#Marcus Acacius x Reader

[penvisions]

shortie…oh my god

this was utterly amazing

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.

[stylesispunk]

"The soldier in the armour" | part iii

marcus acacius x f!reader

masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter

Summary: The aftermath of Geta's action took a tool on you and Acacius. Some decisions are made and you are willing to end caracalla's and Geta reign.

w.c: 9k

warnings: angst, mentions of blood, miscarriage, mentions of poisoning, age gap, power imbalance.

a/n: hello, thank you so much for your patience and your feedback on this one. Firstly if you feel this one is rushed is because I lost half of the chapter the other day and I rewrote it. Secondly, this chapter is more acacius x reader centered and PLEASE pay attention to some signals I left for the future chapters since I already planned out the ending 👀 reblogs and comments are always appreciated 💌

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

The faint light of dawn filtered into the room as your senses returned back to your now, foggy mind. You blinked, disoriented by the unfamiliar weight on your limbs. The healer was seated at the edge of the bed, with her hands massaging your legs, her touch gentle as always. You shifted slightly, your head pounding, and tried to piece together what had happened. 

"Acacius..." you murmured, your voice hoarse as if speaking hurt.

The healer glanced up at you, she smiled at you with pity dressed as sympathy. "He's been watching over you all these hours, my lady," she said softly. "But he stepped out for a moment to meet someone."

You furrowed your brow, trying to sit up, but the effort was too much. That’s when you noticed the fresh gown you were wearing, the faint scent of lavender and herbs clinging to you. Your mind raced as you realized you’d been cleaned and changed while unconscious.

"What happened to me?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

The healer hesitated, her hands stilling for a moment before she resumed her work. "My lady...you started bleeding heavily in the night. It was..." She trailed off, clearly struggling with the words.

Before you could press further, the door creaked open, and Acacius entered. His face was pale, his eyes shadowed with exhaustion as if hadn't been able to sleep in days. At the sight of you awake, made his eyes shone for a flicker second. Relief crossed his features, but it was short-lived, the sadness shadowed his glance.

"Acacius..." you called weakly.

He walked to your side, sinking to one knee. His hands enveloped yours, warm and firm, protecting you as always, but this time there was a heaviness in his gaze that unsettled you whole.

"You’re awake. " He said softly, his voice rough with fatigue.

"What happened?" you pressed, searching his face for an answer.

"You should rest more," he said eventually, his tone low.

“What happened?” you repeated, your tone sent shiver down Acacius’ spine.

His jaw tightened, and he looked away briefly, as if bracing himself, as if looking for a proper word to speak the truth. "You...lost a child," he said finally, his words cutting you half, "Our child."

The world tilted for a moment, the weight of his words crashing into you. A child? Yours? You hadn’t even known.

"I..” you chuckled, nervously, “I…I don’t understand," you stammered, tears welling in your eyes.

"You didn’t know," he said gently, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. "Neither did I. But the the healers confirmed it. Whatever Geta gave you..." His voice broke, and he swallowed hard. "It caused this.”

Your breath hitched, and your free hand instinctively moved to your abdomen, grief and confusion swirling within you.

Acacius leaned closer, his forehead pressing against your hand. "I’m sorry," he whispered, his voice raw. "I should have protected you. I should have known-"

"Stop," you interrupted, your own tears falling freely now. "This isn’t your fault, Acacius."

He shook his head, his grip on your hand tightening. "I failed you," he insisted, his guilt palpable.

You reached out, your fingers brushing his cheek. "You didn’t fail me.” You didn’t know how to assure him of it. You didn’t know how to feel, grief for the child you had never known, anger at Emperor Geta or a hollow emptiness creeping it, and threatening to consume you. Your hand rested on your abdomen, an ache settling deep within your chest as you thought about what could have been.

Acacius lifted his head, his expression hardening "I’ll make sure he never touches you again," he vowed, his tone resolute. “This crossed a line with no return.”

You could only nod, unable to find the words to express the storm of emotions crashing down on you.

He gently cupped your face, his eyes locking onto yours. "You’ll get through this," he promised, his voice softer now. "You’re not alone in this, and I’ll stand by you, no matter what."

The tears continued to fall, but you leaned into his touch, drawing strength from his words. For a moment, the world outside the room faded away, leaving only the two of you, bound together by love and shared pain he would carry too.

"I’m here," Acacius murmured, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead. "And I won’t let anything happen to you again."

As the night wore on, Acacius had stayed beside you, his presence brought calm you didn’t know it if was going to able to exist anymore. Eventually, he stood and walked to the small table in the corner of the room, where a tray of herbs and remedies had been left by the healer earlier. He carefully mixed something into a bowl of warm broth.

Returning to you, he knelt down, his expression soft yet firm as he held the bowl out. "You need to eat," he said gently. "This will help with the symptoms. The doctor suggested it would ease the lingering effects of...whatever Geta gave you."

You hesitated, your stomach twisting at the thought of food. "I don’t want to," you murmured, your voice faint.

"Please," he insisted, his hand brushing lightly against yours. "Just a little. For me."

The quiet plea in his voice softened your resistance. Slowly, you nodded, allowing him to scoop a spoonful of the broth and bring it to your lips. The warmth of it was soothing, and though your body resisted at first, you managed to swallow.

"Good," he murmured, his tone encouraging as he prepared another spoonful.

He fed you slowly, his patience unwavering. With each sip, the nausea that had been gnawing at you began to ease, the pounding in your head lessening slightly. Acacius didn’t rush you, his eyes never leaving yours as he made sure you took in enough to strengthen you.

"Better?" he asked softly, setting the bowl aside once you had eaten enough.

You nodded, though your body still felt weak. "A little," you admitted.

His hand brushed against your cheek, his touch tender. "You’ll feel stronger soon," he promised.

"I'll let you rest," Acacius said softly, his thumb gently tracing your cheek one last time.

A pang of loneliness surged within you, and before you could stop yourself, you asked, "Aren't you staying with me?"

His eyes softened, a hint of regret flickering across his face. "I just have to arrange some things," he explained, his voice calm but firm. "But I promise, I’ll come back as soon as I’m ready."

You searched his gaze, finding sincerity there. Though the thought of him leaving, even for a short time, made your heart ache, you knew he wouldn’t go far.

"Promise me," you whispered, your voice trembling.

He leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. "I promise," he assured you. "I’ll be back before you know it."

With that, he stood, giving your hand a reassuring squeeze before turning to leave. As the door closed behind him, the room felt quieter leaving you alone with the grief of a loss you didn’t know how to navigate.

As soon as Acacius stepped out of your quarter, he faced Lucilla who was there waiting to see you. You could see the worry for you written all over her face, but she wasn’t strong enough to see you broken again. She felt her heart shattered for you, her precious daughter.

She looked up at Acacius, surprised by his sudden appearance outside the room.

"Did you know?" he demanded, his voice sharp and cutting. "About her carrying a child?"

Lucilla blinked, a slight frown creasing her forehead. "No," she replied steadily. "But I had my suspicions."

Acacius’s jaw tightened, his fists clenching at his sides. "And you didn’t think to tell me? To warn me?"

"I wasn’t sure," she said defensively. "And what would I have said, Acacius? I didn’t have any proof."

His frustration boiled over. "You should have told me!" he shouted but slow enough to prevent you from hearing from inside the room. "Ever since she and I got married, Geta’s obsession with her has only grown worse. Every decision I’ve made, every step I’ve taken, has led to nothing but her tears."

Lucilla’s expression hardened. "Don’t you dare put this all on me," she snapped. "I’ve tried to protect her in the only ways I knew how."

Acacius shook his head, his eyes filled with anguish. "I feel like marrying her was a mistake," he said, the words spilling out before he could stop them. "Not because I don’t love her, but because all its brought her is pain."

Lucilla's eyes narrowed; her voice sharp with reproach. "Do you think she would be better without you? Do you truly believe that?"

Acacius's shoulders sagged, the heavy words pressing down on him. "I don’t know," he admitted, his voice breaking. "All I know is that since we’ve been together, she’s suffered more than she ever should have. And I can’t stand it. I can’t stand being the cause of her pain."

Lucilla stepped closer, her gaze softening slightly. "She loves you, Acacius. Can’t you see that? Despite everything, she chose you. She fights for you, just as you fight for her."

He looked away, guilt and self-doubt etched into his features. "I don’t know if I’m strong enough to protect her from all this," he whispered.

"Then you need to be," Lucilla replied firmly. "Because she needs you now more than ever. And walking away would only break her further."

Acacius's jaw clenched; the internal battle evident in his expression. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to steady. “I could send her away-“

“No!” Lucilla immediately refused to whatever his plan was. “I won’t allow you to take my daughter away from me.” She spoke, knowing too well, “You wouldn’t forgive yourself for that. The pain of not knowing where she would be will kill you.”

Acacius stared at Lucilla, her words cutting through his thoughts like a blade. He knew she was right. The idea of sending you away, of putting distance between you to keep you safe, felt like the only solution. Yet, the thought of losing you, even for your protection, was unbearable.

"I just want her to be safe," he murmured, his voice barely audible. "I don’t know how else to ensure that."

Lucilla's gaze softened, and she stepped closer, placing a hand on his shoulder. "We’ll find another way," she assured him. "Together, we can protect her. But she needs you here, by her side, not miles away, torn apart by fear and regret."

Acacius nodded slowly, the weight of his decision settling in. "You’re right," he admitted, his voice steadier now. "I can’t lose her. Not like this."

Lucilla gave a small, encouraging smile. "Then fight for her, Acacius. Stand by her."

With a final glance at Lucilla, Acacius turned back toward the room where you lay, his resolve hardening. He knew the path ahead would be fraught with challenges, but for you he would fight a thousand of battles.

Acacius paused in the doorway, his heart aching at the sight of you standing weakly by the window, silhouetted against the faint light of the stars. Your fragile form looked even more delicate, and he could see the weight of grief and exhaustion pulling you down. His instinct was to urge you back to bed, to ensure you rested, but your voice broke the silence before he could speak.

"Do you think souls know you loved them," you asked softly, your gaze still fixed on the night sky, "even if you didn’t meet them?"

The question hung in the air, fragile and filled with sorrow. Acacius approached you slowly, his footsteps quiet on the floor. He stood beside you, his presence sent warm to the coldness you felt inside you.

"I believe they do," he said gently, his voice filled with conviction. "Love transcends the physical, the seen. It’s a bond that doesn’t need time or proximity to exist.”

Your lips trembled, and you looked down, tears streaming silently down your cheeks. "I didn’t even know..." you whispered, feeling the grief breaking your soul.

Acacius reached out, his fingers brushing against your arm before wrapping around you, pulling you into his embrace. "Your love is real, and it’s known," he whispered, his voice filled with tenderness. "Our child felt it, and they’ll always carry that love with them."

As he held you close, his eyes drifted to your shoulder, where the faint imprint of a bite mark clung to your skin as cruel reminder of Geta’s actions. The wound stirred a deep, simmering anger within him, a fury that had been building with every injustice you had endured. His grip on you tightened slightly, protective, as the hatred he felt for the emperor grew more potent than never.

His patience with Geta and Caracalla had reached his limit, but it was the first of them his main target.

His jaw clenched, and his breathing deepened, struggling to keep his emotions inside. The thought of Geta’s audacity, his relentless obsession and the harm he had caused, ignited a burning need for retribution. Acacius pressed a tender kiss to your temple, a silent vow forming in his mind.

You felt the tension in his embrace, the barely contained rage that coursed through him. Looking up, you saw the storm in his eyes. You lifted yourself just a bit to reached his lips, but he knew what you were doing.  The sadness had clouded your mind completely, and you thought that after losing a child you could have another right away, to feel the hope again.

As your lips moved in syn together with fervor. He allowed himself to be led by you towards the bed, you were on charge but as soon as you sat on his lap, he pulled away from you, placing his hands on your shoulders and all he saw was two crystal eyes shining like the moon, watering.

“No," he whispered, his voice soft but determined by the consciousness of his actions. His gaze held yours, filled with love. "This isn’t what you need right now."

Tears welled in your eyes once more, spilling over as the weight of your grief pressed down on you. "I just... I need to feel something else." you choked out, your voice trembling.

He cupped your face, his thumbs brushing away the tears that streaked your cheeks. "I know," he murmured, his own eyes glistening with unshed tears.

“I was going to be a mother…” your sob wracked through you.

Acacius arms wrapped around you firmly, yet tenderly, holding you as if you might break. His steady heartbeat beneath you was a grounding presence, a reminder that you were not alone in this overwhelming grief.

He held you close, his chin resting atop your head as his arms enveloped you in a cocoon of warmth and safety. "You will be," he whispered softly, his voice trembling with emotion. "Someday, you will be. And I’ll be right here with you, every step of the way."

Your sobs shook your body as the reality of your loss washed over you. "I didn’t even know," you cried, clutching onto him as if letting go would mean losing yourself entirely. Tears spilled down your cheeks, and you couldn’t stop them. "How could I not have known?" you cried, the anguish in your voice cutting through the eerie quiet night. "I lost a child, Acacius... our child. And I didn’t even get the chance to-“

His fingertips stroked your back, his hands traced soothing patterns all along, up and down. "Let it out," he whispered, his voice soft and steady. "You don’t have to hold it all in."

You clung to him, the weight of all your emotions pouring out in waves soaking his tunic.  The loss and the fear met and you were terrified of losing even losing him “Everything feels so broken." You murmured.

He tightened his embrace, his lips pressing gently against your temple. "I’ll piece every single piece of you.”

You took a shuddering breath; the warmth of his words enveloped you. "I don’t know if I’m enough," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

"You are. " He said, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze. His eyes were filled with love.

He tilted your chin up slightly, his eyes searching yours with a tenderness that made your heart burst. "I see the light in you, even when you can’t see it yourself," he said softly. "And I’ll be here, always, to remind you of that light."

Tears continued to spill down your cheeks, but your heart felt a little bit lighter. His thumb gently wiped away a tear, his touch tender and full of love.

"You don’t have to carry this alone," he continued, his voice reassuring. "Lean on me, let me be your strength when you need it.”

His forehead rested against yours, the closeness hurt you. "You are everything to me," he whispered, his breath warm against your skin. "And I’ll do whatever it takes to bring you peace."

Acacius’s eyes softened, and a faint smile played on his lips as he cupped your face gently. "You were made for me," he whispered, his voice filled with reverence and love. "In every lifetime, in every universe, I would find you. You are my destiny."

The sincerity in his words sent a warmth through you, easing the ache in your heart. He brushed his thumb along your cheek, his touch light as a petal, as if afraid you might disappear in a second. "No matter what happens, you are my everything."

He leaned in, pressing a tender kiss to both of your wet cheeks. "We were meant to find each other," he continued, his voice a soothing balm. "And nothing, not even the gods themselves, can take that away from us."

His arms wrapped around you tighter, pulling you closer as if to shield you from the world. "I Will love you forever.”

The next day, Acacius stood by your side at the edge of the bed, his gaze softened as he watched you resting. The morning light filtered gently through the window, casting a warm glow over your face.

He had trusted your closest healer to stay and watch you over while he wasn’t here. She gave him a reassuring nod.

“She’s in good hands,” the healer said softly. “I’ll stay with her and ensure she has everything she needs, general.”

Acacius nodded, grateful for her words. Leaning down, he pressed a tender kiss to your forehead. “Rest well, my love. I’ll be back soon.”

With a final glance, he turned and left, joining Lucilla outside who was waiting for him after having checking on you. Together, they made their way to the grand Colosseum, while the distant roar of the crowd growing louder as they arrived. The games brough chaos, the spectacle of gladiators battling for glory captivating the masses as they saw how people fought for their lives.

As they entered the imperial box, both greeted the emperors.

“General Acacius, Lucilla” Caracalla said, followed with a curt nod, his eyes sharp and assessing.

Emperor Geta, however, was quick to notice your absence besides your husband and your mother. His gaze narrowed, a flicker of suspicion crossing his features.

“General Acacius,” Geta called out, his voice carrying over the sound of the crowd. “Where is that beautiful wife of yours?”

Acacius met Geta’s gaze steadily, his expression unreadable trying it hard not to show how much he loathed him. “She’s unwell, Emperor,” he replied evenly. “The healer advised her to rest.”

Geta’s eyes darkened, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Unwell?” he echoed, skepticism lacing his tone. “I hope it’s nothing serious. She should not miss such a spectacle. Not when she knows the privileges she is granted.”

Lucilla interjected smoothly; her tone polite yet firm. “Her health is of major importance. She needs rest to recover.”

Geta’s gaze lingered on Lucilla, then with a sinister edge creeping into his smile he looked at Acacius. “I see. Still, it’s a pity she isn’t here. Perhaps her healing the wounds of that gladiator the other day…” he paused, looking how the general’s eyes widened at the information, “Oh you didn’t know.” He chuckled, “Your wife sneaked away the other day, healing the wounds of that new gladiator, you’ll see him again now.”

Acacius’s jaw tightened, his fists clenching at his sides as he fought to maintain his composure. The revelation hit him like a blow, his mind racing with questions and fury. His eyes flickered briefly toward Lucilla, who maintained her calm demeanor, though he could sense her own tension beneath the surface.

Geta’s smirk widened, reveling in the unease he had stirred. “Ah, here he comes now,” he said, gesturing toward the arena as Hanno, well Lucius stepped into the ring. “Quite the fighter, isn’t he? Your wife seemed particularly taken by him.”

Acacius’s gaze snapped to the arena, his heart pounding as he watched the gladiator enter. His mind swirled with conflicting emotions. The was anger, confusion, and a protective instinct that burned brighter than ever.

Lucilla placed a gentle hand on Acacius’s arm, her grip firm yet reassuring. “Remember where we are,” she murmured softly, her eyes meeting his with a silent warning. “We’ll deal with this later.”

Acacius swallowed hard, forcing himself to take a steadying breath. He nodded slightly, acknowledging her words, though his fury simmered just beneath the surface. His focus returned to Geta, who was still watching him with a smug expression.

“I trust my wife’s intentions were noble,” Acacius said evenly, his voice betraying none of the storm raging within him. “She has a compassionate heart.”

Geta chuckled darkly. “Indeed, a heart too soft for a soldier’s wife, perhaps. But no matter. Let us enjoy the games. After all, they are in your honor.”

Acacius said nothing, his eyes narrowing as he returned his gaze to the arena. The gladiator’s movements remined him of Maximus and those brought taunted memories and traits that only added fuel to the fire of Acacius’s anger. As the crowd roared, Acacius’s thoughts remained fixed on one thing: you and the truth behind Geta’s words.

By the time Acacius and Lucilla arrived back at the village, a storm was raging inside Acacius. Geta’s words had found a way to go inside his head, taking root, growing into something that gnawed at him. He couldn’t shake the image of you, his wife, tending to that gladiator and the thought of your actions, no matter how noble, twisted his heart. The confusion and pain felt unbearable. He tried to suppress it, but anger surged through him.

When they finally reached your quarters, Lucilla moved swiftly, almost running to check on you. She could feel the weight of her concern lifting when she saw you sitting in your bed, smiling and laughing at something the healer had just told you. For a moment, she stood at the door, watching you with quiet relief, grateful to see you looking so much better than the last time she had seen you.

But Acacius couldn’t escape the thoughts that plagued him. He had to know. He needed answers, and he needed them now. The guilt over his emotions and the anger toward Geta swirled together, making him question everything about you and his relationship with you.

Lucilla noticed the change in Acacius immediately. Though he had managed to hold his composure earlier, now his expression darkened, the storm inside him clearly visible. She had seen him angry before, but this felt different fueled by personal matters. She approached you cautiously, giving Acacius a moment to process what he was feeling.

You looked up, noticing at your mother’s concerned expression. "What happened?" you asked, sensing the shift in the air. "Is everything alright?"

“Nothing to worry about, my darling” she made her best effort to smile sincerely at you, “How are you feeling?” she asked as he comb your hair just in the same way she did as when you were a child.

“A bit better, mother” you replied smiling at her. You lifted your eyes, looking briefly at her, then moving you glance to Acacius.  “Acacius,” you called softly, but his attention was fixed elsewhere.

Lucilla glanced at you and then at him, her gaze sharp with understanding. “Perhaps, my dear, it would be better if you let him have some time to himself.”

“No,” you replied firmly, your voice stronger than you felt. "I know something happened."

“Emperor Geta spoke to me,” he began, “He told me about the gladiator. The one you were seen tending to.”

Your heart sank, and you struggled to find your voice. “Acacius, I—”

He cut you off, his jaw tightening. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out?” Acacius turned toward you, his expression unreadable, but his eyes held a storm of conflicting emotions. "You were healing him," he said, his voice quiet but laden with the weight of unspoken accusations. "Why?”

“It wasn’t like that,” you pleaded, sitting up. “I had to help him.”

“Why?” Acacius demanded, stepping closer. “Why risk everything for a gladiator?”

You opened your mouth to explain, but the words caught in your throat. How could you tell him the truth without revealing everything? The weight of your secret threatened to crush you. Your bother’s life was on edge.

“Answer me!” His voice rose, his frustration boiling over. “Why would you do something so reckless?”

“He was in pain. I couldn’t let him suffer,” you whispered, tears welling in your eyes.

Acacius’s eyes narrowed, his anger giving way to a deeper hurt. “You trust him more than me? You trust a stranger over your own husband?”

“It’s not about that.” you said desperately.

Acacius’s fists clenched at his sides; his knuckles white. “You’ve been hiding things from me, lying to me. How can I protect you when you won’t even be honest with me?”

“That’s enough,” Lucilla stood out firmly, placing herself between the two of you. “This isn’t helping anyone.”

“Stay out of this, Lucilla,” Acacius snapped, but she didn’t back down.

“No, I won’t,” she said, her voice unwavering. Lucilla placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, her voice firm yet comforting. "My daughter needs rest, Acacius. This isn't the time for this."

Acacius stood at the foot of the bed, his eyes still burning with anger. He hesitated, his jaw clenching as he seemed to wrestle with his emotions. Then, he spoke, his voice cold and cutting.

"Rest?" he said, his gaze locking onto yours. "How can she rest when she seems to have enough energy to heal every stray gladiator in Rome?"

The words hit you like a slap; it seems like there was cruelty in his tone slicing through you. You flinched, the sting of his accusation sharper than any physical pain you were inflicting. Your eyes filled with tears, but you refused to let them fall.

Lucilla's eyes flashed with anger. "Acacius, that's enough," she said sharply, standing to face him. “Leave.”

Acacius held her gaze for a moment, then exhaled sharply, turning away. "Fine. Your problem is that you're too naive". he muttered, his voice softer but no less bitter and with that, he strode out of the room, leaving a heavy silence in his wake. Lucilla turned back to you, her expression softening as she took your hand in hers.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered, her eyes full of sympathy. "He didn't mean it. He's just hurt and confused."

You nodded faintly, the weight of his words pressing down on you. "I know," you whispered back, though the pain in your chest didn’t lessen.

"Mother I swear is not what it seems like." you cried out as she held your hands trying to ground you.

She knew you were saying the truth, beyond your words; she knew you and she was aware of the pain you had endured during the last few hours. She had carried you inside her womb, she knew better.

"I know…I know,dear...but Acacius allowed those words to his head, he-“

"Didn't you recognize your own son?" You asked, looking directly at her. Those eyes that seemed to hold so much mercy, now seemed hurt and shocked.

"What?" She asked almost fearing the answer.

"Lucius?" You said his name, sounding almost foreign in your lips "I know he reminded you of someone, I knew you tried to piece that together the other day."

"I knew it." She gasped, standing up. She lifted her hand to her face as she paced around the quarters. "He looks exactly like..." but he paused, and you were met with silence.

