to his unclean lips. Marcus rests his shaking hands over your waist and lets you build cathedrals in his mouth with your tongue. The blood in his teeth turns to holy water.

Marcus long understood that bringing you to the city would be his last act of love.

Keeping you in the heart of Rome was the only way he could ensure your safety, with the surrounding towns still under merciless siege. The people there were docile, and loyal most of all to the General who had won them a thousand wars. They would not hurt you because it was not in their kind too, and because they feared General Acacius’ wrath as much as they respected his mercy.

This was known to everyone in Rome except its Emperors.

Geta and Caracalla ruled together following their father’s untimely demise but shared not a brain between them. They were boys, after all, the oldest being hardly two-and-twenty –– it was in their nature to talk more than they listened, and to pretend as if they knew the world despite never leaving the city walls.

They were as cruel and as stupid as anyone who wished to rule an empire would be.

But the two of them relied heavily on their General to keep the restless public at ease. It made it easier for Marcus to bring you with him, knowing he had the trust of the most powerful men in Rome. He knew Geta kept meticulous care of his most precious gifts — all Marcus had to do was get you there, really, and the Emperors would do the rest for him.

It was simple, but it was not easy; though he imagines no war ever has been or would be. Both of you had survived, yes, but neither of you had been spared. Bringing you here was a testament to that, which you seemingly could not comprehend. You were as soft and green as the countryside he plucked you from, too naive for politics.

Marcus tells himself that this was the merciful decision, anyway, as he gives you a tour of Caracalla’s labyrinthine gardens — the place farthest from the feasting hall where the noblemen dined. Hidden behind climbing leaves, free from prying eyes.

“I can’t imagine why you would be so apprehensive in bringing me here. It’s beautiful,” you marvel aloud as you walk ahead of the man guiding you.

Your sandals pad faintly along the cobbled trail as you skim your palm over the bed of blooming roses. The petals feel like silk against your skin. You pluck one from the soil, careful to avoid its thorns, and hold it up to your nose. You turn to face Marcus with the crimson flower resting on your cupid’s bow.

“And it smells better, too,” you quip softly, tilting your head to your shoulder as you smirk behind the budding rose.

Marcus just barely manages to bite back his own grin until you reach out for him, tapping the delicate flower against the bridge of his strong nose. He exhales hard through his nostrils in place of a laugh.

Your giggling comes carried on the breath of a warm summer breeze — a symphony of salty ocean, dainty florals, and the pretty oils you’d bathed in. The wind billows through your thin, white gown and creates music with rustling leaves. You squint one eye when the setting sun peeks through the swishing tree limbs, bathing you in a golden-hour aura.

You’re as beautiful as sin. Sweeter than death. Smiling at him like this is the beginning of something that died the moment you entered the city walls.

Marcus clears throat and gently guides your hand away. His cautious eyes flit around the vacant garden. He’s constantly looking over his shoulder, you find, despite being the strongest man in all of Rome. You feel safest at his side, so you don’t know why he always looks so frightened.

“I know you are drunk on youth and immortality, petal, but we cannot get ahead of ourselves,” he advises, all stiff and stern, though the term of endearment spills effortlessly from his mouth. “We’re in the city now. So we must play the part. Like we discussed.”

He speaks to you with an unintentional sort of vagueness that makes you bow your head like a scolded child. Your arm falls limp at your side. A scarlet petal slips from its stem and hits the unforgiving stone.

“I know,” you murmur with a poorly hidden frown that conveys otherwise. Your sheepish gaze flits from the ground to Marcus’ unwavering stare and to the ground again. “I just thought— whenever we were alone, that we might—”

“We aren’t alone. We must behave as though the city is full of eyes. Understand?”

“I can’t,” you confess, peering up at the General from beneath your lashes.

Marcus’ chest stings, like the fiery sun blazing his newly-fashioned armor. “What do you mean you can’t?” he bites emotionlessly.