"Looks like what?" you asked.

"Your father." She replied, without looking at you.

The words hung heavy in the air, like a suffocating weight pressing down on your chest. Your mind whirled, trying to process the shock of what Lucilla had just revealed. "My father?" you repeated, confused.

Lucilla stopped pacing, her back turned to you as she continued to stand with her hand against her forehead, her breath shallow. "Maximus.” She gasped, as she freed her truth, “Maximus was your father.”

The shock of Lucilla’s words crashed over you like a wave, pulling you under with its sheer force. Maximus. Your father. The name that had always been wrapped in mystery, the name that had haunted your thoughts for years, now had a new meaning. The weight of it settled in your chest, leaving you breathless.

"My father?" you repeated, your voice barely a whisper, as if saying the words out loud might shatter the fragile reality you had built for yourself. "Maximus was my father?"

Lucilla turned slowly to face you, her expression torn between regret and sorrow. "Yes," she said softly, her voice thick with emotion. "Maximus was your father.”

You stared at her, struggling to reconcile this new truth with everything you had known. Maximus, the legendary general, the man whose name had been spoken in reverence and fear. The same man who had fallen in the arena, and he had killed your uncle, leaving behind a legacy of honor and bloodshed. The man you had always wondered about, but never truly known. And now, you were learning that he was more than just a figure in your past, he was the father you never had.

"Why didn’t you tell me?" you asked, the question escaping before you could stop it. "Why keep this from me, mother?

Lucilla’s eyes filled with tears; her face contorted with guilt. "I didn’t know how to tell you, “She admitted, her voice breaking. "When Maximus died, so much was left unsaid. So much pain was buried.       You and Lucius...you were the result of a love that had to be hidden, kept in the shadows-Oh my god, my boy is alive” she cried, coming close to you “How-What did you say to him?”

“We spoke, mother I-I’m finding a way to free him” you assure her, “But please don’t say this to Acacius, I will.”

She nodded, not entirely sure but she still did it.

The villa was cloaked in silence as the night deepened, shadows stretching long and dark across the marble floors. You moved carefully, each step deliberate, your breath shallow as you avoided the guards and servants who patrolled the halls.

The words Acacius had told earlier were still ringing in your mind and making a way to shatter the pieces of your already broken heart that you feel the urging need to escape and see Lucius.

 Your heart pounded in your chest; fear creeped upon you. You couldn’t shake the need to see Lucius, to ensure he was safe, to discuss a plan to free him. The loss you had just endured weighed heavily on you, but it also fueled your resolve. You couldn’t bear to lose another person you cared about.

The cool night air greeted you as you slipped out of the villa, the stars above casting a faint light over the path ahead. You pulled your cloak tighter around you, the chill seeping into your bones as you made your way toward the gladiator barracks.

The path seemed familiar now, each twist and turn etched into your memory. You avoided the main roads, sticking to the shadows, your steps quick and silent. The barracks loomed ahead, its structure dark and foreboding under the moonlight.

You found the entrance, a small side door that you had used before. With a deep breath, you slipped inside, the scent of sweat and earth filling your senses. The faint murmur of voices echoed through the halls, but you pressed on, moving toward the cell where you knew Lucius was held.

As you approached, your heart tightened at the sight of him. He sat in the corner of the small cell, his head resting against the wall, eyes closed. His face was drawn, the lines of exhaustion and pain evident even in the dim light.

“Lucius,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

His eyes snapped open, and for a moment, there was a flicker of surprise before it was replaced by something softer. He rose slowly, moving toward the bars. “What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice low and filled with concern. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I had to see you,” you said, your fingers gripping the cold metal bars. “I couldn’t stay away. We need to talk.”

He studied you for a moment, his gaze intense. “What’s happened?” he asked, sensing the turmoil within you.

You hesitated, the weight of your recent loss pressing heavily on your chest. “I’ve lost something,” you admitted, your voice trembling. “But I can’t lose you too. We need to find a way to get you out of here.”

Lucius’s expression softened, a flicker of understanding passing through his eyes. “You’ve been through so much,” he said, his voice filled with empathy. “But you can’t put yourself in danger for me.”

“I lost a child” you confessed.

Lucius’s eyes softened, his expression shifting from concern to deep empathy. He stepped closer to the bars, his hand resting over yours, his touch warm and steady.

“I’m so sorry,” he said quietly, his voice laced with sorrow. “I can’t imagine the pain you’re feeling right now.”

Your grip on the cold metal tightened as tears welled in your eyes. “I didn’t even know,” you whispered, the words catching in your throat. “I didn’t have the chance to-” You broke off, unable to finish the thought, the grief too overwhelming.

Lucius squeezed your hand gently, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “You’ve been carrying so much on your shoulders,” he said softly. “You’re stronger than you realize, but you don’t have to bear this alone.”

A sob escaped your lips, and you leaned against the bars, letting the weight of your emotions flow freely. Lucius stayed silent, his presence a steady anchor in the storm of your grief.

Lucius’s expression softened, a flicker of understanding passing through his eyes. “You’ve been through so much,” he said, his voice filled with empathy. “You can’t put yourself in danger for me anymore.”

“I’m not asking for your permission,” you said firmly, your resolve strengthening. “I’ll find a way, Lucius. I promise. I will free you.”

He reached through the bars, his hand brushing against yours. “You’ve always been stubborn,” he said, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

You nodded, your heart swelling with happiness at the sight of your brother.

The ride back to the villa was met by silence, the weight of your encounter with Lucius heavy in your chest. The night air was cool, but it did little to soothe the turmoil within you. As you entered the villa, the quietness of the halls seemed oppressive, each step echoing in the vast space.

You barely made it to your chambers when the door burst open behind you. Acacius stood there, his expression was a mix of worry and anger.

“Where have you been?” he demanded, his voice sharp, the worry in his eyes betraying his stern tone. “Do you have any idea how worried I’ve been?”

You turned to face him, your own emotions boiling over. “I needed space,” you replied, your voice trembling with restrained anger. “I couldn’t breathe in here.”

“Space? You left in the middle of the night, without a word…” Acacius stepped closer, his jaw tightening. “After everything that’s happened, you just disappeared. In your condition.”

“I’m not a prisoner, Acacius.” you shot back, calm. “I needed to clear my head, to deal with everything. I don’t need you controlling me over.”

His eyes darkened, frustration and hurt flickered across his face. “I’m not trying to control you. I’m trying to protect you. You’ve been through so much, and I can’t stand the thought of something happening to you.”

You took a step back, shaking your head. “I don’t need protection, Acacius. What I need is space to grieve, to process everything. And you-” your voice caught, the words barely above a whisper. “You can’t fix this.”

“I know I can’t fix this,” he said, his voice softening, the anger fading into sorrow. “But I can be here for you. I can protect you and I’m sorry for how I treated you before”

You met his gaze, the weight of his words sinking in. “Stop looking at me with pity”  

Acacius flinched at your words, his shoulders slumping slightly as if your harshness had struck a nerve. For a moment, he stood there, quiet, his expression unreadable, but there was a softness behind his eyes that hadn’t been there before.

“I didn’t mean to pity you,” he said, his voice steady but tinged with regret. “I just… I don’t know how to help you through all of this. I also lost that child and I don’t where to put that pain.”

The words hung in the air between you, thick with the weight of both loss and unspoken tension. You hadn’t expected him to say that, hadn’t expected him to acknowledge the pain of your shared grief. It was a rawness in his voice you hadn’t heard before, a vulnerability that both softened and shattered the walls you had built around yourself.

For a long moment, you stood there, the truth of what he had said settling heavily in your chest. You’d been so focused on your own pain, so wrapped in your sorrow, that you hadn’t stopped to think about how deeply the loss had affected him too. But now, hearing it in his voice, you understood—he wasn’t just someone who had watched you suffer. He had lost something precious, too.

"You…" You swallowed hard, the words threatening to choke you. "You lost him, too.”

Acacius nodded, his expression tightening with the grief he had kept hidden for so long. “When the healer told me about the baby I-I couldn’t help but thinking about us having a family and then it was all ripped away and Geta said those words…I lost it.”

You could feel the sorrow in his voice, the weight of everything he had been carrying in silence, and your heart ached for him, just as it ached for yourself. You hadn’t realized how deeply the loss had cut him, how the dream of a future you both had envisioned had been shattered in an instant.

“I didn’t think about it” you said.

Acacius’s gaze softened as he looked at you, the grief in his eyes mingling with something more vulnerable, something raw. “I didn’t want you to know,” he admitted quietly. “I didn’t know how to say it, or if it even mattered. But the pain... it wasn’t just yours to carry. After all, I’m the one who must protect you.”

You stepped closer, feeling the need to be near him, to bridge the space that had grown between you. “It matters, Acacius. It always mattered.”

His hand moved to gently touch your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin in a way that felt both tender and tentative, as though he was afraid you might pull away. But you didn’t. Instead, you leaned into his touch, allowing him to comfort you in the way you had needed for so long.

“I wish I hadn’t said those things to you,” he said, his voice breaking slightly, “I was angry and hurt, but that wasn’t the way to show you how much I cared.”

“I wish we hadn’t let everything build up between us,” you replied, your voice steady now, though your heart still thudded painfully in your chest. “But I understand why we did. I understand why we kept everything hidden.”

There was a silence between you then, a shared understanding that neither of you had known how to express until now. The space that had once felt like a gulf now felt a little smaller, a little less impossible to cross.

“Can we…” You paused, trying to find the right words. “Can we try to heal this together? No more hiding. No more walls between us.”

Acacius’s eyes met yours, the depth of his grief still there, but something else, something warm and hopeful, flickered in them.

Acacius’s hand remained on your cheek, his thumb moving gently as though savoring the contact, as if trying to memorize the feel of you beneath his touch. The space between you seemed to shrink with every passing second, and though the rawness of your shared grief still lingered, there was an undeniable pull between you both—one that had always been there, hidden beneath the tension, the sorrow, and the unspoken words.

He stepped closer, his breath mingling with yours, and for a moment, neither of you said anything. It was as if the world outside had faded into silence, leaving only the two of you standing there in the quiet of the room, in the quiet of this moment.

Without a word, Acacius leaned in, his gaze never leaving yours as if asking permission without speaking. His eyes held a vulnerability that you hadn’t seen before, something raw, something real—and it made your heart beat faster. You nodded almost imperceptibly, unable to put into words what you needed, what you wanted.

And then, he kissed you.

It wasn’t passionate, not at first, but of something deeper, something that carried the weight of all that had come before, of loss, of pain, and of the fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, you could both heal. His lips were gentle on yours, as though he was testing the waters, waiting for any sign that you might pull away. But you didn’t. Instead, you responded, your lips parting slightly as you leaned into him, feeling the warmth of his body against yours.

Acacius’s arms wrapped around you, pulling you closer, his hold steady and sure, and you melted into his embrace. His kiss deepened, and there was a tenderness in it that spoke volumes of the regret, the longing, and the understanding that had finally found its way to the surface.

For a long moment, the world around you ceased to exist. There was only the feeling of his kiss, the warmth of his hands, and the quiet comfort of knowing that, despite everything, you were no longer alone in this.

When the kiss finally broke, you were both breathless, your forehead resting against his, your hearts beating in sync. He didn’t pull away, and neither did you. Instead, you stayed there, letting the silence between you speak for all the things that words could never fully express.

“I’m here,” he whispered, his voice low and filled with emotion.

“And I’m here.” You replied.

The next morning, you awoke with a lingering warmth in your chest, the memory of last night’s kiss with Acacius was still fresh on your lips. It was strange, despite the pain and the heartache, there was something comforting in the way Acacius had held you, as if the weight of everything pressing down on you could be borne, if only together.

But just as the morning light began to fill the room, casting soft shadows on the walls, the harsh knock on your door interrupted the peace. You sighed softly.

One of the servants entered your quarters, announcing the presence of Emperor Geta and Emperor Caracalla.

Before you could even respond, and both Emperor Caracalla and Emperor Geta stepped into the room. Their presence was commanding, each one wearing an expression that veiled their intentions. Caracalla's eyes scanned the room first, his gaze lingering briefly on you.

"Good morning, princess” Caracalla greeted; his tone formal but with an edge of curiosity. "I trust you slept well.”

Geta, ever the more mischievous presence, did not mask his interest so well. His gaze immediately flicked between you and his brother, noting the tension that hung thick in the air. "Ah, my lady” he remarked, his smile laced with hidden meaning. "I hope we aren't interrupting something more... private?"

You could feel Geta’s eyes on you, the weight of his gaze making you uneasy. His curiosity was sharp, and you could almost feel him waiting for any sign of weakness, any crack to exploit. You forced yourself to stand taller, lifting your chin in defiance of his probing stare.

Caracalla’s eyes softened for a moment as he observed the tension, and then, with a slow nod, he motioned toward the chairs by the table. "We did not come here to pry," he said, his voice quieter now, though still full of authority. "But we were concerned. Your absence was noted at yesterday’s games. I trust everything is well?"

Geta, however, did not seem as concerned. He leaned against the doorframe casually, his smirk never wavering. "Indeed," he chimed in. "Such a pity to miss the games, especially with the gladiator’s performance. But I’m sure you’re feeling better now.”

The air between the three of you grew heavy, filled with unsaid things, fears, suspicions, and lingering emotions. Caracalla watched you closely, his sharp gaze measuring your movements though his voice remained level.

"We wanted to ensure all is well. There are matters of the empire that demand our attention, but family is still... important," Caracalla added, though his eyes seemed to linger on you, a glimmer of something unreadable flashing behind them.

Geta stepped closer, a twisted smile curling his lips. "No prisoner has ever had such treatment," he said, gesturing around the luxurious room as if the walls and fine furnishings were a gift from him. "I have given you everything."

Your anger surged, and you couldn’t hold it back any longer. "Everything?" you spat, your voice shaking with fury. "You mean the punishment? The abuse of your power? Poisoning me? Making me lose a child?"

Geta froze, his eyes widening in shock at your words. He hadn’t expected you to confront him so directly, hadn’t anticipated the raw pain and anger that laced your voice. For a moment, he looked almost human, almost remorseful, but it was fleeting, quickly replaced by a cold, calculating expression.

"I... didn’t know," he muttered, though his tone lacked genuine remorse. "That wasn’t my intention."

You took a step closer, your eyes blazing with defiance. "Your intentions don’t matter," you said, your voice low but cutting. "You have taken everything you could from me.”

Geta’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing more. Caracalla’s gaze flicked between you and his brother, a faint smirk playing on his lips as if he found the whole exchange amusing. The tension in the room was suffocating, each moment stretching into eternity.

Finally, Geta turned away, his expression dark and unreadable. "We’ll speak again soon," he said, coming close to you, reaching your ear for you to hear, his voice devoid of the usual warmth he tried to feign. "But remember, no matter how you feel, you are still mine."

After Geta left your quarters, Caracalla lingered for a moment longer, his gaze softened unexpectedly. His voice, usually sharp and cold, dropped to something almost gentle. "You would have made a wonderful mother," he said quietly, his words hanging in the air.

You stiffened at his remark, the unexpected sentiment cutting through the tension like a blade. Before you could respond, he turned and followed Geta out of the room, leaving you in stunned silence.

Acacius stepped inside the room and closed behind the two emperors. His eyes were filled with concern, his jaw tight as he crossed the room to you.

He reached for you, his hands settling on your shoulders. "Are you alright?" he asked softly, searching your face for any sign of how you were feeling.

You nodded slowly, though the weight of Caracalla's words lingered in your mind. "I’m... I’m fine," you whispered, though the crack in your voice betrayed the truth.

Acacius pulled you into his arms, holding you tightly. "You don’t have to pretend," he murmured, his voice gentle. "I’m here. Whatever you need, I’m here."

You buried your face in his chest, the tears you had been holding back finally spilling over. "It’s just too much," you whispered. "Everything... it’s too much."

He tightened his hold on you, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "I know," he said softly. "But we’ll get through this."

Acacius held you close, his voice low but determined. "I’m taking you away from here," he said, his tone filled with resolve. "You’ve endured enough. I’ll defeat Geta and Caracalla, bring down their empire, and when it’s safe... I’ll come back for you."

You pulled back slightly, searching his eyes. "Acacius, that’s treason. it’s too dangerous. If they find out-"

"They won’t," he interrupted firmly, his hands tightening on your arms. "I have an army. Men who are loyal to me only. They’ll arrive in a 3 days and we’re bringing Rome to what it was, but I need you to out of here before that.”

Your breath caught in your throat at his words, the weight of what he was proposing sinking in. "Acacius, you can’t be serious," you whispered, fear creeping into your voice. "This is madness. If they discover your plans, they’ll kill you. They’ll kill us."

His expression softened, but his resolve remained unshaken. "I’ve never been more serious," he said quietly. "I’ve watched this empire fall apart under their rule, seen too many suffer because of their greed and cruelty. I won’t let it continue. Not while I have the power to stop it."

You shook your head, heart pounding. "And what about me? You’re asking me to leave, to run while you stay and fight. I can’t do that, Acacius. I can’t leave you behind."

He cupped your face in his hands, his eyes intense but filled with a deep affection. "I need you safe," he insisted. "If you stay, they’ll use you against me. They’ll hurt you to get to me, and I can’t allow that."

Tears welled in your eyes again as the weight of his words pressed down on you. "I don’t want to lose you," you whispered, your voice breaking.

"You won’t," he promised, his thumb brushing away a tear that escaped down your cheek. "I’ll come back for you. I swear it."

He leaned in, his forehead resting against yours. "Then at least you’ll be safe," he said softly. "And you’ll know that I did everything I could to make things right."

"I can't leave my brother behind," you said, your voice trembling as you pulled back slightly, your eyes searching his face.

Acacius froze, his brow furrowing in confusion. "What?" he asked, disbelief coloring his tone.

"Lucius is alive," you confessed, the weight of the secret you’d been holding finally lifting from your chest. "The gladiator I healed... that's my brother.”

His eyes widened, disbelief flashing across his face. "Your brother?" he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper. "Lucius... he's alive?"

You nodded, tears brimming in your eyes. "He survived all these years, but I couldn’t tell anyone. If Geta or Caracalla found out, they would kill him.”

Acacius ran a hand through his hair, taking a step back as he tried to process the revelation. "This... changes everything," he muttered, his mind racing. "Lucius is alive?”

You nodded.

He exhaled slowly, the weight of the situation settling on his shoulders. "We’ll have to get him out, too," he said, his voice resolute. "I won’t leave your brother behind. We’ll take him with us."

Acacius stepped forward and wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close once more. His embrace was firm yet gentle, a silent promise of solidarity and protection. You leaned into him, finding comfort in his warmth, the weight of your shared burden momentarily lifted.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The gravity of what lay ahead hung heavy in the air, but there was also an unspoken understanding between you, a mutual resolve to face the impending storm together.

Everything that hurt you, it hurt him. Every broken piece that fell out from your heart got stuck on your skin. Everything about the world he used to hate, he loved it now. You had made his life bearable because every time he opened his eyes and saw your lashes kissed your skin, how your chest inhale and exhale. He was glad he had survived thousands of battles just for his fate ending up being next to you.  He would choose this path again and he would vow his promise to Lucilla just to kiss your face all over again.

And just as his promised he would put your life under protection to end the reign that had taunted you for so many years.

“I’ll end this” Acacius murmured against your hair, his voice steady with determination. “I’ll save Lucius, and I’ll put an end to Geta and Caracalla’s reign, and you will be out, safe for now.”

You nodded against his chest, knowing damn well that your plan wasn’t the same as his, but both of them would meet the same fate.

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[pedroscurls]

letters across time (one-shot)

summary: after having moved to rome for a fresh new start, you begin to receive letters from an unlikely stranger that you begin to develop feelings for... only to come to the heartbreaking realization that the two of you may never meet.

pairing: marcus acacius x fem!reader content warnings: angst (with a happy ending), strangers-to-lovers trope (?), mutual pining, mentions of war and death, sorry - i've got a lack of historical ancient roman knowledge but trying my best lol, deviation from the film (lucilla dies before marcus - sorry, wanted marcus to be single / widowed which only fuels his hatred for the emperors), reader has a nickname (rose), excuse my poor attempt at speaking italian, no use of y/n. word count: 9.4k a/n: so i'm really stepping out of my comfort zone with this one, but i've been obsessed with marcus a since gladiator 2 came out (and honestly who else hasn't lol). also a bit of a tidbit - my first ever tattoo is with the latin saying ad maiora so i had to fit it into this story hehe. if the characterization seems off or if the historical aspect of ancient rome / dialogue is inaccurate, please bear with me - it's my first ever marcus a fic and first time writing in that time period... anyway, huge thank you to @jolapeno for hosting this "dear-uary" challenge <3. my epistolary is letters and my prompt is here. hope you all enjoyed this!

Finally settled in, you walk out to your small balcony and take a seat. It overlooks the famous Colosseum and despite the sounds of chatter coming from nearby, you have to wonder how this place looked centuries ago. Rome had always been a place you wanted to visit, but never did you think that you’d move here. 

You don’t speak the language (yet), and the apartment you moved into was surprisingly affordable given the location. An elderly couple owns the small building and when you had approached them about a vacant apartment listing, they were more than eager to have you move in. It wasn’t at all luxurious–the apartment building. It was very dated, remnants of ancient Rome decorated throughout the building. It almost felt like you were transported back to that time period, given the decoration that filled not only your apartment but the entire building itself. 

The couple could speak a little English, asking plenty of questions that a usual landlord wouldn’t ask. 

American? Yes, you answered.

Married? No, you replied with a heavy sigh–memories of your last relationship flickering in your mind. 

A beautiful girl like you, not married? No, you repeated–now trying to end the conversation in hopes that you don’t have to go into detail why you uprooted your entire life into one suitcase. 

You had noticed the way the older woman’s smile drops, can see her eyes softening at the sight of you. It’s almost like she knows, like she can understand why you’re here. She’s the first one to say that you got the apartment–the brief meeting lasting only twenty minutes. 

It’s yours, she said. 

You had told them you weren’t sure you could afford it, given how close it was to the Colosseum and knowing that it was one of the hottest tourist spots. There’s a lot of foot traffic that surrounds this area and you’d be lucky to have found an apartment this fast. 

Whatever you can pay, the husband had chimed in. We will accept.

Then, the woman had touched your arm–gentle, light, almost feather-like and you could have sworn the warmth radiated throughout your entire body. This place, this couple–it felt familiar, it felt like home. 

You nodded in agreement and you shook hands with the husband before the woman hugged you gently. 

And now, sitting in your new apartment, this didn’t feel real. You still feel like you’re running, like you’re looking over your shoulder, waiting for the other shoe to drop. But the sun begins to set, the sky soon turns a shade of orange and you let out a breath that you hadn’t realized you were holding. 

A flood of relief washes over you.

You’re safe. 

This is your fresh start. 

And you remember what the woman had told you when they had given you the keys to your new apartment: Ad Maiora, cara mia, she whispered, eyes staring into your own. A fleeting gaze of understanding. You asked her what that meant and she smiled, patted your hand and answered, Towards greater things, my dear. 

After finding luck with your apartment, you doubt that your luck would continue. But now, a month later, you have a steady job at a coffee shop that’s within walking distance and the elderly couple–Giovanni and Antonia–have begun teaching you Italian. Most nights, they invite you to their apartment for dinner where they ask you about your day along with a detailed lesson in learning Italian. Some nights, though, they ask you to teach them English–living so close to a famous tourist area, they encounter plenty of Americans and they believe it’d be good for business if they learned how to speak the language. 

Rome starts to feel more like home as the days pass. Giovanni and Antonia have welcomed you with such warmth that they soon find out the reason for you moving here. You told them you left America for a fresh start–having just gotten out of a very toxic relationship and a very meaningless job. You wanted more for yourself and you knew that staying in America was only going to keep you complacent, stagnant. 

Antonia had given you a hug at the end of that night–a hug that you had gotten so used to receiving, a hug that you found so much comfort in. They reminded you so much of your grandparents that had raised you–those were the only good memories that you dreamt of, a time where you could be a young girl again, running around in your grandparents’ home. 

You feel much freer, more at ease, safe now that you feel fully settled in here. And one day after work, you walk up the two flights of stairs to your apartment and unlock your door. There’s an envelope on the hardwood floor–almost like someone had slipped it underneath your door. There’s no writing on it, no name addressed on it, but you pick it up anyway and notice that it isn’t sealed. You set it on your small rounded table and walk to your kitchen to pour yourself a glass of wine–this is routine for nights when you don’t have dinner with Antonia and Giovanni. 

You take a quick sip of your red wine and then move to your bedroom, removing your clothes to change into much more comfortable clothing–shorts and an oversized crewneck, your hair now pulled into a messy bun. You’re barefoot when you walk back into the kitchen to retrieve your wine glass. As you pass the rounded dining table, you notice the envelope. Someone must have had to slide it underneath your door on purpose, right? 

You take the envelope and then walk out to your balcony, sitting on one of the seats as you set the glass on the small table. Slowly, you pull the letter out of the envelope and open it, the writing in neat cursive. You shouldn’t be reading it, especially if this was meant for someone else. 

Confused but intrigued, you continue to read. 

Lucilla died today. I was not there to bid her goodbye. I had given her a promise–that this campaign will be my last. All of Numidia–for the glory of Rome… all for nothing. Writing this journal entry surely is treacherous–I could be punished for it, but what is the point of it all? This is not Rome. This is not the Rome I had promised to fight for.  Lucilla–I am sorry, my lady. I will love you for the rest of my days and cannot wait until we meet again. Your blue eyes, your smile… Your laugh and your voice–I will carry it with me, my love. I will speak with the Senate. I will–I will do what is right, what must be done.  For you. For Rome.  Acacius

You’re unsure of what you just read. Lucilla. Numidia. Acacius. Rome. It almost seems like this is a journal entry–the feel of the paper, the cursive writing. Maybe you shouldn’t have read it, but you’re curious. Something inside you tells you to write back–almost like a tug, a pull that you feel in the pit of your stomach. So, you grab a piece of paper and a pen and begin writing–not in cursive, though.

Dear Acacius,  I’m so very sorry for your loss. I’m not sure there’s anything anyone can say to make things better and I’m not even sure if time helps either… Shit happens. It sucks, and I want to say that life goes on, but it doesn’t. At least not for the person who lives.  I lost my grandparents when I was eighteen–it crushed my entire world and set me on a path that I’m still trying to fix. I know this isn’t the same as losing a wife or a partner and I’m not even sure if I’m making any sense. I just–I know what loss feels like and it fucking sucks.  Anyway, I think this might have been sent to me by accident and I’m sorry that I opened it and read it. It wasn’t my intention. So, I’m just gonna send it back to you–somehow–but… I hope things get better for you, Acacius (really cool name, by the way!).  Best wishes,  A stranger

You fold your letter and place it into the envelope with Acacius’s original piece of paper. You then close the envelope, grab your glass of wine and walk back into your apartment, setting the envelope onto your dining table so that it’s visible for you tomorrow morning to ask Antonia about. 

The following morning after getting ready for work, you notice that the envelope is gone. You furrow a brow in confusion, beginning to turn over your entire apartment to find the envelope–contents of your letter along with Acacius’s journal entry inside of it. When you realize that you’re late for work, you decide to call in sick and quickly leave your apartment to descend the stairs to speak with Antonia. 

She’s in the community garden, tending to the roses and when she sees you, a bright grin lines her lips. She stands and pulls you into a hug without hesitation. 

“Cara mia, no work today?” 

You shake your head and ask, “Antonia, there was an envelope in my apartment last night. Do you know who might have slid it under my door?” 

“Envelope?” she shakes her head, confusion written across her features. “Like a letter?” 

“Well, not really?” you answer. “It seemed like a journal entry. They talked about Lucilla, about Numidia–”

“Lucilla? My dear, she was the daughter of Roman Emperor Marcus Aurelius.”

“Wait, that was centuries ago.” 

Antonia nods. “And Numidia,” she sighs. “So very tragic.”

“Antonia, who’s Acacius?” 

“General Acacius?”

“G–General?”

“Cara mia, cosa sta succedendo?” asks Antonia. My dear, what’s going on?

You shake your head. “Nothing. Um, I’ll have to skip tonight’s dinner with you and Giovanni. Mi dispiace.” 

“Cara mia–”

You give her a hug and walk back inside your apartment, determined to find out more about Acacius. 

Marcus returns to his chambers, distraught and overcome with grief. His bed–once shared with Lucilla–now remains cold and empty. He can’t bring himself to lie in bed, yearning for his wife who is no longer alive. After Numidia, he was more than ready to return home–returning home meant returning to Lucilla, but when news of her death finally reached him, he no longer found the need to go back to Rome, despite the emperors’ orders. 

But Marcus was a man of honor. He would ask Emperor Geta and Emperor Caracalla for a period of rest from war, to fully grieve the loss of Lucilla. He can’t even think about attending the emperors’ ceremony that’s dedicated to his success in Numidia–how can he when Lucilla is no longer here? 

He hears a knock on the door and he walks–barefoot–to open it. He sees a chambermaid on the other side–she has a look of sympathy across her features with a hint of fear. 

“G–General,” she mutters. “There is a letter for you.” 

“A letter?” he asks, confused.

She nods and extends her hand. Marcus takes the envelope from her and gives her a single nod, dismissing her silently. She turns on her heel and Marcus shuts the door, walking towards the candle that illuminates a small table. He takes a seat, pours himself a cup of wine before he begins to open it. He holds two pieces of a paper–one he’s familiar with and when he opens it, he realizes it’s the journal entry that he had written–and the other, much more smooth, less texture, more white in color. When he opens it, his eyes widen at the writing–all capitalized, not written in cursive. 

He reads the first line and realizes that this is a letter to him. He reads it with interest, eyes still slightly widened at the choice of words that he’s not used to. 

Shit sucks. 

Cool name.

It’s signed A Stranger and he isn’t sure how his journal entry even got into the hands of someone else. He doesn’t have any information aside from the fact that your writing is unusual and the words you use are out of the ordinary. 

But, he finds comfort in your letter. He’s known loss before–plenty of his men understand what he’s going through–but somehow talking to a stranger who doesn’t truly know who he is provides a sense of relief. He doesn’t have to be General Acacius in his response to you–he can just be Marcus. 

So, he grabs a piece of paper and his quill and begins writing to you. 

Dear Stranger,  Thank you for returning my journal entry. I am not sure how that fell into your hands and it is quite alright that you read it. However, for some reason, I feel some relief knowing that I am not alone. Maybe my journal entry was meant to find you… Do you believe in that? In fate?  Anyway, I am sorry for your loss as well. Loss is… Well, it is a part of life but that does not mean that it is pleasant either. I am sure the path that you are on now will lead you to greater things. There is a saying–if you are familiar–Ad Maiora. It means towards greater things.  Also, what do you mean by ‘cool name’? It is quite interesting that my name is associated with some kind of temperature… unless I am misunderstanding.  In any case, you may call me Marcus. If you are comfortable, may I ask what your name is?  I hope this letter finds you well, stranger. And I hope I get to talk to you again.  Best wishes,  Marcus

He re-reads his letter, furrows a brow and sighs. It sounds desperate–a plea to get you to talk to him again because he feels less alone when he’s writing to you. He isn’t sure how this letter will get to you, but he keeps his journal entry and your letter and places his reply back into the envelope. 

Marcus spends the better part of his night drinking, having ended up falling asleep at his desk and the envelope magically disappearing by the time he awakes the following morning. 

You awake the following morning, having fallen asleep on your couch with your laptop and notebook scattered on the coffee table. You had spent the entire night researching Acacius. Antonia was right–Marcus Acacius was a General for the Roman empire, serving under the rule of Emperor Geta and Emperor Caracalla. Empress Lucilla was his wife, but had died while he was on his way back from Numidia. But all of this–it happened centuries ago. 211 AD. And Acacius ended up dying–right in the center of the Colosseum after he was forced to fight in the arena after the emperors found out his plan of treachery. 

There’s no way that the person you had written to the other day was the same man you had researched–he was dead. Surely, you can’t be writing to someone from a different time period and to someone who is no longer alive. Right? 

You sit up from your couch and notice the same envelope magically resting on your coffee table. Quickly, you grab it and pull the letter out. Same paper, same writing. 

It’s from Acacius. 

You read it quickly, a small smile lining your lips and a quiet giggle escaping you. You feel a wave of emotion when you read his reply; it’s obvious this man is clearly still alive but how could it be possible that you’re communicating with someone who lives in an entirely different time period? And how come the envelope is your only string tying you to him? 

After you finish reading his letter, you grab your notebook and pen and begin writing your reply. 

Dear Marcus,  You can call me Rose. It’s my favorite flower and I grew up helping my grandma with her garden, which was filled with roses.  You’re cute, Marcus. Cool name meaning… You have a nice name. I think that translates the same?  Ironically enough, Ad Maiora is something I’m trying to remind myself when I have tough days. A good friend of mine mentioned it to me when I moved here. It’s been something that keeps me going every day… the hope that I’m moving in the right direction.  And fate… I don’t think I believe in it. We all have free will and everything we do in life is a choice we make… like my choice in getting into a relationship with a really bad man. Would you call that fate?  I like talking to you too… and I feel less alone too. Can I ask a question, by the way? What year is it?  Best wishes,  Rose

You take Marcus’s letter and set it aside, folding your reply and placing it back into the envelope. You’re sure that it’s going to disappear during the night and you hope that you can wake up the next day with a response from Marcus. 

Marcus attends his ceremony, dressed in white and gold as he feigns a look of pride, a forced smile when he’s standing in front of Emperor Geta and Emperor Caracalla. It makes his blood boil–the fact that these two young men are parading him around like he’s done something so great, so grand. All he can see is the unnecessary bloodshed, the bodies burning in that pit. All he can feel is the emptiness in his soul–Marcus doesn’t want to be here. 

And not once did they give their condolences over the loss of Lucilla. Marcus asks for a respite from this war, but they don’t grant him that luxury. He has a cut along the side of his neck due to Emperor Geta placing a sharp blade along his skin. As soon as the ceremony is over, Marcus retreats to his chamber where the envelope that disappeared that morning magically appears on his desk. 

Still in his white and gold attire, he quickly opens the envelope and reads your letter. He lets out a breath of relief as he sits down and reads your words over and over again. It gives him comfort–something he desperately needs right now. 

There’s something in the way your words put him at ease. He still has to put Lucilla to rest and he isn’t looking forward to it–that the next time he sees his wife will be in a coffin. 

He grabs a piece of paper and begins writing to you. 

Dear Rose,  That is a beautiful name and a beautiful flower. There are gardens filled with them here. Now, when I see a rose, I will think of you.  Cute–I have never been called cute before. That is certainly a first, thank you.  I believe in fate, Rose. I believe that everything happens for a reason… But I am sorry to hear that you had to endure a difficult relationship. It pains me to hear that you were mistreated and I surely hope that you are far from him now.  I believe that we have crossed paths for a reason. Maybe we will never know why, but I am surely glad that we did.  You can ask me any question you like and I will be more than happy to answer. It is 211 AD–do you not know the year? Also, I assume that you live in Rome since these letters are coming rather quickly.  The next few days will be… rather difficult. I am planned to bury my wife and I am not sure if I will be available to reply, but if you send me a response… I will do my best to write to you when I can.  I am not looking forward to saying goodbye to Lucilla. She was an amazing woman. She had to sacrifice a lot in her life–she was very brave, strong, resilient… I should have been there at her bedside. I should have held her hand when she took her last breath…  I failed Lucilla.  What kind of man does that make me?  If you choose to never respond after this letter, I understand. I just–there’s something in the way your words bring me comfort, puts me at ease, gives me a sense of relief… Anyway, I must go now. Until we speak again, Rose.  Best wishes,  Marcus 

He folds his letter and puts it back in the envelope, ensuring this time that he passes it along to the chambermaid. 

Later that night, you come home after having spent dinner with Antonia and Giovanni. You’re welcomed with the sight of the envelope sitting neatly on your dining table. You set your things down immediately and grab the envelope, taking the letter out and sitting down on the couch. 

Your heart breaks slowly as you read Marcus’s letter. You can feel his guilt through the words on the page and when he confirms the year he’s living in, it all but crushes you. This is a man that you’re slowly developing a friendship with and you know that it isn’t going to last long. 

As you continue to read his letter, you feel tears sting your eyes. So, you don’t hesitate to begin writing your response back to him. 

Dear Marcus,  With you, I’m starting to believe in fate. Would you believe me if I said the year I live in is 2025? I’m not sure how to explain how we’re able to exchange letters from different time periods, but… here we are. It’s possible. I just don’t have an explanation for it.  I can assure you that I am no longer in a relationship with that man and I am very much far from him. I moved to Rome about a month ago and I love it here. I can see the Colosseum from my balcony.  I’m sorry that the next few days will be difficult. I can’t imagine the pain that you’re feeling–losing the one person you thought you’d spend the rest of your life with. Lucilla sounded like a great woman, Marcus. I know saying sorry doesn’t change anything, but I don’t know if there’s even anything I can say to make things better.  I’m sure Lucilla knew… I’m sure she knew that you did your best to get to her. I’m sure she knew that you wanted to be there with her…  And you know, maybe you don’t have to say goodbye. The ones we love don’t ever really leave us, do they? We continue living to keep their memory alive.  You didn’t fail, Marcus. Sometimes, things happen out of our control. Not being there for her at the end isn’t a reflection of who you are as a person, or as a husband. I’m willing to bet that if you had it your way, you’d have been there for her. Maybe wherever you were… you wouldn’t have gone if you had a choice.  Finally, I’m not going anywhere. You’re stuck with me, sorry.  I hope the next few days give you some closure, Marcus, and when you’re ready, I’ll be right here waiting.  Best wishes,  Rose 

You take his letter and put it on the pile you’ve collected before you place your reply back into the envelope. You turn your back for a moment to grab a glass of water and when you turn back around, the envelope is gone. 

Marcus awakes that morning to the sight of the envelope. He can’t explain how it just vanishes and reappears out of thin air on his desk. He pulls your letter out of the envelope and reads what you have written. 

2025? Surely, that’s a lie. There is no way he’s exchanging letters with someone centuries into the future. He has to wonder if this is some sort of joke, if maybe the emperors put someone up to this. As he continues reading though, he feels tears sting his eyes, threatening to spill over. Your words–it provides a sensation of warmth that blossoms in his chest. He wants to believe you, wants to believe that he’s a good man. 

Marcus rereads your last sentence repeatedly, commits it to memory as he begins thinking of what he has to do today. 

I’ll be right here waiting. 

He doesn’t have time at the moment to write you back, so he keeps the envelope and letter separate from each other. He takes one last look at your letter before he leaves his chamber. 

The next few days, you’re anticipating a response from Marcus. He did warn you that he wouldn’t write back until he’s able, but you still can’t help the disappointment you feel when the envelope doesn’t appear for the next few days. Antonia and Giovanni notice a change in your demeanor since you’ve been receiving the letters–they notice the excitement in your eyes, a much freer spirit, but you tell them it’s because you’re finally feeling more and more comfortable here in Rome. 

You learn more about Marcus through your research and you try to find someone who can explain the phenomenon that you’re experiencing. How is it possible that you’re communicating with a man from a different time period? Sure, there are theories about time travel but that never felt real to you. 

At the end of the week, you’re already getting anxious. It’s been four days since Marcus’s letter. You have to wonder what he’s doing, how he’s doing. You know how his life ends, and you have to wonder what would happen if you told him. That would change so many things, right? It would not only change history, but it would ultimately change the trajectory of how the world is now. 

On the fifth day, Marcus is exhausted. Saying goodbye to Lucilla had only fueled his anger for the emperors. He has a plan in place and he knows what end he will meet if he gets caught, but at this point, he has nothing else to lose. 

After he buries Lucilla, he finds some time to ask around if anyone knew a woman named Rose. When someone would respond with a nod, there’s a flutter of excitement that he feels in the pit of his stomach but he’s left disappointed every time. Every Rose he’s met so far has no idea of the letters and he’s starting to believe that maybe you do live in the future–centuries into the future. It leaves him with an unsettling sensation in his chest, a sad reality that there’s a likely possibility that Marcus will never get to meet you. 

Now, he finally has some time alone. So, Marcus sits at his desk, rereads your letter once more before he takes his usual paper and quill out to begin writing a response to you. 

Dear Rose,  I am sorry for the delay in my response. The last five days have been very difficult for me, but every time I saw a rose… I thought of you and it brought me a lot of comfort that I did not realize I needed.  I want to express my gratitude to you, Rose. Your last letter–I kept it close to me at all times during the last few days here. Somehow, knowing that you’re waiting for me helped me get through each day… and knowing that I get to write to you again helped me through the difficult moments I endured. Ad Maiora, I suppose. Towards greater things… and I think that greater thing is you.  I buried Lucilla yesterday. She still looked so beautiful, but she looked… peaceful. She endured a lot of hardship in her life and there is some comfort that I feel knowing she’s no longer in pain. She no longer needs to fight… and I believe you are right. The ones we love do not ever leave us. We keep their memory alive and Lucilla will always hold a special place in my heart.  I must be completely honest with you, Rose. I am the General of the Roman army. I have a lot of blood on my hands… all for the glory of Rome, but you are right. If I had a choice, I would have been by Lucilla’s side from the start. I am conflicted… It is difficult to fight for this version of Rome. So much bloodshed, so many lives lost… all for nothing. I should not be writing this–it is certainly punishable, but I am exhausted, Rose.  If you do live in 2025–which does not seem possible–how does Rome look like then? You say you moved to Rome. Are you happy here? I also tried to look for you. Asked around about you, but I did not get anywhere. There isn’t anyone by the name of Rose that knows about these letters. Do you really live in 2025?  Lastly, tell me more about you. I want to spend as much time as I have getting to know you, Rose. I hope that is okay.  Best wishes,  Marcus 

He folds his response and places it into the envelope. Right before his eyes, it suddenly vanishes and Marcus is sure that he must be hallucinating. He’s exhausted and hasn’t had much sleep since he’s gotten back, but he has no other explanation for it. 

You awake the following morning to see the envelope on your coffee table. Excitement fills your veins and you quickly walk over to the envelope, carefully taking the familiar piece of a paper out. You begin to realize the letters you have begun exchanging with Marcus are becoming longer and longer–it brings a smile to your face and heat rising in your cheeks. 

You sit on the couch, pull your legs underneath you and grab the blanket to drape over your lap as you finally read Marcus’s letter. He thought of you–the last five days and he thought of you. When he finally tells you the truth about who he is, you feel a sense of relief. You had been afraid that you’d accidentally let it slip that you know who he is, despite already telling him that you live in the future. 

The last sentence in his letter brings you back to reality. You feel the pit in your stomach drop at the realization that this is as far as you’ll ever get with him. Sooner or later, this letters will end but you can’t help the feelings you’ve begun to develop for a man you will never meet. 

I want to spend as much time as I have getting to know you, Rose. 

It’s almost like he knows what will happen to himself–maybe he knows that the plan he eventually comes up with is a death sentence once the emperors find out. 

You know you shouldn’t get attached, but you get your notebook and pen and write back to him anyway. 

Dear Marcus,  I must say, it’s such a relief to hear from you. I wish I could have been there for you, with you… supporting you. If I’m being honest, it’s hard to hear that you’re going through a difficult time. Makes me want to go back into time and pull you into a hug. Do you think that’s possible? Time travel?  You sure know how to make a girl feel special, don’t you? You make me blush sometimes with the things you say. Are you sure you’re real? A lot of the men here certainly don’t talk like you do–you can definitely teach them a thing or two.  I'm starting to think our saying is Ad Maiora, isn’t it? Moving to Rome led me toward a greater thing… one after the other, and it finally led me to you. I’d say that’s fate, wouldn’t you?  And General Marcus Acacius–sounds so formal, so official. You must be very important, aren’t you? Like I said, I wish I could pull you into a hug. I hope, at least, knowing that I’m here to listen is enough though. Also, if talking about this is punishable, then maybe we should be careful. I don’t want anything to happen to you… Yes, I live in the year 2025. I’d be surprised if someone lied to you and said they knew about the letters we’ve been exchanging. Rome is… different than what you’re used to. There are no emperors. The colosseum is no longer in use–there aren’t anymore gladiators. I’ll attach a photograph of me and my balcony, maybe it’ll help you believe me.  Well, what do you want to know? I’m an open book, Marcus. Ask away.  Can’t wait to hear from you again. I have missed you.  Love,  Rose 

You sign the letter without thinking, but you don’t bother to change it or rewrite it after you realize the word you used. You hope it isn’t too forward or too insensitive. You grab your Polaroid camera and quickly walk out to your balcony. You face the camera to yourself and smile, pressing the button to take the picture. Once it develops, you go back inside and fold your letter. After a few minutes, the Polaroid develops and you look down. It’s a good picture and gives a good view of the colosseum in the background. 

Placing the letter and the Polaroid into the envelope, you close it and surprisingly see the envelope disappear. 

“So it is real,” you whisper to yourself, a smile lining your lips as you already begin counting down the time before you receive a reply from Marcus. 

Later that same night, Marcus sees the envelope on his desk as he gets ready for bed. He sits down instantly at his desk and uses his candle to illuminate your writing. 

But he sees the Polaroid and takes it out of the envelope. Marcus lets out a quiet breath when he sees you. He isn’t sure what exactly he’s holding or how this managed to capture a realistic photograph of you but he’s distracted by your beauty to even notice the colosseum in the back. He’s still reeling over Lucilla’s death, but there’s something in the way your smile and your bright eyes somehow puts him at ease. 

“My lady,” he mumbles. “Lucilla, if you can hear me, please forgive me. This woman–She is helping me through this, through your loss.” Marcus shuts his eyes, guilt and desire mixing together. Guilt because he’s still dealing with the grief of losing Lucilla, and desire because you are absolutely stunning. Marcus isn’t even surprised–this is exactly how he pictured you when you began exchanging letters with him. 

Marcus turns his gaze to your letter, but his eyes flicker to your picture repeatedly. You really do live in the future and you will always be so out of reach. 

Then, he sees the word you sign your letter with. A warmth washes over him. His lips curl upwards just slightly and he begins to write. 

Dear Rose,  This–This picture, it is you, yes? I cannot explain how something like this exists, so it must be true that you do live in the future. So far into the future.  But you are breathtaking, Rose. Absolutely beautiful. Your smile and your eyes… there’s a kindness and warmth to them. The man you had been in a relationship with before truly did not realize what he had because any man would be lucky to have you.  The colosseum in your photograph–it looks old. If what you say is true, no gladiators and no emperors, then can I ask… is your world a better place than what it is here? I think I will dream of this, of you, of a different life. This is not to say the life I currently have or have led is not great, but a man can still dream, right?  A hug from you sounds very nice. I imagine that I would feel even more at peace with my arms around you. I am not too sure about time travel, but if these letters are any proof of what’s possible, then maybe time traveling is too. Though, if anyone is doing the time traveling, I would rather it be me. I do not want you to be in this time period here, Rose. I do not want you to be around such men because there are bad men here too. Maybe more worse here than there.  If I may be honest… I cannot stop looking at you. I believe I’m going to keep this very close to me from now on. I am sorry that I cannot provide the same type of picture of myself–we do not have this here… but maybe I can think of something else…  An open book, hm? Well, I know your favorite flower. I know that you are starting fresh here in Rome… I suppose I should ask what do you like to do then? If you are living in the future, what is there to do?  I am unsure if you have experienced this yet, but this envelope… it seems to be the reason why we are able to exchange letters. It vanished before my eyes the other day, Rose. I cannot explain how or why that happened, but maybe this is fate. Exchanging letters across time sounds impossible, but for some reason, the Gods wanted us to meet. That sounds like fate to me.  I will wait for your next letter, Rose, and I have missed you too.  Until then.  Love,  Marcus

He quickly folds the piece of paper and gently slides it into the envelope, not bothering to wait for it to disappear because his attention is pulled to your photograph. He brushes his thumb across it gently–wishing you were here. 