He looks like a corrupt sort of angel in this light, unnaturally handsome and hopelessly wartorn. He was as hard as the earth below your feet — a statue made of clay, iron, and marble — cold to the touch and melting only for you.

His heavy eyes were so brown they looked almost black, and they shone with a perpetual sort of gloom. His gaze swam with the prophetic darkness of a man who’s seen too much, though you often felt like you could drown in its void. For a man so adept at killing, he looked at you with a remarkable softness.

It wasn’t as shallow as physical desire. It was something far more cruel. You wanted Marcus Acacius the same way flesh wanted to knit itself together over a healing wound. It was simply in your nature to love him.

“I mean, it’s impossible,” you ramble with a concerned furrow to your brow. Your grip on the flower’s papery stem tightens until the bulb rattles with the force. “How am I to be here with you but not touch you? That’s like asking the seasons not to change— It’s unnatural, and it’s cruel—”

Marcus swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. His hands begin to ache with the urge to touch you. He balls them into fists instead.

“It’s the only way I know to keep you safe!” he confesses, words sounding heavy in his mouth. His eyes flit across the garden in a paranoid search of something that isn’t there. “Emperor Geta will take care of you. I know he will. And his brother is a half-wit, but he is kind when he wishes. He’ll take a liking to you, I’m sure of it—”

You interject his anxious rambling with a stubborn shake of your head.

“I can’t be someone else’s,” you murmur, voice as wet as the tears glittering in your wide-eyed gaze. “I don’t know how.”

“You will learn,” Marcus tells you with an emotionless stare. Not because he’s sure you will, but because he knows you have to. “For me.”

Your pretty features swirl with anguish. “Marcus…” you whisper his name in a feeble whimper caught in your throat.

He does not soften at your emotion like you’re used to. He’s practiced apathy for so long that it comes naturally to him now. He bites his tongue to keep from kissing you and lets the blood stain his teeth all over again.

“If not for your own sake, then for mine. The Emperors would have my head if they understood the pretenses I brought you under.”

You flinch at his words, perhaps finally understanding the weight of the unforgiving world in which you live. The surest example of such cruelty stands before you now, in the only man you ever loved now using your purest devotion as a means to keep you pliant. But your anger for the merciless arrangement is long eclipsed by your yearning.

“Then I will,” you tell him, rigid with a glacial disposition Marcus hasn’t seen before now.

The choices here were few. Either you were slaughtered outside the city walls by soldiers and pillagers, or you were slaughtered within them — in the metaphorical sense that burns physically in your chest now.

Being without Marcus feels like a fate worse than death, but you want him so desperately to live. So much so that you’ll fall on the sword of your longing and bleed out at his feet. Knowing that you’re under the same sky would have to be enough for you.

You can’t tell which it is — sacrifice or self-slaughter — but Marcus knows it isn’t as poetic as all that.

Death is death.

Emperor Geta staggers drunkenly down the spiral stone steps of the west wing of his castle. The path to his chambers is illuminated by several dwindling torches hung along the brick walls. The subtle squeaking of his leather sandals sounds much louder in the quiet — filled only by crackling flames, a distant dripping noise, and the song he slurs under his breath.

The latter ceases suddenly when he stumbles to a stop at the sight of General Acacius. The man stands like a statue outside his bedroom door — arms crossed behind his back, old spine perfectly straight — like the obedient guard dog he is.

The thought makes the Emperor’s lips curl into a crooked smile. “What are you doing here, dog?” he calls to the General as he approaches him, voice echoing down the soulless corridor.

“Your nameday present, your majesty—” Marcus answers and tries not to make a face when the Emperor stands before him. The bittersweet scent of wine stains his breath, overwhelmingly so. Geta was never one to practice temperance. “—I was told to see that you got it.”

The younger man hesitates. “From my uncle?” he wonders aloud.

Marcus nods wordlessly in response.

Geta pauses for a moment. His wide, glassy eyes flit over the General’s shoulder to the arched doorway behind him. His stomach swirls at the thought of what may lie inside. The last nameday present his uncle sent from overseas was a monkey his younger brother has grown much too attached to.