The following morning, you’re awake far too early but excitement fills your entire body when you see the envelope sitting on your dining table. You make a cup of coffee and open it, having grown accustomed to Marcus’s neat cursive. You can feel the heat rise in your cheeks when he compliments you, can feel the butterflies in your tummy. 

I think I will dream of this, of you, of a different life. 

You feel your heart tug just a little–the harsh truth that you will never get to meet him becomes more and more real as you continue to exchange letters with him. 

He’s seen it too–the envelope disappearing without a trace. You can’t explain how it’s possible and there is a part of you that no longer wants one. Time travel–there isn’t a way that’s possible and even if it was, how would it even work? 

You grab your notebook and quickly begin writing to him, setting your cup of coffee down. You lift the cup away from the paper, taking note that it left a coffee-stained circle at the top corner of the page. 

Dear Marcus,  You are very sweet… I’m sure there are more pretty women there. I’m just… me.  But Rome… it’s beautiful here. It’s always been a place I wanted to visit. I never did think I would end up moving here and now, I can’t even imagine ever leaving.  Considering your time period, I would say the world now is much better. I think you would like it… it might take some getting used to–it’s so very crowded here, but I think you would like it. I suppose that’s all we will have, isn’t it? Dreaming of a different life… Or maybe I’ll learn how to time travel and bring you here.  I love the beach. I love the water, the sunsets… It’s calming, almost peaceful to me. There’s just something about the sounds of the waves, the feel of the water, the sight of the sky that just puts me at ease. The beach was the one place that I felt like I could get away from everything. It became my safe haven, my safe place…  What about you? General Marcus Acacius–what do you like to do? I have also seen this envelope just disappear. I don’t have an explanation for it either, but maybe you’re right. Maybe there is a reason why we’re able to communicate across time. Do you think we’ll ever get the chance to meet face to face? You know, if I learn time travel…  Sometimes, when I go to bed, I pray that I dream of you. I think it’s the closest I can get to ever meeting you. I imagine what you would look like, what your voice would sound like… How it would feel like to be in your arms. I would assume I’d feel like how I would if I were at the beach–safe, calm, peaceful.  If by some miracle I’m able to time travel, may I come visit you instead? I think it would be much easier for me to go back in time rather than you come here. Some things might change if you were to leave your time period and come to mine… Looking forward to your next letter, Marcus. Love,  Rose

You fold your letter and place it in the envelope, already counting down the hours until you receive Marcus’s reply.

Marcus finally sits at his table after an exhausting day at the colosseum. He doesn’t find the violence entertaining like everyone else. It’s unnecessary and he wants no part of it, but he has to put on a facade for the emperors. He still plans on speaking with the senate, to conjure up a plan to somehow overthrow Emperor Geta and Emperor Caracalla. 

However, he’s conflicted with so many emotions. The grief and loss he feels over Lucilla lingers in his chest, but he feels hopeful–excited whenever he sees the envelope on his desk. If he goes through with his plan and he ends up getting caught, Marcus knows what the consequence will be. He knows that it’s ultimately a death sentence if the emperors find out, but his mind drifts to you whenever he thinks about what his end might be. 

His eyes drift to your picture on his desk, a small smile curling his lips. He dreamt of you last night, after he had written his response to you. He dreamt that he was in your world, somehow lying in a bed with you in his arms. It was the first time since losing Lucilla that he had woken up with a feeling of ease–just dreaming about you brought him that sense of peace. 

Marcus takes your letter out and reads it with a smile. Once he finishes reading, he begins writing back to you. 

Dear Rose,  I dreamt of you last night. The Gods answered me and I dreamt of you. I dreamt that I was in your world, sitting on that balcony in the picture I received from you. I have this image of you–smiling and laughing–ingrained in my mind. It puts me at ease. Talking with you has been my safe haven, I suppose. Things have been difficult here ever since I got back and it’s lonely without Lucilla. I am sorry to bring her up.  These letters have been able to get me through each day. Your picture, too. Lately, I have been dreaming of a different life than the one I am living. I have been a soldier for most of my life, Rose. I do not think there’s a day that has gone by where I have not fought… And it is tiring. The beach sounds like a great place to just get away from it all, I agree. Here, though, I like to go to the gardens. More so now than before. I am usually surrounded by roses and it makes me feel closer to you.  I am ready to retire, Rose. I am ready to spend the rest of my days in quiet–possibly far, far away from Rome. Maybe near a beach, hm? That would certainly be another place where I can be reminded of you.  I will pray to the Gods for a miracle that we get to meet one day. I didn’t think it would be possible to exchange letters with someone from a different time, so maybe being able to meet face to face may not seem so out of reach… I imagine that I would feel safe and calm with you near too.  Your beauty, your words… The way you have made me feel… It all reminds me of Lucilla, but in your own way. I am a man of honor, Rose, and Lucilla will always have a piece of my heart, but… you have become the reason why I am able to get up every morning. I look forward to the next time I see this envelope because it means I get to talk with you.  Maybe tonight, we can meet in each other’s dreams, Rose.  Until then, my lady.  Love,  Marcus

Days turn into weeks and your letters with Marcus become more and more frequent. You’ve tried to teach yourself the theories of time travel, but you’re just as confused as when you first started. The more you talk with Marcus, the more you begin to realize the magnitude of your feelings for him. You try to tell yourself that developing feelings for a man you won’t ever meet–a man who’s already dead–is only going to set you up for heartbreak. 

But despite knowing how this might end, you still exchange letters with him anyway. 

Marcus is set to meet with the Senate tomorrow and he knows that if he gets caught, it will be his death sentence. There won’t be any way that he will be able to get out of it. He holds onto your letters–and especially your picture–when the days and weeks become more difficult for him. Emperor Geta and Emperor Caracalla require his presence at the colosseum and Marcus finds it increasingly exhausting to sit there and feign interest. 

When he gets back to his chambers every day, the envelope is there waiting for him. He reads your letters repeatedly before he can even write a response. The way you talk about your world–it helps him escape his reality. He begins to realize just how deeply he feels for you and it saddens him because despite how strongly he feels, Marcus knows that you two may never get the chance to meet. 

Later that night, you see the envelope and feel the excitement rush through you. However, once you open the letter and begin reading the words on the page, you feel your heart drop–tears building at the corners of your eyes. This feels almost like a goodbye…

Dear Rose,  I am set to meet with the Senate tomorrow. In secret. I realize that this might be the last letter I will ever write to you, but I will be praying to the Gods that it won’t be, but if it is… I wanted to write to you one last time.  You have given me hope, have made me feel alive when I had lost everything. Coming back to Rome after Numidia, after losing Lucilla–I could not find the will to live, but then I received your first letter. It was fate. You saved me, Rose. You continue to save me.  I wish I could see you. I wish I could touch you. I wish I could hold you. I know I said in a previous letter that I would want to spend the rest of my days in quiet… but I think that has changed.  If I had it my way, I would spend the rest of my days with you. I imagine what my life would be like with you. I imagine a lot of laughter. I imagine that we would be at the beach or maybe at the garden and we would have plenty of meaningful conversations. I imagine my mornings would be one of my favorite times of the day because I would get to wake up every morning with you by my side.  If this is the last time I get to speak with you, just know that you now also have a piece of my heart, Rose. I will carry your photograph with me forever. I will hold onto the conversations we’ve had and the letters we’ve exchanged.  If I do not make it… please remember that you deserve all of the good things in the world. You deserve to always be happy. You deserve to live your life the way you want. You deserve to be with someone who will cherish the very ground you walk on because you deserve nothing less.  When I sleep tonight, I will dream of you… like I always do, Rose.  Yours forever,  Marcus

You know what he means when he says he’s going to speak with the Senate tomorrow. You’ve read what will happen–after all, you know exactly how history plays out after having researched the history of Ancient Rome and Marcus. 

You can feel your heart breaking–the ache in your chest beginning to throb almost painfully. You know how Marcus’s story ends, but you can’t let him go. You had been hesitant before–altering history–but you have to tell him. You may never get to meet him, but you don’t want this to be the end. 

Grabbing your notebook, you begin to write your response. Almost fifteen minutes later, you fold it in half and place it inside the envelope, watching it disappear yet again before your eyes. 

Marcus awakes that morning with a knot in his stomach–his eyes glance over at your photo before he catches the envelope. He sits up from bed and walks towards his desk, pulling out your letter and reading it carefully.

Dear Marcus,  Don’t. Your last letter feels like a goodbye, and I don’t want you to go. I don’t want to say goodbye, not yet… Not ever. I shouldn’t be telling you this because I’m sure it’s going to alter my own reality, but I don’t care. I don’t want to let you go.  You’re going to get caught. No matter how many times you’ve rehearsed it in your mind, you will be caught. Emperor Geta and Emperor Caracalla will find out and they–they will not take it lightly. They will make you fight in the colosseum and that is where you will die. I know how your story ends and yet, I made a choice to continue exchanging letters with you. I knew that our story would only end in heartbreak, but maybe… Maybe there’s still a chance for us.  I am begging you, Marcus… Please do not do it. Don’t go to the Senate. Just–Just leave Rome. Live the rest of your days in quiet–away from war, away from the bloodshed, away from the emperors. You no longer need to fight and I understand… I understand that you made a promise to Lucilla, to yourself, but I cannot lose you and maybe this makes me selfish, but– You saved me too, Marcus.  I will spend the rest of my days figuring out how to transcend time… to find a way where you and I can finally meet. Fate brought us together, right? We will figure this out. I will figure this out.  This is not the end of your story, Marcus Acacius. Do you understand me? And this certainly isn’t the end of ours. At the end of the day, we still have a choice… If you decide to still go through with it, then I will understand. I know you are a man of honor, Marcus. And if you do decide that you will go to the Senate tonight, then I hope you know how deeply I feel for you too. I didn’t think I would ever love again, but you… You nestled your way into my heart and made a home there. I go to sleep dreaming of you. When I wake up, you are the first person I think of.  I love you, Marcus.  Yours forever,  Rose

He sits at the edge of his bed, rereading your letter over and over and over again. You know how his story ends and you know exactly what will happen when he goes to meet with the Senate tonight. He should have known that you’d be aware of his history–you live in the future after all. 

Marcus isn’t afraid to die–in fact, it’s something that he’s come to terms with a long time ago, but for once, he doesn’t want this to end yet. He doesn’t want to let you go either and maybe, maybe you two will never meet, but he would rather die an old man exchanging letters with you. 

He reads the last sentence repeatedly and he can’t help the way the words stir something in him–the butterflies he feels in the pit of his stomach, his heart beating faster–you love him. 

Marcus knows what he needs to do now. 

The rest of the day seems to drag on–the minutes trickling by ever so slowly. Even at work, you can’t concentrate. Antonia and Giovanni pick up on your distraction, but you reassure them with a fake smile and tell them that you’d just rather spend the night alone. 

You know it was selfish to tell Marcus the truth, to practically beg him to stay, but you couldn’t imagine continuing to live your life with the possibility that you could save his life. You had only been exchanging letters with him for a little over a month, but you couldn’t help the feelings that you had begun to develop for him. The way your heart races faster when you see the envelope, or the way your stomach flips when you read his letters. 

In your free time, you had been trying to learn how to time travel. It seemed almost impossible, but you didn’t want to quit. You couldn’t explain how you’re able to exchange letters with someone who lives centuries in the past–and if that was possible, then surely it was possible to time travel. 

Somehow. 

You enter your apartment later that night–you can feel the nerves settle in the pit of your stomach when you slowly open the door. You can hear your heart beating in your ears, heart rate slowly picking up when your eyes scan the dining table.

No letter. 

Your stomach drops, so you close the door and then move your gaze to the coffee table. 

Nothing.

Tears begin to pool at the corner of your eyes and you realize that Marcus had made his choice. You sit on your couch, bring your legs to your chest and cry into it. The sob builds and builds until you let out a quiet whimper, tears now streaming down your face. 

He was gone. 

Forever.

A week later and you finally get the courage to go back to work. When at work, you fake a smile–feign happiness, but when you get back home, you cry yourself to sleep. 

Antonia and Giovanni leave you dinner at your front door, but you don’t bother to open it. You aren’t hungry–you haven’t had an appetite since Marcus’s last letter. You wonder if he ever received your letter and if he did, did he read it? 

And if he did read it, what went through his mind? 

And when you admitted that you loved him, did that scare him away? 

When you open your front door later that night, you set your things down and begin walking into the living room until you finally see it.

The envelope. 

Your heart leaps out of your chest. 

You waste no time in opening the envelope, quickly taking out the letter and breathing out a sigh of relief when you see his familiar cursive writing. 

Dear Rose,  I am sorry that I have not written back to you. I had a change of plans after your last letter and had to strategically plan how I would be able to execute it.  I am no longer in Rome. You were right–I no longer need to fight. I faked my death–with the help of some trusting men of mine–and am far away from that place.  I am living the rest of my days in the quiet–I now live in a small village where no one is familiar with who I am or what I have done. It is almost like a fresh start–a chance for me to live a different life… a life that I might have chosen from the beginning if I had the choice.  I want to thank you, Rose. For telling me the truth, for warning me. I am much happier now than I have ever been, and I am more than ready to spend the rest of my days with you. Traveling to this village was not easy, but you gave me the strength–like you always do–to keep going.  I love you, Rose. I wanted to tell you that once I was safe–once I was finally settled in. Ad Maiora, right? Towards greater things... So, my lady, what do you say? Shall we continue our story together and maybe–one day–finally meet? Yours forever, Marcus

the end...?

[pedrosyouknowwhat]

under his grasp

Pairings: Dark! Suitor! Marcus Acacius x Queen! reader

warnings: noncon, cheating, victim blaming, oral (f receiving), threats of rape (not to reader), noncon insinuations (not to reader), breeding kink, unprotected p in v, violence, etc

series masterlist

Seeing he had gone for good, you had dressed back into your wedding dress as it was the only comfort and clothes you had and decided to sleep in the marital couch, too scared that crawling in his bed would give him any ideas.

Morning came and you were up earlier than expected, sleep being scarce and more frightening than being awake. As your gaze searched around the room, the thick body of Acacius laid pleasantly in his bed. You tried to sleep longer, but handmaidens bustled into the room ready to prepare you for the first day of you endless nightmare.

They were quiet, Acacius’ handmaidens. They greeted you shyly, perhaps unknowing how to greet a Queen, and presented you a lavish turquoise gown; you allowed them to dress you as some stirred Acacius awake, but he batted them off, grumpily.

“I can dress myself.” He groaned, and you could tell that after he left you the night before, he had drunk.

Certain handmaiden caught your eye; she was young, similar to you physically, and she stood close to you. Her movements were timid, perhaps even more scared than the others. Your eyes followed her as she left the room.

True to his words, Acacius dressed himself in more casual robes; a beige picta. The silent was deafening, casting shadows over the dawn as you sat still, unaware of what to expect.

“When are we returning to the Palace?” You managed your courage to mutter, and Acacius finally posed his tired eyes on you.

“When you learn to be a good wife to me.” He answered sharply. “A husband cannot spend his nights looking for solace in another’s woman’s embrace.”

His words felt thick around him, his eyes glaring daggers. You felt a knot in your throat.

“Was that what you did after the events of last night?” You dared to ask him. He hesitated for a while, you could see it in his swerving eyes.

“Do not blame me, you decided not to comply.” He responded, and his feet padded closer to you, his broad figure becoming bigger and bigger.

“That didn’t deter you the other night.” You bit, rage lacing your words. “and I guess that didn’t deter you yesterday, as I can’t believe your other woman was whorish enough to sleep with a newly wed man.”

He chuckled at your words, pleased in his fantasy that you were portraying jealousy. “You would be surprise by how many girls like you dream of pleasing a General as myself.”

If that was true, then it felt unfair. For him to take you, just to dispose of you later, felt unfair. It all felt like a twisted joke, because despite not wanting him, he had done all of this for a reason.

“But just so you know,” He added, a sly grin on his face. “the one I bedded last night wasn’t compliant either.”

It felt like salt on a wound, and your face twisted into a bitter expression. He enjoyed it so much, the fight, your hatred, it fueled the fire in his loins.

“You are disgusting.” You spat, rising to your feet. “I cannot fathom how you portray yourself as the Hero-”

A sharp slap cut your words short, sending your face to the side as you gasped. His grip fell again on your face, now slightly more tender as he forced you to look at me.

“Oh, I am no Hero,” He sneered. “I am far more than that, I am your God now, and like Gods, I do not preach morality.”

You felt weak once again, but hatred still run through your veins as you glared at him. Your cheek stung.

“All this fighting has made me wanton.” He confessed, and your eyes widened in fear of his words. “after all, we must give Rome a heir.”

“You will be crowned King shortly,” You ushered, perhaps pleading. “you can have bastards and make them heir.”

He tutted at your excuses. “But I want you, darling; our heirs will rule Rome.”

“Why does it matter anymore?” You questioned, seeing impatience running through his features.

“Enough.” He barked, letting go of your chin. “Get on the bed.”

What if I say no?

What if I scream?

What if I comply?

Your mind raced, and he grew angry but you stood your ground. His lips almost curled into a smirk as he grabbed your forearms, as bruising as he had done the first night, and begun moving you towards the bed.

Your instinct kicked in, and you fought because complying was too humiliating for you. Kicking and clawing came to no avail as your back hit the soft, tousled fabrics of the bed.

“Are you going to behave or do I need to tie you down again and fuck you like a breeding mare?” He barked, and your arms grew weak under the threat. His gaze fell over the pretty dress that you wore, and he fought the urge to rip it apart. It was new, and a gift to you from him.

He opted for lifting your skirt and producing his manhood from beneath his robes. You didn’t want to look at it, feeling its weight on your leg was enough to tell you.

Your arms had fallen limp against the bed as he forced your thighs apart, presenting your cunt to his eyes.

“I realized I had forgotten something,” He confessed to you, and your mind screamed. “did not taste you properly yet.”

His dark eyes were set on you as he lowered his face to your exposed core, a pink tongue darting from his lips and licked a line along your seam. A whimper escaped your pressed lips, thighs shaking, and his mouth latched to you.

Like a man starved, he sucked your most intimate part, sending shivers along your body. Your nails dug into the covers, begging someone or something to stop the pleasure he was eliciting so darkly. But your hips buckled, making him even wilder as he thrusted his manhood into the bed. Like a man on a mission, he constrained his desires in order to get you to submit beneath him, which perhaps brought him more pleasure than the act itself.

A hand that was spreading your thighs apart let you free, but the limb curled itself into you, presenting yourself as soft mewls and squeaky moans left your lips. His fingers tangled themselves in the slick mess of arousal and saliva, pushing through your swollen walls; you jerked as he curled them inside, working your clit with his tongue.

There was a slight pain from the pressure, but it fueled the heat you felt, nipples pebbling against the silk of your dress and electricity jolting through you. Your thighs shut around his head, thick curls slightly matted from his efforts, and he knew.

A hand on your hip, holding you still, and now his digits thrusted in and out, fucking you until your legs wrapped around his neck, and you felt pressure relieve as you shot slick arousal directly into his face.

You didn’t care to try to reason what he had forced your body as you fell, spread, on the sheets, eyes lidded and throat hoarse from the war cry that had erupted from you.

Through your blurred vision you saw him rise on top of you, wiping you from his lips and face as his devoured all the essence you had poured onto him.

“No-” you whined as you felt the engorged tip of his cock pushing against your abused folds, hands rising to push at his chest.

“Come on, dumb girl,” he muttered at your skin, a hand gently taking your wrists above your head as the other propped your leg over his shoulder, letting himself slide right in with a pleased grunt. “I have pleased you, now do your duty.”

He sheathed himself in with a hiss, head bobbing back as your overstimulated core clenched around him. The sting had dissipated, and shame rose to your cheeks as you felt a need for it. The feeling, of needing to be fucked, pitifully reminded you of those nights along Lucius, the ones were his body heat felt like forbidden fruit, were you craved he would touch you, and were you would feel shame burn on you the next day as wild images blurred your thoughts.

But Acacius wouldn’t let you feel that need ever again, that you knew. He was an animal, biting into your soft skin as he rutted into you, as if trying to get closer. In a way, his assault felt like his desire to imprint on you, to make you yours, thing that he wouldn’t let you forget as he groaned and moaned it into your ear.

“There you are,” he mumbled, almost whispered, tightening the grip around your wrists unconsciously. “being fucking good for me, letting me fuck my wife.”

And you could fight it, you howled like a bitch in heat beneath him, letting General Acacius breed you despite the tears in your eyes. Your leg muscles stung beneath him, splayed like whore, for what felt like hours.

“Gonna finish inside you, paint your walls,” He panted into your ear before nibbling on your lobe. “gonna fuck the heir of Rome into you, dumb girl.”

True to his words, his pace picked up even more as he decided to finish the job. His grip snaked to your lower back as he pressed himself into you with a guttural groan, and you felt his sticky wetness inside of you, coating you; something you couldn’t clean up.

Perhaps this was for the better; the sooner you’d give him a heir the sooner he wouldn’t have an excuse to do this. But you knew that fantasy was unrealistic. Acacias had no excuse for enjoying the act so much.

His weight fell over you, shortening your breaths as you finally peered your eyes open, gaze cut by the mountains of muscular flesh of shoulder and back. The simple robe he had placed slipped from his body, and you felt sweat dampening as his torso pinned you down. His hand unwrapped his grip, knitting his fingers with yours. You begged he didn’t fall asleep.

But he didn’t, and you were grateful for that. Knowing he was crashing you, he tossed his body beside you on the bed. The silent rang in your ears; anticipation heavy, until he spoke.

“Each time you displease me, or deny me,” He said, threat and decisiveness in his voice. “I’d like you to think of our first night, and I’d like you to remember the pretty faces of the handmaidens I have here, at my power-and to know that I was considering you a Queen at the time.”

He had made his words clear.

[stylesispunk]

AHHHH BRILLIANT. AMAZING. A PIECE OF ART (i loved every second of it)

Love is heartbreak

↪ a the age of adaline inspired fic

pairing: marcus acacius x ageless!f!reader. summary: kissed by the goddess juno on your day of reckoning, you are brought back to life, condemned to wander the earth for a century. until you meet the other half of your soul who offers you the life you yearn for. but will you be strong enough to accept such promise? author's note: yes, i've cheated on my other wips, I'M SORRY. but when the angst and romance call, i can only answer - i am only human afterall. hope you like this little story that was supposed to be a drabble but ended up being this long, oops! comments and reblogs appreciated. enjoy! x warnings: 18+, mdni. soulmates trope. angst, romance, smut. mild breeding kink (soz). infidelity. mention of SA (not by Marcus) and death. dual pov. reader is female and a blank slate. reader is close to 150 years old (stopped ageing in her twenties) and Marcus is in his fifties. not beta'd and very lightly proofread, apologies if you spot any mistakes lol wordcount: ~8.4k. divider by @\saradika-graphics

“I’ll do anything to stay by your side, amica mea (my beloved). I don’t care about what the future holds if it’s not with you,” Marcus’ broad hands held yours, his thumb drawing invisible circles on the back of your hands.

You hated this — how your heart twisted inside you, torn apart by the choice you had to make. Was this never-ending life not enough punishment? No, you also had to go through heartbreak — your own and Marcus’. For love, you had to.

With eyes averted, you looked down at your worn sandals. Tears teetering on the edge of your waterlines as your vision became blurry with sadness, regrets and fears washed over you like the Tiber kissing the shore goodbye.

In your hundred years wandering the ground beneath your feet, you never had to go through this. Always so careful not to feel, not to grow close to anyone, not to really live the life you wanted, and now you were in a position where it almost felt too real.

Within reach — you only had to extend your hands and hug him in a tight, soothing embrace. Only needed to accept the life that Marcus was offering. Though as much as you wanted to—you wanted it, him, so badly—you could never.

And what was worst, you couldn’t explain why. First you would see the horror in his eyes, that frightened look glittering, then incomprehension, and finally disgust. Your heart couldn’t take it.

“But I do care, Marcus. Yours is bright, your military career is about to take off. I would only hinder you, your dreams. I am no one, and—” you tried to reason with him.

But love was blind. Love was deaf. Love didn’t care about impossibilities, because love was defiant.

At least his was.

“Do you think I care about being disowned? Do you truly believe that I would choose such dreadful life over you? Over a wonderful life with the person I love most?” Marcus squeezed your hands before one of his found your chin, tilting up your face to him. “Omnia vincit amor, et nos cedamus amori (love conquers all, let us too yield to love).”

You shook your head in denial, his words ringing in your ears like chants of war. Because Marcus waged war in all aspects of life, even in love — he’d conquered your heart so fully, you’d never asked him to return it. It would forever be his to cherish, to cry over, to destroy, to hate.

Because he would need to hate you to overcome the heartbreak you were about to cause.

“You don’t have a choice here. You are to marry the lady your family has arranged for; her family’s prestige will do you good. You’re just infatuated, Marcus, it isn’t true love,” you forced yourself to let a soft laugh out, wiping your tears as you took a step back. “At least, for me, it isn’t.”

Marcus’ expression folded and your heart with him. You hated yourself for saying such a vile lie, but a necessary one. The passage of time would not affect you, always stagnant in your early twenties after a fateful day when Juno decided to save your life from certain death. The Goddess of love and marriage was also one known for Her eternal youthfulness — one She would only share with those who had been wronged. And you had been so wronged in your mortal life.

And here you were, so close to committing the same mistake all over again. But you knew better this time — not because you didn’t trust Marcus, but because Fate was capricious. It didn’t matter if Juno was watching over you.

“You don’t mean that. I know you don’t. This is true love, lux mihi (my light), one that would live through eternity,” Marcus muttered breathlessly, reaching for you again, looking for that unbreakable connection you both strongly shared.

“Eternity? Don’t speak of things you don’t understand, Marcus,” you retorted, forcing your tone to sound mocking.

Another step back with an unmovable expression and you saw realisation dawning on him. Slowly like a river widening its meanders, steady like the constant flow of water. Relentless you were, steadfast in your resolution.

“Ave atque vale (hail and farewell), Acacius,” were your last words to him.

35 years later...

“Father, may I marry her?”

Marcus gazed down the dining table, eyeing his son with consideration. He knew what it felt like, how true love messed up your head to the point of madness. He had felt that way only once in his life, and it wasn’t for the woman sitting beside him.

As cruel as it sounded, Marcus never loved his wife, because his heart belonged to someone else — the now hazy memory of a woman who always lingered on the edges of his mind. A cruel reminder of how feeble and fleeting love was, how love turned into heartbreak with just a few words.

“At least, for me, it isn’t.”

That sentence alone had broken him, his ability to feel some sort of romantic connection died that very same day. At night it would haunt him, filling his dreams with nightmares. The same scene playing over and over in his mind, his heart cracking even more every time those words would hit him.

He’d waited for weeks, months. A year it took him to realise you truly were not coming back, that you meant it. He’d only been a plaything for you, a toy you discarded once things got too real. And at that point he surrendered to the pressure his family put on him. Marcus had followed through with the arranged marriage in the end, despite the agony and the empty hole in his chest.

And now his son was following in his footsteps. His heir looked so much like him, like a reflection of the past staring back at him. It pained him — he saw himself in Magnus, almost as if the roles had reversed and he was his own father thirty-five years ago. Pleading, asking to marry the love of his life even though his hand had already been promised in holy matrimony to another.

His wife, Prisca, waved one of her hands with disdain, the spoon clattering on the porcelain plate.

“Nonsense, Magnus,” she tutted at their son. “We’ve already been through this. You will marry Verina. You’d put us in a very compromised position with Gellius if you don’t.”

“But—”

“Quit your whining and man up, my son. Gellius is the Emperor’s best counsellor. It will bring our family great reputation,” Prisca reasoned, tone poisoned with greed. “And riches.”

“Father?” Magnus’ eyes shot to his, pleading him to intervene.

Marcus sensed Prisca stiffening besides him, gripping the arms of the chair like a vice. He didn’t look in her direction but knew how her orbs distilled venom. She would never understand what their son was talking about, but he did. Too damn right.

“I would like to meet her before giving you my blessing,” he spoke calmly, lacing his hands together on top of the wooden table.

Magnus’ eyes sparked up, a hopeful smile curling his mouth.

“Of course, of course! She’s waiting right outside,” and then his son hurried out of the room.

Prisca stood up, the screeching noise of the chair’s legs irritating Marcus.

“Like father, like son,” she muttered maliciously before disappearing too.

In this moment of silent respite, Marcus pinched the bridge of his hooked nose. The patience he had to muster was titanic. His life had been nothing but heartache and war, his son being the only reason he stood by his wife’s side in public. He’d tired of the pantomime, but there wasn’t much he could do about it.

He would meet the woman who had stolen Magnus’ heart, just to make sure there was no deception from her part. Marcus wouldn’t wish for his son to go through the same heartbreak as him. If everything was at it should, then he wouldn’t oppose.

“Father,” Magnus called, and Marcus removed the hand from his exhausted, battle-scarred face.

His heart literally stopped.

A warm smile softened your expression when Magnus asked you to join his family in the dining hall. You had been sitting patiently in a small waiting room, wondering if this was right.

The first time you had laid eyes on Magnus a week ago, your heart jolted, and your mind went blank. He reminded you so much of your one and only true love, the one you ditched thirty-five years ago because you were too afraid to embrace the beautiful life he had offered you. The one you still felt in your heart, dormant yet very present in your everyday life.

Perhaps it was wrong of you to encourage this situation, whatever this was. When Magnus had asked you that morning to join his family for supper, he had caught you off guard, so you found yourself agreeing to it.

Deep down you knew why you hadn’t disappeared yet: you wanted to live this moment one more time. Wanted to remember how it felt to be loved so fiercely by Marcus, a yearning you’d been craving for over three decades. Only this man wasn’t Marcus, only someone who was his spitting image.

One dinner, a few hours more of playing pretend, and then you’d vanish again. Leave Rome behind after such brief visit before someone recognised you. You couldn’t afford to give any explanations, so you’d only visit this place once every decade.

You walked behind Magnus, head slightly bowed and hands laced in front of you. Magnus’ broad body blocked your vision, but soon enough he stepped aside to introduce you.

You curtsied, eyes averted, fixed on the marble slabs.

Before you straightened your back and introduced yourself, the man across the room spoke your name — your real birthname.

Inevitably, your heart sank to your belly with panic and your eyes quickly drifted up to meet the darkened ones you once had allowed yourself to swim in.

Marcus. Your Marcus.

Your heart raced in your chest and filled with pure joy. You couldn’t stop the smile that had started curling your lips nor the glassiness of your eyes.

Your one and true love was staring back at you with widened, tired eyes. He had gotten up off his chair and was striding towards you before he suddenly halted a couple of meters away from you with confusion painting his handsome features. Ones that had not remained impassible to the passage of time and war, but ones that you daydreamed about every single day without fail.

So within reach — you would only need to close the distance between you two and hug him, hug him till dawn and never let go. Oh, how much you missed him, how much you still loved him. With your whole heart, the one that ached and wept with regret in your chest right now.

Would he love you back? Did you break the love you shared past the point of mending?

“What? Her name is Aurora, father,” Magnus chuckled nervously, his eyes dancing between the two of you, puzzled. “This is the woman who has stolen my heart. I would like to marry the love of my life with your blessing.”

Your eyes flew from Marcus to Magnus at the revelation, bewildered. Marriage? Was this what it was all about, the purpose of his invitation to meet his family? Marcus’ son wanted to marry you?

You had not seen that coming, as it wasn’t your intention at all. You had only wanted to live this fleeting fantasy of yours for a few days, but there wasn’t love. Not like the one you felt for Marcus, that could never compare.

“Your name is Aurora?” Marcus’ question forced you to look in his direction, your heart twisting maddingly inside you. You nodded with hesitation, “I thought you were…” Marcus pronounced your real name again, the sinking pit of your stomach churning.

“That was my mother,” you quickly came up with a lie. You could never tell him the truth.

“Your mother,” he repeated slowly, shock and pain transforming his beautiful face. “I knew your mother.”

“What? Really?” Magnus intervened with a laugh, palming his father’s shoulder. “That’s such a coincidence!”

You looked at both of them, but your eyes inevitably lingered on Marcus’ darkened ones. Would he believe your lie? Again?

“The resemblance with her is… uncanny. You look so much like her, Aurora,” Marcus rasped, taking a step back and steeling his posture with determination.

He didn’t need to speak for you knew his hurt. Because the same memories that were flooding his mind, had been drowning you for decades.

The atmosphere felt heavy with unspoken truths, your face burning — you loathed yourself for the pain you had caused him. Pain that still contorted his expression every time his eyes flicked to yours.

Would he ever forgive you? Would he know that you lied so many years ago? That you truly and irremediably loved him? That you would always do?

You bowed down your head, mainly to conceal the unspent tears brimming on your waterlines.

“So I have been told, General,” you muttered softly as Magnus’ hand rested easily on the small of your back, his lips brushing your temple gently.

“I know this may seem sudden, father, but I know that Aurora is the one,” Magnus confessed shyly, pulling your body towards him in a warm half-embrace.

Never in your life had you wished yourself to disappear so badly. Marcus’ sight burnt through you and you couldn’t help but reciprocate him. The sadness—no, the heartbreak—in them was like a dagger through your heart, and you wondered if the decision you made so many years ago had been the right one.

By the looks of it, he had done well for himself, just as you had imagined he would. The villa was beautiful, sumptuous even. It spoke of his status in the Empire, how highly rewarded he had been for his enterprise. You assumed that Marcus had married eventually after you left, and you only hoped he’d married for love.

“I see,” Marcus murmured in reply to his son, walking back to his chair. “Let’s eat first. Prisca, my wife, won’t be joining us. She had to excuse herself because she wasn’t feeling well. Please forgive her absence.”

Prisca. So he hadn’t married for love, his family had won and forced him into an arranged marriage after all. Your heart cried for him, for the injustice you had showered upon him with your departure. Perhaps he ended up loving her so his life wouldn’t be as miserable.

That last thought stung, the dagger further twisting in your heart. You wanted his happiness, but selfishly you hoped Marcus still loved you. Undeserving of such love you were, that was clear to you, but you still hoped anyway.

“Of course, Dominus,” you hushed as Magnus guided you to an empty chair.

The food served was delicious, but the silence looming over the table tinged the atmosphere uncomfortable. Magnus did a remarkable effort to keep the conversation going, but Marcus’ succinct replies didn’t leave much room for chatter. And when Magnus pushed again about the marriage proposal—to you dismay—Marcus said that it could discussed tomorrow over breakfast.

Even though the man in front of you had aged, you still saw him as he was thirty-five years ago. He had a scar on his upper cheek and across the bridge of his aquiline nose, crows feet kissing the corners of his brown eyes, his thick curls were greying, and his demeanour was more stoic, but he was still your Marcus.

The only difference though was his lack of… life. His eyes didn’t sparkle anymore, they were tinted with darkness and sorrow. Had war changed him? Had you changed him?

Your throat collapsed on itself, tightening to the point of suffocation. Just in time, you reined in the tears as the last maid removed the plate in front of you.

“I should be going,” you announced, pushing back the chair to stand up.

Marcus sprung to his feet before his son did. And when he realised his promptness, he cleared his throat but didn’t speak.

“It’s late,” Magnus said, standing up to be by your side, throwing a confused glance to his father. “Could she stay the night, father, please?”

Marcus nodded.

“I will ask one of the servants to prepare one of the empty chambers,” Marcus conceded, walking around the table to meet his son.

“Oh,” Magnus sighed, and you knew he’d hoped to share a bed with you tonight.

Your face burnt once more with shame when Marcus’ eyes looked for yours. However, you didn’t meet his gaze, scared of what you would find in it.

“Thank you, General, you are most generous,” you husked in a low voice.

“I will show you around the villa in the meantime, amica mea,” Magnus said, his hand quick to rest on the back of your waist.

You subtly flinched at his endearment. That was what his father always called you. It felt wrong when he said it now, completely out of place — it didn’t at first, when you looked at him and imagined he was Marcus instead. But with the love of your life standing firm in front of you, it sounded so vile.

This fantasy of yours was a dangerous game, one you didn’t want to play. Not if it meant hurting Marcus again, because you could see the way he studied you. How his pupils dilated with anger every time his son would seek your touch. It was killing him, and you in the process. When everyone went to sleep, you would leave in the middle of the night, as the shadow you were condemned to be.

Magnus urged you to turn around and walk beside him, when you heard Marcus gasp.

“Your birthmark,” his words stopped you right in your tracks.

When Juno touched you to bring you back to life over a century ago, Her caress left a mark on the back of your left shoulder. The shape resembled that of a peacock, the loyal animal known to accompany the Goddess.

“What about it?” Magnus intervened, confused by the interruption.

Slowly you looked over your shoulder to glance at Marcus. His eyes were a window to his restless, half soul, desperate and blown — he knew. He searched your face for a crack, a way in, but your expression didn’t tumble.

You wished you could veer around and throw yourself in his arms, kiss him and apologise, ask him to take you back. But you just couldn’t. Love was heartbreak, and it would have to remain that way if you didn’t want to hurt Marcus even more than what you already had.

“Nothing,” he grumbled, jaw tight with a tic on the muscle.

Marcus stirred in bed, unable to get any sleep.

Your face haunted him brighter than ever — every time his eyes shut, your sorry expression would gnaw at the confines of his mind. Seeing you right in front of him after so many years, all curled up to his son’s side, drove him mad.

At first, he thought himself crazy. You looked exactly as you did thirty-five years ago — not even a wrinkle kissed your skin, not a greying hair anywhere to be seen in your plaited hair. So when you explained you were the daughter of the woman who broke his heart, he had believed you.

That was until he saw the birthmark on your shoulder. The unmistakable shape he had joked about in the past, telling you that you had been kissed by Juno Herself at birth. It was impossible that you had inherited such a peculiar mark.

But it was even more impossible that you had remained as youthful as you were, as if not a single day had passed. How was that even possible? Some people were gifted with slow ageing, he had seen some, but to remain exactly the same? No, there was something else lurking, an explanation he could not grasp because it was too surreal, too unfathomable for a mortal.

Marcus needed answers. His mind was a tangled mess, this new discovery shining a different light on the conversation that destroyed him over three decades ago. Did your words have a meaning he had not been able to see before?

“Eternity? Don’t speak of things you don’t understand, Marcus.”

What had you truly meant by that? Did you understand what eternity really was in a level he couldn’t even start to comprehend?

Heart pounding, he quietly removed the covers and sat on the bed. A quick glance over his shoulder confirmed that Prisca was sound asleep. Not that she would miss him anyway.

In darkness, Marcus palmed around until he found his toga and quickly changed to then walk out of his bedchamber with a clear destination in mind.

He trudged along the cold corridors of his villa until he found the door to the room you were sleeping in. For a second, he doubted, thinking he was crazy for the implausible reason taking form in his mind. But if it wasn’t that—that you were, somehow, ageless—he still needed to know why. Why hadn’t you aged? Why leave him? Why not tell him the truth?

As his shaky hand lifted and curled to knock on the wooden plank, the door swung open.

You appeared under the doorframe with a wild expression and widened eyes, obviously in a hurry to leave. Again.

“Marcus,” you gasped, one hand flying to your chest in surprise as your beautiful eyes met his.

He froze in place, all the words he had planned to say stuck to the back of his throat, forming a lump that would not let him speak. Your beauty was dazzling, but it was the buried love he harboured for you what stopped him from talking as it resurfaced.

His memory of you had not faded, able to remember every single feature of your face regardless the passage of time. Everything about you was engraved in his mind, but he had almost forgotten how sweet you smelt. Roses, with an earthy hint of grass.

As your scent numbed his mind, Marcus finally found his dry tongue.

“Don’t leave, please. Don’t leave again,” he begged in a hoarse whisper, his eyes diving in yours.

You looked up at him and he felt himself under a spell. The same one you had him under years ago, when the heart was shattered and the mind bleak. Because even when you waved him goodbye, he still loved you. Never stopped, was never able to hate you for what you did, what you said.

“Can we talk?” he pushed before realising your eyes were glassy with sadness. “I know your name is not Aurora. I know it’s you.”

Your bottom lip trembled as a single tear fell from the cliff of your lashes. Moved by his own ghost of the past, Marcus reached for your cheek with his palm, the thumb brushing away the tears that followed the first one.

You let go of a deep sigh, kissed the palm of his hand and nodded. His heart was beating so loud, so fast, he almost missed your words.

“I owe you an explanation, Marcus,” you finally spoke, a broken sob almost tearing his resolution.

As you stepped aside, Marcus came into the room you were so eager to leave behind. Your heartbeat had spiked the moment you saw him and hadn’t slowed down since then. Perhaps you didn’t die of heartbreak but could die of a heart attack.

For decades you had been running until you found him. Until Marcus made you believe you could have everything he promised. It had been the first time you had actually considered growing roots. But the thought of not being able to grow old, to see the love of your life wither away while you remained sane, was paralysing. You had panicked — too scared to accept the love of a man who would give up everything for you, too frightened to trust someone again.

But was Marcus not worthy of your trust? He demonstrated repeatedly how he would always protect you, always cherish you. Not only with words, but with actions too. He had been so considerate, so loving, for a moment in the past you thought it a ruse. How could someone be so damn perfect and still be real?

Your heart clenched in pain, seeing him latch the door behind him and turn around to face you. The look of confusion, of sorrow, ate at your conscience. Under the candlelight, his torn features stuck out, time unforgiving. He was still gorgeous, would always be in your eyes.

“I’m sorry,” was the first thing that slipped out before the quivering of your bottom lip let out a sob. “I’m so sorry, Marcus. I didn’t know Magnus was your son, otherwise I would have never—” you shook your head, taming your cries. “I should have known. He looks so much like you. When I first saw him, I thought it was you. That somehow you had been able to still time and be with me.”

You sobbed a pitiful laugh, unable to look him in the eye. It was shameful having to admit something like this — that you had chased after a boy because he reminded you of someone you loved. But despite your immortality, you were still capable of human mistakes.

“So you didn’t know he was my son?” Marcus asked quietly. You could see the inner workings of his mind ruminating as you shook your head no. “Do you love him? Were you really going to marry him?”

The questions caught you off guard. Although at some point you were expecting them, you didn’t think it would be this early in conversation. It might be for the better if it got out of the way as soon as possible, so you could explain yourself.

The first cut would be the deepest, although the rest would still hurt.

“I love the idea of him,” you emphasized, ashamed of yourself for giving in to such fantasy. “I thought I could love him the way I did you, that he could be a vessel of my love for you. That I could, for a few days, remember how it felt— how you felt. That I could have you one more time,” you paused and sighed, intertwining your hands together to twist them nervously. “I only met him a week ago, marriage did not cross my mind at all. I was going to leave once—”

“Once it got too serious,” he finished for you.

Marcus went quiet again, his eyes transfixed on you. You wished Juno blessed you with the ability to read minds, to know what he was thinking right this moment. Did he hate you for what you just revealed? Did he think you were sick for trying to live out a fleeting dream? Would he forgive you for such despicable behaviour?

“Do you still love me?” his gravelly voice was so low, for a moment you thought you had imagined it.

But the doubt, the fresh hurt in his wounded gaze, told you otherwise.

You gaped for air, your lungs strained with sorrow. You should fib, stand by your initial lie, tell him you didn’t. But what had that gotten you the first time around except for a life of misery and loneliness? What had that gotten him?

“I do. I do love you, Marcus,” you whispered, out of breath due to the pounding of your heart. “Couldn’t be any other way. You’re the other half of my soul that I’ve been missing for so long.”

Time stilled as you looked Marcus dead in the eyes. You were not expecting anything out of your raw confession, because the time for those had passed. It was what you should have said thirty-five years ago, not now. You were too late to mend the love that had slipped through the cracks of time.

“Then that’s all that matters,” he finally broke the silence, his voice laced with emotion.

The admission shook you. Could this be true, really happening? Did he still love you after all this time?

In a couple of strides, you found yourself in his arms, the way it should have been ages ago. His forearms wrapped around you like a warm blanket as his head bowed down to taste your lips.

You kissed him back, first sweetly, then fiercely. You kissed him with all the unexpressed love you held in your heart, with the passion your true love deserved. His tongue was as sweet as you remembered, as soothing as your memory recalled. A dance ensued, his tongue reading a love letter to yours.

Your hands, which had been resting on his chest, drifted up to cradle his face — his moustache and stubble pickling the skin of your palms. Marcus untied his mouth from yours to kiss your tears goodbye, then pressed a peck on your forehead. His heart was beating as loud as yours, in unison like true soulmates.

“I’ve missed you. I never stopped thinking about you, lux mihi,” he confessed under his breath. “Life was never the same after you left.”

His admission made your heart flutter even further, and you couldn’t help but let your hands roam his back. Your fingers played with the knot holding the toga in place, his seeping warmth beckoning.

“I need you, Marcus. Make love to me,” you pleaded, leaving a love trail of kisses on his neck.

Marcus’ chest rumbled at your plea, his lips hunting down yours in a heartbeat. His hands were quick with your clothing, worshipping the curves of your body as it was revealed to him. You did the same with his toga, until you were both bare, standing in front of each other.

You saw his eyes lingering on every nook and cranny of your skin before they found yours. A thunder of connection ran through you, of yearning. On your tiptoes, you kissed him again, pressing your breasts onto his chest while your fingertips traced the map of his back.

You didn’t expect all the bumps and grooves you found on his skin; battle scars dotted around everywhere. Some thick and protuberant, some thin and soft. Marcus keened at your touch, silently letting you know that some of them were too sensitive to be caressed.

How much hurt his body and heart had endured, a life dedicated to war and duty. Your heart cried for him, for not being able to be by his side when he needed you most. Had you taken up his offer, had he run away from responsibility with you, his skin would tell a different story.

But the past couldn’t be changed, only the present was malleable enough to shape a new future.

Slowly he pushed you towards the bed, his hands resting on either side of your waist while his thumb drew lazy circles on your bristled skin. Raking your fingers through his silver curls, you leaned back on the mattress, his warm body blanketing yours.

His hands found the apex of your breasts, soft fingers rubbing your taut nipples as your head tilted back. Marcus licked the salt of your exposed neck, finding your pulse point. He kissed the spot and lingered, your vein pulsing against his lips as one of his hands discovered the slick your thighs harboured for him.