“Well… What is it?”

Marcus swallows hard and steps aside. “Look inside, your majesty.”

Geta takes a deep breath in and swings the creaking door open. His bedroom is lush with crimson silk and golden candlelight, familiarly fragranced with cinnamon and sweet myrrh. It’s accompanied by something foreignly floral, a feminine rosy-lavender that catches his attention before his eyes ever find you.

He steps through the threshold and finds a strange girl standing by the window, before a platter of fruit and wine — bathed half in the silver beams of a full moon, and half in flickering orange flames.

White silk adorns your frame, so delicate it’s nearly see-through. One of your shoulders is mouthwateringly bare, and there’s a slit in the fabric that rises to your hip. You look as pure as a dove, though you’re so obviously built for sin.

The ground sways beneath Geta’s unsteady feet.

You crunch audibly into an apple before you realize anyone’s there. The juice runs down your chin before you swipe it away with the back of your hand. Only then do your eyes lock with the Emperor’s, who seems equally stunned to see you there. You tense and say nothing as you hide the bitten fruit behind your back.

“It’s a woman,” Geta observes to no one in particular, though his dark eyes have not yet wavered from yours.

Marcus stands behind him and nods — hands still clasped behind his back, heart still pounding against his ribcage. “Yes, your majesty. In plain terms.”

“Well,” the Emperor glances over his shoulder. “What does she do?”

“Whatever you want,” the General answers, though the words taste like vinegar on his tongue. He swallows the bitterness down like bile and leers at you, looking upon his lover as though she were a stranger. “You need only ask.”

Geta, satisfied by his answer, turns back to you. His initial surprise has ebbed into something more pleased, diabolically so. His pink lips curl into a sneer as he walks slowly towards you, eyeing you up and down with curious eyes — a predator stalking its prey.

“Is that true?” he asks you, voice ringing through the quiet room. “Or is he confusing you for a dutiful hound?”

“A dutiful whore, your majesty,” you correct with an acquiescent smile, following the story as Marcus intended.

The half-truth comes easily to you. Not a lie exactly, but not the whole tale either. You’d spent many of your years working in a brothel on the outskirts of Rome. You were a young woman, unmarried, without family or viable prospects — whoring seemed the most obvious decision then, though it feels so long ago now.

You’d waited your whole life for something, for Marcus, though you hadn’t expected it to kill you when you found it. You won’t die a saint if the crazed Emperor decides to take your head, but perhaps you could be a martyr. Perhaps that’ll be enough.

Fear beats through your body like a second heart, but your eyes never waver from the Emperor’s. It’s easiest to meet his gaze. He feels more like a human that way.

There are flecks of gold in his dark eyes, and dark strands in his gold hair. He’s got stubble on his long neck, spots on his broad nose, and wrinkles on his forehead. Not quite as perfect as the pristine white-gold armor would let on.

His eyes flit down your form once more. Something sparks in the deep brown of them, a flicker of silent realization. He spins suddenly on the heel of his sandal to flash Marcus an accusatory glare.

“Is she your whore, General?” he lilts into the heavy silence. His brows raise when he receives no answer from the man across the room. “The question was not rhetorical, Acacius.”

“No, your majesty. She is not mine,” Marcus answers, then clears his throat when the words get stuck there. It’s like he’s plunging a knife through his own heart. He can feel the cold sting of the sharpened blade and the burn of the blood on his skin. “Though, I don’t believe whores belong to anyone.”

A boyish chuckle spills from the Emperor’s mouth. “No. They don’t,” he says with an airy giddiness. “Not before now, anyway—”

Geta spins back again, pleated skirt fanning around his pale thighs. His smile fades with an eerie swiftness. “What are you waiting for? Undress,” he commands with a wave of his ringed hand.

Your wide eyes flit instinctively past him to Marcus, who still idles in the doorway. Only then does he realize how long he’s been staring at you. He forces himself to glance off in another direction, but his gaze keeps finding yours — like a magnet, or a planet with its own gravitational pull.

Your eyes lock, and the only thing you hear is each other, though neither of you has spoken a word. This is the only way, you hear his voice in your head as clearly as your own. This is the only way to stay together. The only way to survive.

Geta mistakes your fear.

“Don’t worry about him, little dove,” he coos, and taps the bottom of your chin with his fingers — as soft and petaled as your own. He smiles when your attention turns to him again, speaking loud enough for the General to hear. “He’s only the guard dog. And good boys get scraps, don’t they, Acacius?”

Marcus’ face screws like he’s tasted something sour. He’s grateful the Emperor isn’t looking at him to see it. “They do, your majesty,” he monotones.

“So you will watch. And report to my uncle how his lovely present fared,” he calls to the older man, though his eyes remain locked with yours. You tense when his pale hand reaches suddenly for your face. He holds your cheeks in his fingers until your lips jut in a soft pout. “Let’s hope I don’t have to send him back your head, little dove.”

He says it with an absentminded effortlessness, as though it’s something he’s done before.

Still, you manage a small smile and blink up at him with innocent eyes. “What good is a dead whore, your majesty?” you quip.

Geta’s grin widens. “Precisely. Now undress.”

You reach for the singular sleeve of your slip with trembling fingers. Your right hand sweeps across your left shoulder, skin blazing with fear and anticipation. The fabric trails down down down your arm before falling to your feet in a puddle of milky white silk. Your bare body glows silver and gold between moonlight and flame.

Goosebumps pebble over your skin despite the humid summer night as Geta circles you like prey. His eyes trail slowly down your form in time with his rhythmic steps. The sound of his sandals scrapping the stone floor, crackling candlelight, and subdued breathing are the only sounds in the quiet room for several long moments.

The Emperor disappears behind you, and you forget how to breathe. Your wide, wet eyes find Marcus once more — pleading, though for what, you cannot say. His face reveals nothing but wrath burns in his gaze.

Geta reappears at your right side. You smell grape wine on his breath when he nears you, breathing heavily through his mouth as he reaches out to touch you. His ringed hands smooth over your collarbone. Your breath catches in your throat. He smiles as though your fright pleases him.

“You’re skittish for a whore,” he muses, playful in a way that makes your stomach wrench. “Are you sure the General didn’t bring me a virgin?”

You swallow hard as his hand trails down your body. Over the swell of your breast, skimming his thumb over your taut nipple, before tracing the expanse of your ribs. His fingers run down your stomach and past the thatch of hair between your legs. They dip finally between your thighs.

Geta hums a faint moan at the velvet feeling of your pussy. The way your lips part for his fingers, silky skin warm and wet to the touch.

“I’m whatever you want me to be, your majesty,” you answer, breathing hard through your nose when he pulls his hand away — a warmth you find yourself begrudgingly grieving.

“I need only ask…” the Emperor coos, running his middle and pointer finger over your bottom lip. They shine with the honey you leak despite yourself. Your mouth parts, and he rests the pads of them on your tongue. “…Do I not?”

You nod wordlessly through the salty fingers in your mouth, trying to imagine their Marcus’.

Geta smiles when he parts from you. “Undress me,” he demands.

You work at his tricky armor with nervous hands and bated breath.

You unclasp his cape first. The white fabric, now free from its chain, falls heavily to the floor behind him. Your fingers have gone noticeably clammy as they struggle with the sleeves of his tunic. It takes you a beat too long to loosen the laces at his shoulders. The cloth falls finally and puddles around his feet, leaving his lean body on display before you.

His torso is lean and mostly hairless, save for splotches of chestnut on his sternum and stomach. His skin is smooth and flushed from the alcohol. His stomach is slim but noticeably full. The Emperor is well-taken care of, though his subjects outside the keep suffer from the consequences of war.

Your trembling fingers curl around the hem of his loincloth. His pale skin is warm to the touch, boiling with desire while you freeze over with fear. You crouch before him as you drag the garment down his scruffy thighs. You hear Geta sigh above you when his half-hard cock meets the cool summer night air.