The feathery caress of his ring finger outlining your seam turned you into a whimpering mess. His pad stroked your nub, a slight flick followed before it slid down your slit and found your weeping hole. He circled it a few times, taunting you effortlessly, before returning to your clit.

You heaved, lips pursed so your moans would stay contained. In the dead of the night, you worried this show of love would seep through the walls. But not even the thought of his marriage, the thought of Magnus lying in bed a few rooms over, could stop you from joining your bodies together the way the Gods intended.

Marcus’ mouth travelled down the column of your neck, kissing the center of your clavicle before he went further down. Your unattended nipple was soon enough smothered by the wetness between his lips, and you fisted his hair in response, gently tugging at it.

“Marcus,” you moaned, eyes shut. Rejoiced.

One nipple drowned in his spit, the other pinched between his fingers, and his ring finger pressing tight circles on your thudding clit had you fighting to remain silent. But the moment the hand between your hands moved down and his digit teased your walls apart as it sank in your slick warmth, you couldn’t stop the muffled yet loud moan.

“Sing for me, meum corculum (my little heart),” Marcus husked. The gentle pumping of his finger in your wet heat had you quietly howling a few seconds later. “That’s it.”

Your felt your walls contract, pulse around his finger, holding onto him for dear life. Feeling your need as his own, Marcus dunked his middle finger in your pussy too, stretching you while his thumb stroked your clit. The combination of it all made you clench around him, almost begging for release.

“Let go for me,” Marcus asked between licks, and you couldn’t resist his prayer.

The coil that had been tightening inside you finally snapped, releasing a wave that coursed through your quaking body like a tumultuous sea. Your back slightly arched as your thighs trembled around his forearm, chest rising with a dire need for oxygen.

Marcus chuckled softly, setting your nipple free as he searched for your mouth again. He devoured you as you came down from your high, his erect cock gently resting on your mound. The weight of it on your sensitive skin felt like it belonged. The anticipation of welcoming him inside you made you gush.

“Let me drink you, kiss you, savour you,” he pressed a kiss on your mouth after each pause.

Your skin flushed; the proposition was somewhat indecent. It was lewd, frowned upon, and you were tethered to the chains of social decency. But there was nothing decent about infidelity, after all.

“Please, mea vita (my life). I can make you reach for the moon and the stars in the ceiling above if you let me, make you touch them,” he promised.

You shyly nodded, and his boyish grin grew wider, his lips tensing. So contagious, you smiled back as he came off you and moved your body until your butt was on the edge of the mattress.

He scooted you over towards him until the back of your knees were resting on his shoulders — leaving you completely exposed to his hungry gaze. His eyes lingered on your leaking dampness, his dilated pupils tracing the outline of your seam. The intensity of it all, the deep connection, made your thighs press together against his neck, wanting to hide your core from him.

You had nothing to be shy of, as Marcus had already seen you bare before. Sex with him had always been ardent, fervent — the heat of passion always got the best of you both, a certain urgency to consummate your love. But now? Now was different. There was no rush in his movements, in how his thumbs pried your pussy lips open, in how his warm lips brushed the sensitive skin on your inner thigh. His calm confidence in taking you as he had promised was new to you, who never had all the time in the world. But right now, you did. For Marcus, you did. Always would.

Your lashes fluttered, kissing the apples of your cheeks the moment the languid strokes of his tongue met your swollen flaps. He kissed one gently, then the other, before the wet muscle lapped from your gushing hole up to your clit. So venerating were his licks, your limbs relaxed at the intimate kiss.

“You taste like ambrosia, lux mihi. The best relish I have ever been graced with,” his hot breath collided with the cold skin on your slit, your body trembling in response.

“Marcus, please,” you begged, although you were not sure why, or what you were asking of him.

He didn’t leave you waiting again. His fingers sank in the flesh of your thighs while his tongue dived inside your slick furrow. So dextrous were his charges, you couldn’t help but mewl like a starved kitten in a back alley asking for leftovers. First, he flicked your excited bundle of nerves, and then he suckled on it, his jaw working you through the climb to another orgasm. The buildup was intense, but it became feverish the moment his finger joined the action — it slid easily inside, curled to caress the precise spongy spot of your arousal.

Unaware of your own actions, one of your hands slithered down your belly until you fisted his curls — pushing him towards the centre of your heat, not away from it. He hadn’t lied — the stars appeared behind your eyes, bright like the future you wished you had with him. A sea of constellations, all imploding at once in an amazing rain of stars that blinded you as you came crashing down from the skies.

You heaved and wailed his name in ecstasy, your entire body quivering with the strength of a thousand suns. Your entrance clenched around his finger as you held your breasts, your thumbs ghosting the taut buttons. You leaked your pleasure on his mouth, and he drank unashamedly, grateful of your offering.

A sweet kiss on your mound before he towered over you, and you could only look at him in awe with raw, true love. When his battered body blanketed yours, you draped your arms around his waist, hands lightly resting on his lower back. The knowing smirk on his lips spoke of a muted “I told you so.”

“I love you,” he whispered instead.

Your heart swooned and healed and cried and exploded. All at once. He hadn’t said those exact words yet, but they were veiled in every sentence, every action he had said or done tonight. Deep inside you were eternally grateful that he hadn’t grown to hate you, that his love for you remained intact despite heartache, circumstances and time.

Unbeknownst to you, tears welled up, ones that Marcus drank too. As he did, your palms stroked his ribs, careful to avoid the scars you had come to learn were too delicate. Eager, one slid off his skin until your fingers wrapped around his throbbing manhood. Eyes down, you saw the pearly bead of pre-cum commending you to butter it on his flushed head. With your thumb you caressed the tip, and Marcus’ lips parted in need — an invitation you quickly accepted, dunking your tongue in his mouth.

A few pumps had him groaning and soon enough you were guiding him to the pocket of heat between your thighs. His cockhead kissed your gushing entrance the same way his lips did — knowing, denuded, possessing. And slowly he made his way in, parting your flesh like a new stream disturbing the earth beneath. The burning sting was most welcomed, blossoming into a fullness you had craved for decades.

“I’m home,” Marcus rasped when he was fully seated in your cunt.

Your throat clamped a little, emotion overtaking your senses the same way his erection did.

“Welcome home, dilectus (beloved),” you muttered with a loving smile and teary eyes.

You melted into a slow kiss as Marcus rocked his hips, rutting into you almost lethargically, wanting the moment to last. You let him set the pace, the drag of his cock in your pussy a delight that had you reaching for the stars again and your inner walls squeezing him tight. The sweet rhythm of his swaying tightened the slick, hot coil that pooled low in your belly, and the moment Marcus gained momentum, you followed.

Needily he started fucking into you with precision, chasing both of your highs. His dick pulsed inside you, your heartbeat instinctually adapting to his in a second. Both so close to the sky above, gasping for air now, you rocked underneath him to amplify such pleasure.

“Marcus,” you whimpered, your hands now cradling his face. You lost yourself in his eyes, blown and loving. “Please, inside,” was everything you murmured.

Even after your petition, the snap of his hips against yours didn’t falter. Instead, the pace increased as his wild orbs studied your blissed out expression.

“Do you mean it?” You nodded effusively. “Do you want your belly round with my child?”

You didn’t even know if it was possible — yes, you looked young but were closer to a hundred and fifty years on this earth than to the day you were born. The fertility of your womb was one you never dared to test in your immortal life, but the thought of having such a memory—someone—to remember him by when the days grew cold and the nights dark was overpowering reality.

“Yes, I do,” you reassured him, pecking his lips softly.

His head fell, his face resting on the crook of your neck, while he made love to you. His moves stuttered, announcing his climax, and your pussy hugged him tight in a natural response. The moment the first ropes hit your cervix, you came undone too. As Marcus filled you with his warm spent, you creamed around his beating girth, your hands holding onto his shoulders as your back arched and your nipples kissed his chest.

It took both of you a few minutes to come down, for the haze of lovemaking to slowly dissolve in the musky air. Marcus hungered for your lips and he hunted them down with eagerness. Your bodies finally untied, his cock leaving you empty yet satisfied.

You hoped—prayed—his seed would take root in your womb. Even if it was impossible, the sliver of a miraculous possibility gave you a resemblance of hope. So you pressed your thighs together, greedy of his gift.

Marcus rolled off you, falling onto his tummy besides you. Quickly you laid on your side, your fingertips tracing the lines of his skin again. A feathery touch to alleviate the harshness of life. He unburied his face from the pillow and turned to look at you.

His smile was instant, and so was yours.

For an hour no words were spoken at all, no sleep was achieved either. You both remained silent, staring at each other, soaking up the love that flooded the chamber.

Replacing your fingers with your lips, you kissed the scars on his back, his shoulders, his arms. And finally his nose and cheek, where you dawdled as if your caress could erase the pain they inflicted.

“What are we going to do, amica mea?” Marcus husked after what felt like an eternity.

Reality set in, leaving a gaping hole in your belly. What could you do? Would you be strong enough to stay by his side for however long the goddess Mors took to claim him? Strong enough to build a life you knew was ephemeral? And once he was gone from this mortal plane, what would be left of you?

The choice was an impossible one. One that you should have made decades ago, when the heart was whole and the mind still strong. Now you knew how arduous life was without him, how—for years—you had looked for him in the small details and every single man who resembled him, how the regret and the grief haunted you at every turn of a decade. Now you knew that life wasn’t worth living if you didn’t have Marcus to share it with.

You traced the profile of his nose with your lips before pressing a soft kiss on his.

“I am not sure, but I am willing to try… if you are,” you whispered, leaning back.

The implications of such life were huge for him. Married, with a son who though himself in love with you, an acclaimed General who served Rome even when Rome didn’t serve him. His responsibilities were greater than yours, Marcus had so much to lose. Had you accepted his proposal when you should have, neither of you would be in such dire situation.

Marcus sighed heavily, rolling onto his side to face you. His calloused hand cradled your cheek, his eyes filled with a determination you wished you had back then, when life was easier.

“There is nothing nor no one that could stop me from spending the rest of my life with you, lux mihi,” he mumbled, hand dropping to your hip. “I said it then, and I will say it again: I do not care for this life if you are not with me. I don’t care about reputation nor retaliation. For over fifty years I have done what was expected of me, and I am done living my life for Rome and her vice. You’re the stars that light up my path in the darkest of nights, the warm sun that guides me home. For however long you’ll have me, I’ll be with you. My heart was always yours, mea vita, since the moment I landed eyes on you. And I don’t want it back, ever, even if you have to leave again.”

The softness of his delivery, the truth his words emanated, brought tears to your eyes. You thought yourself unworthy of his love, his devotion, when you had only caused heartbreak. But this was your second chance, one you were not going to let go.

You moved closer to him as his arm wrapped around you. With your forehead resting on his naked chest, you traced invisible lines on his ribs.

“I won’t leave. That broke me once, can’t handle it a second time. I love you and want to spend the rest of our time together showing you how much I do, making up for lost time. For however long,” you repeated, kissing his chin.

There was a brief pause, and you knew what his next words would be.

“How old are you?” the question you had always avoided, dreaded.

“Close to three times your age,” you confessed, looking up at him through your lashes.

The answer slowly sank in, but instead of horror, incomprehension and disgust, you only found acceptance. As if it was just another fact about you, nothing of major importance.

“You look amazing for being close to one hundred and fifty years of age,” he joked with a grin to lighten the mood. You let out a soft laugh in response. “How? If you want to share.”

The story of how you came to be ageless wasn’t a pleasant one. But your life was full of secrets that had ruined every human link you had to this earth, and you wouldn’t let them spoil the only real connection you had left.

“I… I was promised to a man, one who I thought was worthy of my love. There were things I was blind to at that time, and only time showed them to me. I thought everything was going as expected, he was always so courteous and respectful in public. Until our wedding night, when he…” you paused, the memories too painful even after all this time, “he abused me, and let his friends use me. When they were done, they left me for dead in a ditch.”

Marcus’ arm draped around you tighter, his heart beating so loud you could hear it thumping against his chest. He hugged you close, his warmth calming and reassuring. Marcus was nothing like that man, if your abuser could even be considered a person. You knew he never would be so despicable — you were as sure as the first lights of the sun would wake you up tomorrow.

“It took me hours to finally drift away. And when I did, Juno greeted me. Said the man had wronged me, and that I should have a second chance to understand what marriage and true love actually were about. Then she touched me right here,” you caressed the peacock-shaped birthmark, “and breathed life into me.”

Marcus leaned back a little to inspect your torn features. The heartache he had to endure paled in comparison to yours. How could someone inflict such hurt on another? He couldn’t even fathom such disgusting scenario. That man was the reincarnation of evil, and he wished he suffered the most agonising death.

He had only seen your soul’s purity, your kindness, your benevolence. Anyone who didn’t was blind.

“You did not deserve that ending, amica mea — no one does. He didn’t deserve you,” his heart cried for you, for the weight you had carried for over a century. “You’ve got the purest heart I have ever known. A soul that I will protect until my dying breath.”

“A half soul,” you interrupted him, and Marcus looked at you confused. “Because your other half completes mine.”

His heart jolted, this time because of the sweetness of your confession. That muscle had grown bigger in the last two hours than in his entire lifetime. He sworn himself to stand by your side, come what may. You would never be wronged again, not if he could avoid it.

“We’re leaving tonight,” Marcus declared without skipping a beat.

“What? What about your wife, your son?” your eyes had widened, but his resolution was firm.

“My wife… she’s not been my wife for years. She’s poison. And my son…” he shrugged, conflicted. “He’ll eventually understand, or so I hope. I believe he might already have an inkling that something weird was at play from the moment I said your real name.”

“Marcus, are you sure? You’d be sacrificing so much for me, I wouldn’t want to—”

He didn’t let you finish, his mouth covering yours in a passionate kiss that slowly turned gentle and soothing. Your hands caressing his battle-scarred skin was like a balm; your touch the first and only one to cure all his ailments. Unhurriedly, he sat back up on the bed, dragging you with him.

“Let’s leave now. I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with you, lux mihi,” Marcus purred against your lips.

Fifteen minutes later, you were both clothed and atop of two horses, blending in with the shadows of the night that concealed your departures, in search of a new life. Together.

taglist: @orcasoul @lilac-boo @picketniffler @almostfoxglove @gothcsz @liciafonseca @namenotimportant1373

[andy-15-07]

hiii i think maybe acacius comes back hurt from battle and reader trying to care about him but he’s stubborn

love your fics🩷

Stubborn Hearts and Healing Hands

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x female reader

Word Count: 898 | Requests are open!

Pedro Pascal Masterlist

The sun dipped low on the horizon, bathing the camp in hues of orange and crimson. The air was thick with the scent of sweat, iron, and the faint char of wood smoke. Soldiers moved like shadows around the campfires, their voices murmuring about the day’s skirmish. But your focus was fixed on the tent before you.

You’d heard the whispers before you saw him. General Acacius, victorious again but wounded. It sent your heart racing, equal parts relief and dread. You knew how stubborn he could be, how he wore his pride like armor, never admitting weakness. But this time, you wouldn’t let him brush you off.

Pushing past the heavy canvas flap, you stepped into the dimly lit tent. Acacius sat on a low stool, his broad shoulders hunched, blood-streaked fingers working to undo the clasps of his breastplate. The sight of him, usually so commanding, now so vulnerable, made your chest tighten.

“Acacius,” you said softly, stepping closer.

His head snapped up, and his piercing gaze met yours. For a moment, something unreadable flickered in his eyes. Relief? Guilt? Then, his familiar smirk settled in place, though it was weaker than usual.

“Y/N. You shouldn’t be here,” he said, his voice gruff. “It’s nothing. Just a scratch.”

“A scratch?” you echoed, arching a brow. Your eyes drifted to the dark stain spreading across his side, where his tunic clung to his skin. “That doesn’t look like a scratch.”

He waved a dismissive hand. “I’ve had worse. Go back to the main tent. I’ll join you soon.”

“Not a chance.” Your tone brooked no argument as you crossed the space and knelt before him. “Let me see.”

“Y/N…” His voice held a warning, but you ignored it. Gently, you pushed his hands away and began unbuckling the remaining straps of his armor. He sighed, a sound heavy with exasperation, but he didn’t stop you.

When the breastplate finally came free, you sucked in a sharp breath. A deep gash ran along his side, angry and raw. Blood seeped from the wound, staining his skin and the edges of his tunic.

“Acacius,” you murmured, your voice trembling slightly. “This isn’t just a scratch. You need proper tending.”

He scoffed. “It’ll heal. It always does.”

“Not without help,” you snapped, the sharpness in your tone surprising even yourself. You met his eyes, your own blazing. “Stop being so stubborn and let me help you.”

His jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue. That, in itself, was a small victory.

You gathered what you needed: a basin of water, clean cloths, and a small pouch of herbs. As you worked, the tent was filled with a heavy silence, broken only by the occasional hiss of pain from Acacius and the soft murmurs of your voice as you tried to soothe him.

“You’re too reckless,” you said, dabbing at the wound with a damp cloth. “Charging into battle like you’re invincible.”

“I’m a general,” he replied. “It’s my duty.”

“It’s your duty to lead, not to throw yourself in harm’s way,” you countered. “What would your men do without you? What would I do without you?”

His gaze softened at that, the hardness in his expression giving way to something more tender. “You’d be fine. You’re stronger than you think.”

“Don’t,” you said, shaking your head. “Don’t say things like that. I don’t want to be strong without you.”

For a moment, he said nothing, just watched you with an intensity that made your cheeks flush. Then, he reached out, his rough, calloused hand brushing against your cheek.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “For worrying you.”

Your breath hitched, and you leaned into his touch. “Just promise me you’ll be more careful. Please.”

He nodded, the movement small but sincere. “I’ll try.”

It wasn’t a perfect promise, but it was enough for now.

You finished cleaning the wound and applied the herbs, ignoring his grumbles about the sting. Finally, you wrapped it with a clean bandage, tying it off securely.

“There,” you said, sitting back on your heels. “That should hold until we can get the healer to look at it.”

“You’re better than any healer,” he said, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the small smile that crept onto your own face. “Flattery won’t get you out of trouble.”

“I’m not trying to get out of trouble,” he said, his tone suddenly serious. “I mean it. Thank you.”

The sincerity in his voice made your heart ache. You reached out, your fingers brushing against his. “Always.”

The silence that followed was different from before, not heavy or strained but warm, comforting. For a moment, it felt like the world outside the tent didn’t exist, like it was just the two of you.

“Rest,” you said finally, breaking the quiet. “You need it.”

He started to protest, but you silenced him with a look. Reluctantly, he nodded and lay back on the cot, wincing slightly as he settled.

You stayed by his side, your hand resting lightly on his. And as his breathing evened out, the lines of tension on his face softening, you felt a flicker of hope. Maybe, just maybe, you could convince him to take better care of himself. For now, though, you were content to watch over him, to be his strength when he needed it most.

[mybworlds]

Part of your world

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x f!reader

Warnings: use of you, you’re a mermaid, I won't give any details except for nice long legs and very long hair, nudity, violence (a little?), use of both pov. If I missed smt please let me know.

Summary: Marcus Acacius and you meet. You immediately catch his attention, including Geta's.

Masterlist

A/N Thank you so much for the amount of love and support, it means a lot. It's a very long chapter, sorry, guys so take your time 🙏🏼 Likes, comments and reblogs are not mandatory, but very appreciated! ❤️

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Taglist @harriedandharassed; @orcasoul; @blazeflays; @ijustlovemensm; @duck-duck-goose2; @blacksnape123

Thx for the dividers @saradika-graphics.

That night Marcus lies on his side with one hand under his cheek, staring out of his bedroom window at the star-filled sky. He didn't sleep a wink. He tossed and turned in bed several times, but the god of sleep wasn't on his side that night.

Tired of not being able to sleep, at the first light of dawn, Marcus puts on his tunic again and sneaks off to the beach. Luckily none of his servants are awake yet or else at least a couple would have run to his side preventing him from being alone for a while.

The sand is still cold at that hour, the wind barely ruffles his hair and dress, the sea is barely choppy. It's a picture of heaven and Marcus needs something like this to help him relax and keep the anxiety and fear in the pit of his stomach at bay.

The man thinks back to the previous evening. It went well, but inevitably he and Lucilla discussed their future union. She accepts it, but with rules. She wants to be able to continue being who she is, she wants to enjoy her birth privileges and she wants to be able to defend her ideas, whatever they may be. She knows that theirs is only a political union and that there will certainly never be any kind of emotional involvement between them and that they will probably not see each other except during the first night of their wedding, then everyone will do their part certainly, but without any other type of obligation. Marcus then told her that the two emperors suspect she is conspiring against them, but he did so with the intent of warning her not to expose herself too much. The woman maintained a composed calm, telling him that she would do everything discreetly and that he had no reason to fear for her or for himself as her husband.

Marcus can't help but feel forced to endure all of this. The truth is that he doesn't care about politics, marriage and all that. He just wants to be free and fight for his ideals of freedom and justice, but no one seems to care about these values. Everyone seems to have forgotten them and this always makes him feel out of place.

He sighs sadly when something, or rather someone, catches his attention: it's a girl, she's lying on her side, her hair falls partly on her face, on her shoulders, along her back covering her nakedness. She is still partly hidden among the waves of the sea that wet her exposed skin and make some locks of her hair wave. He quickly approaches, lifting her into his arms and carrying her a little further from the shore.

When they are far enough away, he sits on his knees in the wet sand, brushes her hair away from her face, and recognizes you. Anyone could have understood his astonishment at seeing the same girl from Sicily, the girl he himself had tried in vain to find when he was still there, the young woman who had saved him from the fury of the sea and then disappeared, now close to his home.

“Hey,” He shakes you gently before placing his cloak over your body “can you hear me? Wake up,” he asks brushing your hair away from your face and taking a long moment to gaze at you as if bewitched by your beauty.

You open and close your eyes over and over again, finally managing to keep them open and almost jump when you realize you're in his arms. You look scared.

“Hey, hey, calm down. It’s okay,” Acacius tells you, holding you against him “How did you find me? Did you... Did you follow me or something?” he asks you, then reminds you that you don’t understand him. “Oh, yeah, sorry, you and I don’t understand each other. Um, maybe I can try asking one of my servants if he can make himself understood by you or…”

“It's not necessary,” you mutter and Acacius frowns even more. So, you pretended not to understand? Why?

You sit down, moving slightly away from him and with your gaze you search for something, it's an old vial full of encrusted algae and with a strange liquid inside. You immediately grab it, holding it in your hands as if it were a precious treasure.

“So, can you talk?” he asks you using a surprised and suspicious tone. You nod, “Why didn’t you talk to me when we first met?” he asks you.

You look down for a moment, then look up again, “I was scared.” You whisper, “I’m sorry.”

“Oh, no. Don't be.” You and him remain silent for a while, he doesn't mind staying in your company even if it's silent, then he remembers that you're naked and that you're probably freezing “Oh, forgive me. I'm such a fool. Come inside. I'll have you draw a hot bath and then you'll tell me how you got here." he adds, standing up and offering you his hand to help you to get up. You grab his hand, but after a few moments you pull it back and look at him scared, “What is it?” he asks you.

“N — nothing.” he sees you swallow and then look into his eyes, you seem worried and agitated by who knows what. Maybe you don't want to tell him how you found him or you don't trust him enough to do so.

“If you don't want to tell me how you got here, that's fine. Don't worry. I'll listen to you whenever you want. Okay?” You nod, relaxing your shoulders and he also finds himself nodding his head and then make your way to his villa.

He sees you squeeze the bottle, who knows what it is! Maybe when you feel more at ease you'll tell him about it.