He’s paler there compared to the rest of his golden body, though the mushroom tip glows a faint strawberry-red color. A vein trails in jagged lines to the base of his heavy cock, fading as it reaches the thatch of dark blonde hair at his pubic bone. He’s not nearly as thick as Marcus, though not many people could hope to be — but he is long and thin and soft like velvet.

“How do I look?” Geta wonders as he steps out of his loincloth. He tilts his chin to his chest to peer down at you, on your knees to untie the intricate laces of his sandals. You blink up at him with wide, uncertain eyes. “Without my armor,” he adds, then repeats. “How do I look?”

You realize, then, that he wants your praise. Though you’re unsure why, you’re not in any position to deny him of it. “You’re a— a very handsome man, your majesty,” you respond cautiously, with a wavering smile.

You hear his breath catch at the compliment. The corner of his mouth flickers upward, and his nostril flares as he takes a deep breath in.

“Well, go on, then,” he insists suddenly, nodding his head to egg you onward. “Good whores don’t keep their masters waiting, do they? You don’t want to see me impatient, little dove.”

You wrap his stiff cock in a tentative fist, averting your gaze as you give an experimental kitten lick to the bulbous, strawberry tip. Your tongue swipes away the pearlescent pre-cum beading there. The salty tang is foreign on your tongue, sweeter and thicker than you’re used to.

You imagine your lover when you take the Emperor’s cock in your mouth. A practiced form of dissociation that comes naturally to you now.

You focus on the way the stone floor digs into your knees as you cup his balls in your hand — a desperate attempt to finish him quickly. Geta shudders when you swallow him whole, burying your nose in the coarse thatch of hair at the base of his cock. His head tips back as he groans at the ceiling.

“You are a proper whore…” the Emperor moans with a delirious smile. He tilts his flushed cheek to his freckled shoulder to sneer at Marcus, then frowns when his eyes meet the back of him. “Are you distracted, General?”

The man keeps his back turned and his eyes trained on the wall, counting the bricks there to distract his racing mind. His mouth snarls at the Emperor’s words. His hands ball into fists as he fights to keep his composure.

“Just giving you your privacy, your majesty.”

“Nonsense!” Geta laughs, loud. “You should watch! You should observe— so you know what to tell my uncle.”

Marcus can hear the mischievous lilt in the younger boy’s voice. Like it’s all just a game to him. Like you’re just a whore to be played with, and like Marcus’ only hope of companionship is warfare. Both might’ve been true once, but not since you find each other.

The general smacks his lips against his teeth. “As you wish,” he deadpans and spins on the heel of his sandal.

He’s strangely grateful to find the Emperor’s body obscuring your own. Geta’s lean, pale form towers over your kneeling one — back muscles flexing, hips thrusting, fingers knitting in your hair.

But Marcus can still hear the sounds of your mouth on the other man’s cock. The room fills with heavy breathing, wet noises, and the Emperor’s unabashed whines. Embers of envy burn in the General’s empty chest. A wildfire of want and wrath rages behind his ribcage.

You swallow with Geta’s cock in your throat and squeeze softly at his balls. You hear his breath hitch just before a lengthy moan spills from his parted mouth. Several loads of salty cum spit down your throat a second later. The man shows you little mercy as he holds you by your hair, keeping your nose pressed to his pubic bone. You take shallow breaths through your nose and try not to choke.

You pull off of him when he lets you go. A string of saliva threatens to keep you connected. You take a deep breath in and swipe at your swollen mouth with the back of your hand, staying on your knees while the Emperor tilts his head back. He exhales a breathy laugh of relief at the ceiling. You peer up at him with wide, wet eyes, still so uncertain of your fate.

“Proper whore, indeed,” Geta muses, almost to himself, as he drops his heavy head once more.

His flushed chest sparkles with a foreign feeling at the sight of you beneath him — eyes teary and fearful, lips swollen and rosy, features flushed with sweat and sex. His cock jerks, still sensitive but threatening to harden again. He grips himself with a loose fist.

“On the bed,” he instructs suddenly, then grins madly at your shock. “You didn’t think I was done with you, surely. Not until I mount you like a mare, anyway— Treat you like the bitch in heat you are…”

Geta cups your warm cheek in his free hand. His touch is strangely gentle as he cradles you there, right before he smacks gently at your jaw to urge you upward.

Your bare feet pad towards the bed, then. Geta swats your ass as you go and laughs when you squeak in response. You fight the urge to look at Marcus, lest you see the rage burning in his eyes — lest he see the heartbreak swimming in yours.

Marcus watches you crawl over the silken sheets, both of you sporting similar far-off gazes. He feels a bit like a ghost now. An empty, invisible thing, doomed to watch the rest of the world go on without ever being able to live in it. It’s dreadfully symbolic of how he’s lived most of his life, and how he’s spent the years loving you. Because even if a ghost is full of love, the only thing it knows to do is haunt.

The silk pillow feels cool under your burning cheek. The mattress dips under the Emperor’s weight when he kneels behind you. His ringed fingers smooth over your ass and down the arch of your back. He treats you with an uncharacteristic sort of tenderness, as though he were molding you out of clay.

“You are a pretty thing, aren’t you?” he whispers under his breath. “And timid, too… I like that…”

Your pussy clenches at his words despite yourself. Geta’s chest swells with pride accordingly. “You don’t have to be scared, little dove. I’m going to take such good care of you.”

Despite his words, he does not bother to ready you for his cock when he positions himself at your pulsing entrance. You hadn’t expected him to, of course — not many men were as kind as Marcus in that way, who often treated your pleasure as if it were his own. But the slick sticking to your thighs has made your pussy more than pliant. Your velvet walls swallow Geta’s cock with a pulsing vigor.

The Emperor groans as he fucks into you, savoring every inch as he buries himself to the hilt. His ringed fingers dig into the plush of your waist, as though you were a toy he didn’t want getting snatched away.

“Look at the hound!” Geta giggles boyishly to himself. “He’s itching for a feel of you— I just know it.”

Marcus remains as still and stoic as the battalion trained him to be. He reveals nothing on his face, though his skin prickles with flames of envy beneath his armor.

Marcus Acacius was not a jealous man. His love for you was a testament to that. He visited the brothel you boarded in and spared the same coins as every man in the establishment did. But it was different now. Because the Emperor does not deserve you, and he forces Marcus to watch as if he knows it, too.

Something within him seethes, like a feral animal trapped behind his ribcage, desperately clawing its way out.

“Look at him,” Geta snaps when he sees you staring at the wall, eyes glassy and glazed over. He’s grinning all over again when your gaze snaps to Marcus’.

The soldier’s weathered eyes burn with tears then. General Acacius has faced death a thousand times over, but it wasn’t quite as heartwrenching as this. His wrath simmers to a boil. He swallows it down like fire.

This is her salvation, he tells himself. This is how she survives.

Your features twist with the anguish of being seen as the Emperor lays himself over your back. His slick chest sits flush with your spine, pinning you to the mattress. “I bet he can taste you now. Smell you,” he murmurs in your ear, chapped mouth brushing the shell of it. “His mouth is salivating at the thought of putting his tongue on you— Isn’t it, dog?”

Marcus swallows through the emotion threatening to strangle him. He blinks away stinging tears and feigns an air of nonchalance. “It would be… impolite to talk so brashly about something that doesn’t belong to me, your majesty,” the General responds. Obedient. Loyal like a hound.

Geta grins wide. “Good answer, Acacius.”

When the Emperor finally fucks into you, it’s with a sloppy sort of precision. There is no rhythm or care to his thrusts. He is led only by his blinding pleasure, like a man who has only ever fucked playthings and his own fist. He props himself on one forearm and curls the other beneath you, holding your breast in his ringed hand.