As you get closer to his villa, you do nothing but walk with your chin up, your eyes wide open and a big smile on your lips. It's Marcus who invites you to be careful where you put your feet, to climb this step now or not to put your feet in the ground when you are in the peristylium. It seems like you've never seen anything because you keep running from one corner of the house to another, touching the marble columns, jumping when you set your feet on the tiles.

“You have a beautiful house.” you tell him turning around and observing the splendid inlays and busts on the sides “Why do you have heads in the garden?” you ask him, frowning.

Marcus smiles, “They’re busts of my ancestors. They’re statues, they’re not real,” he explains.

“Oh,” you say in a whisper. You look into his eyes and your gaze seems to almost want to read him inside. He, who has seen so much, met and crossed so many glances, can barely stand yours.

“Have you never seen one?” he asks, his gaze wandering from you to a bust of a distant ancestor of his.

You shake your head, “I saw some drawings though,” you say, running a finger along the outline of the sculpture.

Marcus starts walking again and you follow him, turning your head from one side to the other as if you don't want to miss even a single detail of what you see.

“Are you hungry?” he asks you. “After your bath I’ll have a big meal prepared for you, if you wish.”

You don't answer him, you're a few steps behind and you're as if enraptured by what you see. You seem incredulous and so absorbed, you have such a beautiful and unique look that you almost seem like a creature from another world.

“Are you okay?” he asks, reaching out to you and moving his gaze in the direction your gaze is directed. The man immediately understands what has intrigued you and perhaps even scared you a little: it’s a statue of him.

He doesn't like it at all. He doesn't recognize himself in that representation, too pompous and proud. If it had been up to him, he would have let it sink into the abyss, but it's a gift from the emperors and doing so would mean causing them a grave offence, so Marcus keeps it there in his villa.

“I don’t like it. That’s not me,” Acacius confesses to you with a sad sigh.

“Instead, it’s beautiful. I mean, you are beautiful, not the statue. The statue is an object. You are here and you are real.” You tell him, catching his attention and making him smile slightly. You are sincere and this is a rare and unique quality.

“Thank you for your words. It means a lot to me.” he tells you, making to take your hand in a completely spontaneous gesture, but you pull away almost scared and so he desists, clearing his throat “Sorry.”

You shake slowly, “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to be rude, but...” you say, tightening your cloak.

“Don’t worry. I’ll call my servant now who will help you take a hot bath, help you dry off, and then help you find a dress that fits you,” the man informs you.

“Maybe I can do it myself,” you suggest as the man starts walking again. “I don’t want to disturb you or anyone else.”

Marcus smiles. Again.

“It’s a joy to help you and even if I don’t agree, slaves are there for this, to do what we don’t do.”

“If you don’t share, why don’t you free them?” you ask, tilting your head to the side as you pause in the hallway.

“It’s complicated. Wait here. I’ll send someone to help you.” He says, giving you one last look. “See you later.”

You didn't think that potion would hurt you so much, your throat felt like it was closing up, you almost felt like you were suffocating, then your legs started to shake, you did everything you could to resist and not give in, in the end the pain got the better of you and you fainted.

Finding Marcus, the man for whom you did all this, fills you with joy when you wake up, even if you haven't been able to express it as you would have liked.

You immediately felt overwhelmed by a myriad of emotions, enthusiasm and fear at the same time, his hands are so warm, calloused, big, you can feel them full of cuts, who knows if they were inflicted in battle... just as you are thinking this, a terrifying image appears before your eyes, he’s covered in blood, there’s a large cut right next to one eyebrow from which blood is gushing, he has in his hands a sword also stained with blood. He’s lying on the ground on what looks like sand, you see him breathing heavily and then that terrible scene disappears as it appeared. The General looks at you perplexed, while you are shaken by the shivers and fear of what you have just seen.

He’s so kind, so hospitable, it seems impossible to reconcile his sweetness with the violent image that has just appeared before your eyes or those you have seen previously.

His servants are very polite and curious, they insistently ask you where you are from as your accent is unknown to them. You procrastinate, asking now about this, now about that. As they explain to you the various things that surround you and their usefulness, you realize that what you have read or your aunt's words have not fully conveyed what you are seeing and feeling. It's all much more.

A maid insists on braiding your hair into a high bun, but you protest so much and avoid that thing she calls a comb that in the end you give up and leave it loose. She also wanted to make you wear a dress that was the color of the sea, but instead you were struck by another one that was white like sea foam.

When you're finally alone, you walk over to your bed and sink into it. Oh, it's so soft and warm. Your bed at home was a giant oyster, it was nice and cozy, but this on earth is much better!

You open and close your eyes several times, you feel exhausted, but happy. You are under his roof, you have spoken to him, he knows you exist. These are already steps forward. You smile, sighing and relaxing completely, when you open your eyes again the light coming from the candles is very dim, you have fallen into a deep sleep.

You've never slept so much, you wonder if this isn't also an effect of your aunt Mira's potion. You sit down placing your hands on your thighs and then your knees, you have no pain and this is also a sign that the potion is working. Not that you doubted it, but it all still seems so incredible to you!

You look out of one of the many windows in your room, you pull aside the delicate curtain and observe the moon and the many stars that surround it, you are as if enraptured by it, at least until you realize that your room looks out onto the gardens of General Acacius' villa where the statue dedicated to him dominates.

You turn and look at the vial prepared by your aunt and drink a few drops of the potion, as per her instructions, then you decide to hide the vial under the bed in a hidden corner between the wall and the bed so that no one can find it.

Once this is done, you decide to go out and let yourself be caressed by the light wind of that evening, you feel light and yet your heart is heavy as if gripped by a strange sensation. Probably the images that first appeared before your eyes just disturbed you a lot.

You hear footsteps, fast, a very small child with blond curls crying runs in your direction, immediately behind him you see what you imagine is his mother followed by three other women behind them still Acacius.

“Hi,” you greet the red-faced, crying-eyed boy. He stops and looks at you, and you kneel down in front of him, “you’re beautiful, you know? What’s your name?”

“Fas - us,” the little one barks.

You raise your head towards the woman behind the little boy, the woman must be a few years older than you. She has brown hair tied in a braid and the clothes of someone who works in the kitchen judging by the stains, “My lady,” she says to you softly, “his name is Faustus, he's small and cannot yet say it clearly.”

You nod and then smile at the little one, “You really have a beautiful name. Why are you crying?”

“My lady,” the woman intervenes again, “he misses his father.”

“Oh.” you say in a sad whisper “Come here,” you say to the little one, gently holding his little body to yours, “you know, when I was little, I didn't have a dad either. I only had my mother, then when I grew up he came back.” you tell him, while the little one rubs his eyes “Do you want to hear a little song my mother always sang to me when I was little?”

He nods.

You smile and the sweet words, full of hope, love, happiness of your mother's song float in the air enchanting the little one for about a couple of minutes, when you look up, you notice how everyone was fascinated and speechless when they heard that melody. Acacius has a strange light in his eyes, but you don't feel danger or threat, but rather dying to know you, curiosity. His lips then curve upwards and you smile sweetly back.

Little Faustus unexpectedly throws his arms around your neck and for a moment you are paralyzed before returning his sweet embrace.

“My lady,” the woman says, “forgive him, he’s not usually this open with strangers.” She apologizes.

“Oh, no, it’s okay. He's beautiful,” you say, placing a hand on the baby’s little back and closing your eyes, relaxing against his little body.

After a few minutes the baby's breathing normalizes until he moves away from you, you dry a couple of tears that are still wetting his little face and smile at him, he smiles back showing you his tiny teeth making your smile wider.

“My lady, thank you for what you have done,” the woman says, placing her hands on her son’s shoulders. “Faustus, say thank you.”

“Tk you.” he says making you smile.

“Anytime, sweetheart.” you say getting up, while the mother takes the little one by the hand and they walk away followed by the other two women.

You followed them with your gaze, turning in their direction, then you heard a sad sigh behind you and Marcus' slow footsteps approaching you.

“It's a sad story about Faustus and his mother,” the man reveals to you, appearing at your side and keeping his gaze towards the corridor where the group has headed.

“What story?” you ask, your gaze wandering from the man to the hallway.

He hums sadly and then turns his gaze to you, observes your face for a few seconds and then with a serious look he answers you, “I don’t want to disturb your first night, um… You didn’t tell me your name yet.”

You tell him and he repeats it with such sweetness that it seems like music to your ears. You smile at each other.

“Do you want something to eat? Not knowing what you like, I had you prepare meat, fish, fruit, wine... in short, I hope you'll like something.” he tells you, slightly raising his shoulders as if he felt uncomfortable.

You nod, slightly raising the corners of your mouth upwards.

“Okay, let’s go,” he says, pointing to a door behind him with his open palm in a gesture as if to say ladies first.

Marcus can't help but look at your face, your curious eyes zigzagging from one corner to another of the many rooms you pass through until you reach the triclinium, your hands caress and touch everything around you with curiosity. Your eyes seem to see so many things only now for the first time and your beauty touches the divine.

Where do you come from?

Such is your beauty that Marcus can't help but think that you are as beautiful, perfect and unattainable as the gods.

Yes, you must be a goddess sent there by him to enchant and conquer him and he's very happy to be enchanted by your beauty, your voice and the sweetness that shines through in your ways and gestures, as sweet as they are innocent.

“You have a beautiful voice, I've never heard anyone sing like that,” Marcus tells you, as you turn an apple over in your hands curiously, then smell it and smile “It’s an apple,” he adds as if wanting to help you.

You smile sweetly at him, placing the apple back in the basket you took it from, “I know, but I’ve never smelled it before.”

He hums, “I know nothing about you.” The man begins, sitting down on the triclinium “Why don’t you tell me something about yourself?”

“I don’t even know where to start,” you say and from the look on your face and your suddenly downcast eyes, Acacius can tell that you really don’t know what to say to him. You are not lying or stalling for time on how to answer him.

“You told the little one first that you grew up with your mother and then your father came back, is that a true story?” he asks you looking at your face and when you look up he sees them full of a veiled sadness.

“No, or rather that’s how I would have liked it to be. I mean, my mother died when I was about six of your age…” Acacius frowns “I meant six years, I’m tired, sorry.” He nods although he remains perplexed by your statement.

Is it possible that you really are what he saw: a sea creature? He has read about the existence of such creatures, but... No, that's impossible!

He shakes his head as if to rid himself of this absurd thought, “I'm sorry. What about your father?”

You tsk, you shake your head, “He was and still is an overprotective father. He has prevented me from doing so many things in my life.” you say in a bitter tone, then you frown and he follows your gaze, you are looking almost with disgust or perhaps sadness at the prawns or blue fish placed in beautiful ceramic bowls garnished with spices.

“What is it?” he asks you, not understanding your expression.

"Why are you doing this?"

Acacius is perplexed, “Do what?”

“Kill fish, they are defenseless creatures. They did not harm you.” you reply looking him in the eye with disappointment.

“Um, we have to feed ourselves. We would die.” he answers you in a matter-of-fact tone “We don’t do it for fun. Well, some people kill deer or other animals for fun, but mostly to survive.”

You look down, pressing your lips into a straight line, for a few minutes you don't speak, then you speak again, “I’m sorry, I overreacted. Um, you’re… very kind and… it’s so hard for me to reconcile this sweet version of you with the General I saw a while back.”

Marcus sighs, “I don't always like being the General, but I am. And I have duties to perform, sometimes I do things I'm not proud of at all. You know, sometimes it really costs me to be that way.” he confides in you, lowering his head and putting aside the armor he has always used to shield himself during all these years of his life. When he raises his head, he sees you sit down next to him and, in such a sweet and spontaneous gesture, rest your head on his shoulder.

No one had ever done it. No one had ever dared to be so close to him, everyone - he knows it well - fears him, not as much as they fear the Emperors, but he knows that his often hard gaze and his piercing eyes tend to keep everyone away.

“You’re such a sweet creature.” The words come from his heart. Marcus turns his head, “You know, I never get around anyone more than necessary.” he confesses to you by sticking his nose in your hair and inhaling your scent which - perhaps it's just his suggestion - smells of iodine and other perfumes he's never smelled before.

“It’s because you’re a contradictory human,” you reply. “You want someone by your side, but at the same time you keep everyone away.” you just move away from him “You’re scared. Even if you hide it well.”

The man misses a beat when he hears those words and in front of your gaze that seems to read him so deeply, almost scaring him, he who has faced armies and peoples with courage, he who stands up to Emperors albeit politely, is afraid. He doesn't know if it's you or what you were able to bring to light in a few hours, revealing it to his own eyes and intuiting it while spending such a short time with him.

“You are… um, amazing. Yes, I think that’s the right word,” he says, smiling slowly at you. “No one has ever spoken to me like that. Not even my own subordinates.”

“Well, I’m not your subordinate, Marcus,” you reply, smiling at him.

“Do I seem bold to you, if... well, if I tell you that you are beautiful?” your expression changes, but you don't lose your smile, you shake your head slowly, “I don’t think I’ve ever met a woman like you.” You lower your gaze in a split section. “Intuitive, sweet, captivating.” Acacius sighs, “You must be starving, while I look like… well, I want to hit on you.”

You frown, “Hit on me? What does that mean?”

The man smiles as if touched by your innocence, “You don't know anything at all, do you?”

After eating and saying a few words here and there about what this or what that thing is, Marcus — not at all tired or annoyed by your presence, on the contrary more and more curious by your originality — offers you a walk along the seashore.

The sun's rays are getting weaker, the sand is cool at your feet and Marcus for the first time in years and years indulges himself in the luxury of being able to take off that armor that he always wore it with pride, but which from time to time weighs like a millstone. He tells you about himself like he never did before, he even finds himself confiding in you about episodes of his childhood and early adolescence and you smile at him, in that light your eyes seem to shine with pure magic.

Being with you makes him feel lighter. And he likes it. Until then, being with others had been limited to when someone gave him orders or when he himself ordered others to carry out what had been planned for the conquest of this or that land. You're not asking him for anything, you don't want anything. He still hasn't understood why you're there and why with someone like him, but for the first time he chooses not to ask questions, but to accept your mysterious presence as a gift.

You answer a few more of his questions, not because he doesn't have any, but because after so much time he can finally speak freely and not about politics, not about interests, not about the Empire, but about himself and Rome never gives space to all this. You do it and you're a breath of fresh air in his life.

“Marcus?” you say. “Can I ask you something?”

If you look at him that way, you can ask for anything and he will give it to you.

“Tell me.”

“What’s the story of Faustus?” you ask him.

He sighs sadly, “As I told you before, his is a sad story. His mother, Iulia, and her mother were slaves and served the Emperor Septimius Severus. He also treated them well all in all, Iulia grew up knowing what her role was and therefore she learned to stay in her place. In short, she’s a slave and then women... have no freedom of speech or thought.”

“Why?” you ask him and he looks at you.

You are not really a creature of this world!

“Unfortunately, this is how our society works. Men are in charge.”

“And you agree?” you ask him.

He watches the ripples of the sea, “Come let's sit here.” he says to you, stopping not far from the entrance of his villa and sitting on the now completely cold sand. Marcus watches the light summer wind caress your long hair and move it slightly, he then watches the now dark horizon “No. I don't agree at all. You women are everything to this society, you make such an important contribution and not only for the most obvious reason, but you are intelligent, charismatic, and sometimes gifted with an unrivaled wit.”

Marcus really thinks it, he's not just saying it, he really believes it.

“Returning to Iulia, well.. her mother died shortly after the death of the Emperor, he was succeeded by the current Emperors Caracalla and Geta.” Marcus takes a break “They reign according to their own rules and according to their own personal enjoyment, as to this last aspect, well the young Iulia became the object of desire of the young Caracalla and one evening...” Marcus feels his throat tighten as he tells this story out loud, but you asked what the story of the boy you just met is and so he decides to tell you the whole story “he raped her and she got pregnant.” he hears you holding your breath “His brother Geta covered up what his brother had done and so he entrusted young Iulia to me, taking her away from his brother.”

“And the boy?” you ask him. “Does he know that...?”

“Of course not! His mother told him that his father is away and will return one day, but of course that will never happen.” he explains it to you again and then takes a long, very long break.

“Don’t you like them?” you ask him naively.

“Quiet, sweet girl!” he admonishes you looking around with a worried expression and you imitate his looking around and then find yourself eye to eye with him again “Never, and I mean never, speak ill of them.”

You frown, “What would happen?”

He holds his breath, “You’d die. Whoever opposes them, dies. One way or another.” he replies and your eyes widen in disbelief or probably scared to learn this “I serve them whether I want to or not. I have no say in the matter.” You frown without taking your eyes off his contrite face “Did you think it was different for men?”

“I thought that since you were a General you could do whatever you wanted, whenever you wanted,” you admit with a shrug.

He smiles, “It's not that simple,” he's about to take your hand, but then thinks better of it, he doesn't know if you'd like such a touch from him “We men, although we are certainly freer than you women, are still part of Rome and Rome sometimes sucks you in, eats you alive day after day and then spits you out if you are no longer useful.” he sees you swallow and slowly bring your legs closer to your chest “Sometimes I feel like that. Eaten up and then spat out like I don't even have a heart or feelings.” he adds in a murmur.

“Marcus, oh Marcus.” you say and he turns around looking at your saddened face “Why don’t you go away?”

He chuckles, but it's not a happy chuckle, on the contrary. “You know,” he says, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear, “with you I'm breathing again after a long, long time and I thank you from the bottom of my heart for reminding me that I am a person before a General.” you smile at him, but he senses that it's an embarrassed smile from this contact so he moves his hand away and places it on his lap “This is who I am. I can neither fight it nor escape from this role.”

You nod and then fearfully place a hand on his, “I wish I could do more for you,” you say, your breath shaking. It's like you're afraid to touch him... why?

“You do, you're already doing it, you know?”

“Really?”

Marcus nods, “You really are the sweetest creature in the world.” He pauses. “I wonder why you chose me, why you're here.” The man sees your skin crease. “Are you cold?”

You shake your head, moving your hand away from him and placing it on your thigh with your head down.

“There's something you're not telling me, right?” You look up and stare into his dark eyes for a long moment before slowly nodding “I already knew that.” You swallow “But, whatever it is,” Marcus gently strokes your arm, “it’s fine with me. You make me human.” your smile widens as if you find what he just said funny “Seriously,” the man insists, “and thank you for listening to me. Your sweetness warms my heart for the first time. You know,” he starts staring at the now completely dark horizon again “the Emperors want me to get married.” he confides in you “I’m not afraid, but I’m forced to do what I don’t want. That’s why, as I told you, you are never completely free even though you are a man.”

You, unexpectedly again, rest your head on his shoulder and this time make an extra gesture that on one hand stops him for a moment, but on the other hand it makes his heart beat so fast, you reach out a hand towards his and squeeze it, intertwining your fingers with his.

If Marcus could, he would marry you.

The next day, you are awakened by the cawing of seagulls and a soft light that filters through the thin curtains that flutter in the summer wind.

You stretch with a smile, sitting in the center of the bed, placing a hand on your legs in a gesture as if to check that they are still there and that you are not dreaming of having them.

So, you wake up humming to yourself ready to live this new day. You don't know what to expect or if Marcus will be there by your side.

Marcus... you think about how sad and lonely his life has been, he has glory and power, but he’s completely alone. No one really rejoices with him, no one talks to him.

For him to confide in you, who have been in his life for less than a day, means that he desperately needed to talk and be heard by someone, anyone, you.

There's a knock at the door, you turn around to see the door open and Iulia enters the room, “Oh, my lady, are you already up?!” she exclaims surprise holding in her hands a tray full of fruit and bread with a strange semi-shiny substance spread on it.

“Iulia?” you call her.

“My lady?”

“Don’t call me that, it makes me uncomfortable,” you tell her, shrugging and revealing your name. She looks at you sympathetically as she places the tray on a table in the center of your room.

“I’m not allowed to do that. The General was very clear,” she replies softly.

You nod, “He treats you well.” It's not a question, it's a statement, she looks at you almost scared “Don't be afraid.” You reassure her by moving closer to her and placing a hand on her shoulder as a sign of understanding and affection and at that moment a series of violent images appear before your eyes: it's Iulia, she's younger, she cries, she's the victim of increasingly cruel pranks by two blond boys, then another cruel and terrifying image appears before your eyes, she’s held tightly by the wrists and then you see a young man with blond curly hair leaning over her, she screams, then the image disappears and another image appears before your eyes of one of the two young blond boys rudely handing over Iulia to a younger Acacius.

You jump, “Are you all right, my lady?” Iulia asks you, noticing your shocked expression. “Do you want a hot bath? You're shaking.” she adds worriedly.

“No. No. I'm fine. Thank you.” You reply, shaking your head as if to erase those images. You don't dare to imagine what it was like to actually live those scenes.

Poor Iulia...

“Come, I'll help you undress, my lady.” Iulia insists, walking towards your bed. You let her take off your nightgown, “You have beautiful skin, if I can dare, my lady.” You smile, but you don’t know what to say to her.

You think about how much she suffered in undergoing what she experienced, but above all in having to also raise a child who is kid out of...

You sigh, maybe your father is right about one thing: humans are strange creatures and some are truly dangerous.

“My lady, did you rest well?” she asks you again kindly.

You give a small smile, “Yes, thank you. I don't think I've ever slept so soundly.”

Iulia helps you clean up before getting ready for the bath. The water smells wonderful, “What is that smell?” you ask curiously.

“It’s lavender, my lady. Do you like it?” she asks as she helps you not to slip while getting into the tub.

“Yes,” you hum closing your eyes.

“Today is a beautiful day. The sun is high in the sky, thanking the god Apollo.” she claims moving away just enough to give you some privacy, but remaining in the same room as you.

In this sudden pleasant silence that envelops you and the woman, you hear a sudden hubbub under your window, then horses in the distance and finally Marcus' deep voice echoing in the peristylium.

Iulia is the first to slowly approach the window, you hear her footsteps and then you almost feel her holding her breath. You turn in her direction and notice the paleness on her face, “Are you okay, Iulia?” you ask her worriedly.

“Oh, yes,” she says hastily. “Come on, I’ll help you.” she adds, offering her hands to help you get out without any problems. She wraps you in a soft towel and pats you dry, “Let me do it.” she adds again when you do the same to dry your skin from the water.

“What’s wrong?” you ask her as she gently massages away the excess water. “Why has your skin turned so white?” you ask her still not understanding what happened.

“Nothing, my lady.” she says, but from the tone of her voice you understand that something that is troubling her must have happened, even if you don't know what it is yet “Come, I'll help you get dressed.” she adds in a sad whisper. She helps you cover your breasts and womanhood with some bands, then she makes you wear a dress as thin as seaweed, light as you and your sisters and all the mermaids and newts when you swim down there in the depths of the sea.

“You are enchanting, my lady.” She adds again with a small smile that curves her lips upwards, but it’s not a happy smile, her head is still lost in who knows what thought. She combs your hair and then lets it fall loose over your shoulders and down your back, “Why don’t you eat something before you go to the General?” she suggests.

“I’m not hungry,” you reply, shrugging.

“But my lady, you need to eat a little.” She insists, holding out the tray and looking at you with hopeful eyes that you will listen to her.

“You're a good person, Iulia. Thank you. I'll eat later.” You insist, sticking to your opinion about wanting to reach the man and let this new day begin.

You put on some strange shoes that are very comfortable, then you head towards the door, opening it and going out. The air is quite warm that day and you feel it too even though your body temperature is not the same as humans, but it doesn't matter.

As you pass by, you notice other servants busy doing their household chores, stopping to half bow and say my lady. You feel uncomfortable, no one, not even at the bottom of the sea, has ever shown you such respect. And yet, your father is the king of the sea!