Geta’s flushed cheek presses against your own while he slides in and out and into you again. You hear his groaning as you feel it rumbling in his chest, still laid against your back. You stare at a framed portrait on the wall across the room and wait for it to be over, even as your body refuses to dismiss its simmering orgasm.

Your swollen clit ruts against the silk sheets with each of the Emperor’s sloppy thrusts. You can feel a wet spot forming beneath you, and your stomach twists at the thought of seeing proof of your own pleasure.

His balls smack your leaking cunt, creating a symphony of lewd noises — moaning, whimpering, clapping, smacking. Marcus thinks the sounds of war were more merciful than this.

“Do you understand what that means, little dove?” Geta croons into your ear, words choppy through his labored breaths and irregular thrusts. “You belong— to me now… So whatever you used to be— whoever’s you used to be— no longer matters.”

He thrusts once, hard, and shudders above you with a choked-back groan. You grit your teeth to swallow down your own noises of pleasure. The assault on your clit, though unintentional, is still yet relentless. You feel the distant white-hot burning feeling begin to swell in the pit of your stomach. A coil about to snap.

“Fucking me— Making me feel good—” the Emperor pants, punctuated by his hips against your ass. “—Is your only duty now. Understand?”

You nod, cheek running over the silk cushion as you grip it in your fists. “Yes, your majesty,” you gasp.

Geta presses his smile to the apple of your cheek. He can feel you leaking around him. You’re enjoying this just as much as he is, to be sure. A proper whore, indeed.

“Now… Take my spend like a good bitch, and thank me for it—”

He fucks you harder, and your face twists with a pleasure you’re too weak to fight away.

Your gaze falls instinctively to Marcus as your orgasm threatens to swallow you whole. Your eyes squeeze shut in a feeble attempt to hide. Your mouth parts with a silent moan as you cum around the Emperor’s cock.

“Thank you, your majesty,” you whimper obediently into the pillow as you tremble beneath him. “Thank you.”

Geta buries a whine in your neck when he cums again. He gives you only two pitiful, warm loads but still possesses more stamina than your Marcus. He stills, then shudders, then rests his unforgiving bodyweight on top of you when pleasure makes a puddle of him. And of you, you assume, as a mixture of your spend leaks out of your cunt and onto the sheets.

“Write to my uncle, Acacius—” Geta slurs into your skin, heavy through labored pants. “—A thank you for my nameday present.”

Marcus forgets, until then, that he can still be seen. He felt more akin to a corpse hidden in the walls, forced to spend his afterlife in a merciless purgatory. His heart has stopped beating, frozen over, and now sits dead in his chest. He will never be as gentle as he was with you. He will be bloodied knuckles and pulsing wounds. Rough and cruel and angry.

“Yes, your majesty,” the General nods, thankful that it’s over now.

Geta rolls off of your body and onto the empty spot beside you — not shy about his nude form or yours. The sudden lack of warmth makes you shiver.

“And tell him to send another— To keep the General’s bed warm, too,” he says, patting your ass with his palm before smoothing tenderly over the skin. “One whore’s as good as any other, I’m sure.”

Marcus flinches at the thought of being with anyone other than you. He couldn’t hide the look of disgust if he tried. It makes the Emperor laugh loudly in response.

“Oh, did you— Did you want to try this one?” Geta muses knowingly, pointing to your limp body, still trembling beside him with the aftershocks of your orgasm.

“No. No, no, no— See, this one’s mine,” he corrects the General as if he were a child. “And it would be impolite to touch something that belongs to me, would it not? It would be treasonous, even.”

“Yes, your majesty,” Marcus nods, lip flickering in a mere hint of a smirk as his plan finally comes to fruition. “It would be.”

The Emperor sees you now as his property, and no one hurts what belongs to him without meeting a certain death. Marcus is comforted only by the thought that nothing can touch you now. Not even him. But perhaps that’s the price he pays for love. Perhaps, in the end, love is grief.

“So best tread lightly, Acacius,” Geta warns with a crooked smile, petting you like a dog. “I’d hate for someone to get hurt.”

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