Who knows if he has found out where you are and what he is doing, who knows if your sisters are thinking of you and wondering why you made this decision! You miss them, but you don't regret your choice.

When you reach the room that Marcus called triclinium, you hear two voices talking animatedly. One is the General, the other you don't know who belongs to. You hide behind a thick marble column and listen to what they say. You lean forward just enough to give a face to the second voice as well and you immediately recognize the face you saw when you touched Iulia: it's one of the two Emperors, the one who entrusted the young slave to Acacius. His features are not unpleasant, but there is something in his gaze and a glint in his eyes that unsettles you to the core, sending a shiver down your spine.

“I know that Augusta Lucilla was your guest recently,” says the Emperor.

“Yes, that’s right,” Acacius confirms, his tone extremely cold and controlled, so different from the one he used with you just a few hours earlier.

“So? Have you discussed the terms of your union?”

Acacius swallows and his dark eyes seem to grow even darker like the stormy sea, “Yes.”

“And?” asks the young man again, sitting on one of the triclinia with an impatient air to know who knows what details of the matter.

“We will be husband and wife, with this union everything will be under control.” Marcus answers hastily keeping his head down as if feeling uncomfortable with all these questions.

“Good.” the boy comments again, then adds “There's someone spying on us!” You hide behind a column feeling caught red-handed “I don't like people who spy on me.” he adds again, but his tone of voice seems amused, then silence follows and finally you are surrounded on one side by Marcus who looks at you surprised and also a little annoyed and on the other side there is the Emperor who lets his gaze wander from your face then along your figure and then states “You have a new slave, Acacius! She’s beautiful.”

You swallow, seeking Marcus's eyes, who gives you a silent look before answering the ruler, “She’s my guest. She is not a slave.”

“Oh, right! She's too beautiful to be a slave." he notes with a little grimace "So, why did you keep her from me? She could have joined us. If nothing else, she would have been much more pleasant to look at than you!” he exclaims with a smirk. “Where does this beautiful creature come from?” he asks, looking at you, but waiting for an answer from the General.

You hope with all your heart that the man would lie about how you met, you are not sure that the boy in front of you can accept an answer as the truth that you came from the sea.

“From the East.” Acacius lies. You look into his eyes again, feeling relieved by this lie.

“Oh, I see.” he comments “That's why you're delaying the wedding, now I got it!” he exclaims smiling mischievously “It was worth it, I hope” he adds without taking his eyes off you “I'd like to hang out with her too.” He chuckles, hinting at who knows what.

Acacius is now visibly tense. His features are hard, his expression is cold and tense, his jaw clenched and his chest puffed out. You didn't quite understand what the Emperor was referring to, but Marcus did and he must not have liked it.

“Are you doubting my honor and integrity?” Marcus asks, clenching his jaw tighter.

“Oh no, come on General, I don't think it's appropriate to react like this!” exclaims the emperor smiling at him, but Marcus doesn't smile back, “Oh, you’re so boring!” he adds, huffing, then smiling at you.

“I beg your pardon, the gods gave you and your brother the wisdom to know when it is time to be serious or not.” Marcus replies through his teeth with a sarcastic smile.

You try to hold back your emotions by masking them by looking down at your feet. Then you look up again, observing Marcus' features that have become so hard and cold and the softer ones of the Emperor who has lost his smile upon hearing the General's words.

“I hope your guest is at least more inclined to smile.” You look at the man’s dark eyes. “And I hope your beautiful guest has a name, too.”

“She is…” Marcus is about to answer for you, but the Emperor silences him.

“I want to hear her voice. She can speak, right?”

You have to say something since the two men's eyes are fixed on you, you nod, “Of course.”

The boy clenches his jaw slightly, lifting his chin slightly upwards, “Your voice is enchanting and your beauty overshadows your insolence.” he smiles “I am Geta. One of the two emperors of Rome.” he finally introduces himself “I'm sure we'll get along great, um.. what's your name, my lady?”

You respond by telling him your name and he repeats it before licking his lower lip in a slow motion as if he were about to taste the most succulent of dishes. This man — Geta — makes you feel uncomfortable just with a look, it seems like a curious and innocent look, but deep down you feel that he’s not as innocent as he wants you to believe.

“I'd be happy to have a word with your guest, General. If that's okay with you.” He wants to sound sweet and hospitable, but the light in his eyes seems anything but innocent.

Marcus gives you the look of someone who wants to say something, but can't do anything.

“Oh, and General Acacius have wine and food brought for your beautiful guest too so she can celebrate your union with Augusta Lucilla. Has our beloved General told you about his impending wedding?” he asks, looking at your eyes as if wanting to notice any reactions of displeasure on your part.

You just nod with a hint of a smile, “Yeah, I was just surprised to hear that marriage isn’t based on love.” Geta gives you a surprised and intrigued look. “So, isn’t marriage based on this?” you ask, your gaze wandering from the Emperor’s curious face to the General’s much more tense one.

"Yours is a very interesting guest." comments the first "To answer your question, no. Not always. Mostly unions are unions of interest, politics. And the wedding of our brave General is one of them.” he concludes by patting Marcus on the shoulder who shrugs his shoulders assuming an expression so hard that it almost scares you, but it doesn't discourage or inspire fear in the Emperor who instead seems amused by this reaction "I must leave you now, I have other matters to attend to. I await further communication from you, General. Once this matter is settled, Rome will need to expand further. I want everything to be perfectly under control.”

Acacius clenches his jaw and simply places his fist at chest height and bows his head in respect and greeting towards the young man who, after giving him one last look, turns to you taking your hand and you jump when at that moment some images appear to you in which the Emperor has a lot of make-up on his eyes, he shouts something towards a noisy audience and there, in the middle of what looks like an arena, Acacius, bleeding and wounded, prepares to face some heavily armed men, then another image where Geta is among men dressed in white sitting on chairs, he speaks with great passion of betrayal, then in a last vision there is you, you are in what seems to be a prison and you are wearing a half-torn white dress, you are scared, you can feel your own fear and pain, you are turning into a mermaid again.

You pull your hand away in fear, “I apologize, I don’t feel well. Um, I’m going to my rooms,” you announce, leaving both men behind, who are surely still watching you.

When you are sure that Geta is gone, you leave your rooms and head to a cliff behind the villa. The wind has become stronger and the smell of the sea more intense. You wonder if the images you saw are real or if it is your own fear that others might discover the truth that is showing them to you so vividly.

“You’re here.” You hear Marcus’ warm, husky voice. “I thought you were asleep.”

You shake your head without turning in his direction, “No.”

He reaches you and comes alongside, for a while neither you nor he say anything, there is the incessant sound of the sea in the background. You think back to the fate that awaits the General, a union without love.. then you think back to when you saw him bloodied and fighting so ferociously just to survive.

“I’m sorry if the emperor upset you. He’s… that’s the way he is. He enjoys upsetting others, he takes this strange pleasure.”

You nod, “Your world is quite complicated. I thought you were exaggerating, but…” a shiver runs down your spine “The Emperor, Geta, has something in his gaze that has horrified me to the core.” you confide “He is so superficial, so devoid of humanity and he hides it behind that seraphic appearance that the gods have given him.” you add in a barely audible whisper to Acacius.

You feel something covering your shoulders and you almost jump, it's just Marcus placing his cloak on your shoulders. You look at him with a grateful but also sad look, “Why does he want you to marry at all costs? What does he gain from it?”

Marcus lifts one corner of his mouth in a small smirk, “He... well, um no I have to tell you everything from the start.” You listen to every word the man says and the more you listen the more the emperor seems absolutely crazy, you roll your eyes several times and you find yourself opening your mouth in shock.

When he finishes you look down and clutch his cloak, “I’m sorry I upset you. Again.” he says in a sorry and bitter tone, “But all that glitters is not gold.”

You shake your head slowly, “No, I’m glad you confided in me.” You look at him, “You’re a wonderful person, Marcus.” This time it’s his turn to lower his head. How you wish you could lift him out of all this, you wish he was happy! “How I wish your life was simple and happy!” you tell him and this time he looks up exchanging a knowing smile with you.

“Tonight, do you want to come with me to Rome? I want you to see more than just my life. I can’t guarantee that you’ll like everything you see, but you’ll certainly have a broader vision.”

“If I’m with you, that’s fine,” you reply.

He gives you such a sweet smile that warms your heart and makes it beat.

The magnificence of Rome envelops, conquers and scares every time. Marcus can't help but observe the amazement in your eyes, the smile that appears when you notice something special or extravagant.

You are in front of him, your hands on the cart to hold yourself up. He is right behind you, holding the reins of the horse. Every now and then you look up at him and ask him what this or that is and he answers your ear giving a name to everything you see as you pass by.

When the chariot stops, he gets out first, then gives you his hands to get out, you get out with a little hop, observing first the man and then what is around you.

The people have prepared huge bonfires around which they prepare food, some dance and others sing hymns to Hades so that he can help them always have food and with the hope that one day they or their descendants will enjoy some of the wealth enjoyed by the upper classes.

Acacius has always participated in these events, he tried to do everything he could for the people by sharing that little bit of wealth that he himself enjoyed and for this he’s much loved by all the people. In fact, he's one of the few men who is not frowned upon or thrown rotten food as he passes by; rather, they bless him and thank him. This evening is no exception.

Marcus immediately receives a glass of wine which he offers to you as a sign of gallantry, then takes another. You both drink, smiling at each other, and in the firelight your eyes and your smile bewitch him. Your joy, your dance, your laughter, your dragging him into those dances envelop him and ensnare him until he forgets, at least for those hours, his role and the burden that weighs on his shoulders.

You brought so much joy and lightness into his heart, you brought serenity and enthusiasm into a difficult and heavy life like his, you brought the love that was missing in his life.

[letsgobarbs]

The Wedding (Acacius Marries His Priestess)

Summary: This is part of the His Priestess universe but can be read as a stand-alone. Acacius marries his Anaticula.

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x Former Vestal!Reader (No use of y/n, terms of endearment are used.)

A/N: Anaticula means little duckie/duckling. Vestals were initiated at ages 5~7ish and served the temple for 30 years before they were permitted to marry, and Acacius is described to be a decade older than the Reader in the original story. I had meant for this to be a nice, fluffy wedding. But then I got my period in the middle of writing this and this grew progressively hornier... so it's a wedding and the wedding night.

Warnings: PDA, loss of virginity, oral sex (both receiving), eating ass (f!receiving), cum eating, unprotected p in v sex, discussions of having children, food play.

“You must cry.” The Vestal begged.

“Why must I cry? I happen to be very happy today, the tears are not forthcoming.” His anaticula sounded almost petulant, this was not the first time they were having this discussion. Acacius gently stroked his thumb over the side of her finger; their right hands were bound together by wool ribbons, fingers interlocked. 

“The bride has to cry during the wedding procession, show some reluctance and modesty—”

“I am so joyous, I would skip to my husband’s home if I could.” Acacius snorted into his cup of wine, spilling some of the liquid over its edges. He made no effort to suppress his chuckle as he placed the wine down to wipe at his mouth. His lips were still curled into a grin, he found he hadn’t been able to restrain it since he awoke this morning. He cannot decide which sound is sweeter, his name on her lips or her address of him as husband. 

“—it is Roman tradition.” Her friend insisted. 

“I don’t believe I would like to invoke the Roman tradition of kidnapping women for marriage.” Oh, but Acacius had wanted to invoke it several times a day leading up to their wedding. They had been reduced to chaste kisses and clasped hands, always chaperoned by a hawk-eyed matron who would squint at the most gentle caress he dared to share with his betrothed. Now his wife. Her father and brother had insisted it was for his own safety, so their anaticula didn’t attack him again as she had in her office— forcing an honourable man to wed her, they had teased. 

Acacius felt they were having far too much fun at his expense. Because all this honourable man wanted to do was haul her over his shoulders and carry her off to the nearest cave. He wanted to hide her somewhere, not even share her shadow with the world; keep her trapped underneath him until all she could see was him. Alas, he had to settle for buying a domus near her father’s home. He has ensured nobody would interrupt them for the next few days so he could take her over every surface, wall and square foot of the floor before letting her up. Let their pleasure and love strengthen the pillars of their home.   

He had spent over a decade with only his hand for company, but now the few meagre weeks of abstinence riddled his brain with insistent need. His skin buzzed with excitement, a current working its way up his limbs, as it would before a battle, at the very thought of having his Priestess to himself tonight. He had thought up so many ways to unleash that tigress he had encountered in her office.

“You know it is not just about that… The lares will be upset. Your household deities have guarded you for so long, they will be upset to see you spurn their protection for the gods of your husband’s home. You must cry to let them know you do not leave them willingly.” Acacius paused at the words, he had no lares; there were no spirits of ancestors or deceased family to call upon. 

He had been orphaned young, his whole family was lost to illness and he hardly remembered them. He had long lost faith in the deities and gods. But perhaps marriage was making him sentimental, even if ineffective and symbolic, he did not want his Priestess to go without protection. The shrine in his new home was fashioned with a single wooden statue of Vesta he had carved, it bore a distinct likeness to his Priestess, along with rose-scented incense— reminiscent of her scent. However, he couldn’t invoke her own spirit to protect her now could he— that was for his protection.          

Acacius had given up his previous tools of protection. All his equipment had been military commissioned; as a General, he did not believe in using a weapon that his soldiers could not afford; sometimes well-made weaponry was the difference between life and death, and his life was not more valuable than any of theirs. His gladius was the only weapon he had owned— the very one he had used to defend himself in the Colosseum.

Acacius had melted the sword to make two identical daggers— one of which he had gifted to his Priestess as a betrothal gift, the other he had kept for himself. An engagement ring had also been made from the same metal, which she now wore on the third finger of her left hand where it would connect to her heart. It had felt right to slide that ring onto her finger; it was only fitting that the woman who had rescued and protected him had a piece of the blade that had guarded him. He had vowed to never fight another war. After all the victories and bloodshed across the world, he had returned home to submit at her merciful feet. And there had never been a defeat sweeter than losing himself in her, especially not when he had won her too.   

There had been enough metal left over to form a thin betrothal medallion, engraved with their visages sharing a kiss along with two clasped hands on its back. He knew his Priestess wore the medallion around her neck, a gold chain could be seen disappearing into her tunic, the disk surely nestled between her bosom. Acacius wondered if he should convince her to place the token in their shrine. After all, their love had protected and sustained them both through difficult times. He knew it would guide and watch over any children or descendants they might have.

“Did you want me to cry, Acacius?” She asks him as she draws closer, resting their bound hands on his thigh, easing the stretch of the muscles of his arms and shoulders. He really should unbind their hands, they were sitting beside each other, so he had to stretch his arm across his torso to grasp her hand. But judging by how tightly she held him, she did not want to let go either.

He shook his head no, he did not believe he could stomach seeing her reluctance to marry him even if it was feigned. He had even offered for them to stay with her family if she was unwilling to part with them since she had lived apart from them for the last three decades. 

“Are you sure? I could shed some false ones… maybe get closer to the smoke so it would make my eyes water”—Acacius kissed the irresistible little moue off her lips—“If I don’t cry then everyone will say you have married a disobedient wife who will tyrannically dominate your home.” She continued her exaggerated words anyway. She didn’t know that he planned to acquiesce to all her commands and requests, he could swim across oceans blazing with fire just to see her smile— he had done worse for much less. 

Acacius watched the sway of her earrings, the metal catching the light from the setting sun behind her. He hadn’t been able to look away from her since he had lifted her flammeum for their wedding ceremony. The flame-coloured veil glittered around her, casting a warm golden glow upon her skin. His priestess was not one for dull colours, but she looked radiant in her white tunic and stola. 

He pressed a soft kiss to her cheek, then trailed gentle pecks all the way to her ear where he nibbled on the soft, petal-like skin of her ear lobe before he widened his jaw, tongue reaching out to capture her earring into his mouth. Acacius savoured the coolness of it in the warmth of his mouth as he gently suckled on the jewellery, relishing the shiver that went down her spine. He nuzzled the loose coil of hair behind her ear, knowing she enjoyed the scrape of his beard on her skin— he heard the hitch in her breath. He released the earring in his mouth, letting its wetness streak across her neck.       

“You can cry for me… later when it is just the two of us.” He whispered to her. But his words did not have the intended effect on her. He watched her eyes waver before skittishly looking over his shoulder, her own shoulders tensed and curled away from him. Acacius retreated and saw the nervousness painting her face, her lips pursed and brows slightly furrowed. 

He playfully nudged her nose with his, “What is it, anaticula?” 

He heard the harsh gulp of her throat, her eyes frantically looking around for the right words. When she looked at him again, her gaze was hesitant and embarrassed. His Priestess cupped his jaw with her free hand, her fingers pinched his earlobe in retaliation before her thumb softly stroked under his eyes. Acacius melted into her loving touch, his eyes drooping shut. 

“You woke so early today…” She smelled of her gardens— flowers, herbs and fresh earth. 

He had awakened well before dawn, but he felt rested and replenished. Usually, the bride and her mother would collect flowers from their garden to weave a wreath on the day of the wedding. But his anaticula’s mother had already passed away. He knew the other matrons of her family would gladly help her, but Acacius had wanted to weave her wedding crown himself. He had decided so when he saw her wear a wreath the day she was to be unjustly punished for unchastity.  

He had sneaked into her room, woken her up with cakes collected from the kitchen before stealing her away to the gardens so they could make her wreath. He had chosen marjoram for honour, love and joy; rosemary for fidelity and loyalty; lavender for devotion; sage for long life; verbena, basil and mint along with roses, lilies and violets. The crown had ended up a bit too heavy but she wore it with grace. 

“And you also went hunting with my father and brother.” An animal had to be sacrificed for the wedding. Acacius had decided to hunt a wild boar himself. The entrails of the animal were read by the auspex for omens and the approval of the Gods. It would not have mattered what the auspices prophesied, he would have hunted every animal in the city until the omens were read in his favour. But the first boar had been enough, the omens had signified a joyous and lasting marriage. After the offerings had been made to the gods, the animal was cooked for their wedding feast. 

“Then you cooked in the kitchens as well.” He hadn’t cooked, he had made the bread needed for their wedding ceremony. It was not supposed to be made by the groom. But in the absence of his Priestess, during the months he had believed her to be dead, Acacius had perfected making bread in the kitchens she used to feed the poor. He had wanted that bread to be offered to the gods, he had wanted that bread to be fed to his bride. It was another token of his devotion. 

“The ceremonies were so long.” She was right, Acacius thought the Pontifex Maximus would never stop talking and praying and chanting. He suspected the man dragged out the wedding ceremony solely out of spite that his Priestess had lied about her death. But he had not heard a single word of the chief high priest, his Priestess had stood before him and he was lost in her adoring, twinkling eyes.

He had always believed her eyes to be wondrous, always bright with mirth and mischief, they found joy in the smallest pleasures of life. A single gaze from her could fall on him like a soothing salve as well as disturb his constitution— make him restless with need and desire. His heart always trembled when she looked up at him through those full lashes. But today her eyes had looked so captivating with the kohl lining them that Acacius had almost stumbled in an effort to get to her. He had blindly signed their marriage contract, unwilling to take his eyes off her for too long.

The only time he had lost sight of her today was when he had cried during her consent of their marriage, his own tears blurring his vision. Theirs was a union of equals, he would never make demands on her wealth and personhood, and she was free to keep the name her parents had graced her; all Acacius had wanted was a chance to spend his remaining life by her side, and the privilege of belonging to her. So he had been dumbfounded and overwhelmed when she had forgone the blessed and auspicious name Gaius to lovingly and proudly take his name during her vows. 

Ubi tu Acacius, ego Acacia. Where you are Acacius, there I am Acacia.

He had not deserved the honour, the name meant very little. It was not what his parents had called him; neither was it a name that held any high esteem in terms of legacy and social standing, nor was it the name bestowed upon him by the people. Acacius was always preceded by General and it was a name tainted with the blood of the innocent. But she had taken that piece of himself he was most ashamed of for herself. And in doing so, she had breathed a new life into it— she was what gave his name honour and worth.

And he was proud to be her Acacius. Ubi tu Acacia, ego Acacius. Where you are Acacia, there I am Acacius.

He had broken the bread he had made over her head, careful not to drop crumbs in her hair, before handing over half as an offering to the Gods. Acacius had fed her that bread, her teeth gently grazing his fingertips, affectionately nipping at them, before she had taken the same piece to feed him. And the bread was sweeter where she had bitten into it. But far sweeter was her mouth when he had sealed their marriage with a kiss. 

There was a rightness, a sense of tranquillity, that had settled about him at the conclusion of the ceremony as their hands were being tied. For the first time, Acacius had been content and at peace. His mind was serene, devoid of the usual demons that haunted him; his heart could taste the rising joy within him, and he could pluck the excitement from the air.  

“So you must be very tired tonight…” Her words had tapered into mumbling, which was so unlike the woman he knew. Acacius figured she was hoping to avoid their wedding night which was a surprise since she was so receptive to his advances. 

“One of the women gifted me this… salve. Some ointment they got from a trader.” He knew he wouldn’t need to pry for answers, she would work her way to telling him her concerns eventually. 

“And all the other matrons have been looking at me with these faintly pitying looks. At first, I just thought it was because I did not have a mother… but they sat me down last night for the most interesting conversation.” Her hand left his face to pick a grape before offering it at his lips. Acacius obediently accepted the fruit in his mouth. 

“They said my wifely duties would be very difficult.” She looked at him, as if awaiting a reaction.

“Why? I plan to be the most amenable of husbands, dulcissima.” He dropped an affectionate kiss on her palm. 

“Because of your size, Acacius. They said you would be very big, like a bull”— Acacius choked on the second grape she had shoved into his mouth, a strange sound between a strangled laugh and a cough escaped his mouth—“And it would hurt me very much but I should just lay back and endure. I do not want to endure…” 

Acacius took a moment to appreciate her aggrieved face, “Anaticula, did you not enjoy our play in your office—”

“Yes, about that. It is most uncommon I am told. But that bodes well for our marriage—” he huffed a laugh at the sagely nod she gave, he would have loved to hear her explain to an elderly matron how he had kissed her between her legs. Was that why he had been receiving odd and appreciative glances all day? He felt a flush climb up his neck, how many women had she told?

“I did enjoy it… but do men do it to compensate for the pain after they have taken their pleasure?” He blinked at her, it wasn’t an unreasonable conclusion based on what she knew.

“I assume… it should not be too difficult, right?” She said, almost as if convincing herself, “I’m told it is quite nice sometimes…”

“I swear to not do anything that doesn’t please you tonight, dulcissima.” 

“Everything you do pleases me.” She gifted him a soft smile. 

“Even when you believe it will hurt you?” He couldn’t help but tease her. 

“I know you won’t mean to.” And she sounded so certain that he felt a tender spot in his heart give away. He could still taste her essence on his lips. If all she allowed him tonight was to drink from her nectar, he would happily pass away on his knees with his head still buried between her thighs.

“Carissima, I will enjoy our nights together, and I expect you will find your pleasure as well. I will ensure it, because it brings me more joy and gratification than you can imagine—” 

“Can the newlyweds please be mindful that the guests are trying to eat their meals?”

His wife reared back with a soft gasp before turning to face her brother. Acacius was pleased to know he held the same effect on her as she had on him. Because he had been heedless of their wedding party all day. Their guests had been raucous, tittering and chatter filled the air; the wine flowed freely and the food was plentiful. Many people had come up to speak to them, but the conversations never extended beyond pleasantries and congratulations. 

After all, he was no longer an important political force and the highest echelons of society still didn’t know of his Priestess’ influence amongst the people. It was baffling how disconnected the aristocrats could be from those they considered lowly. Moreover, their guests were too busy ingratiating themselves with their young Emperor who was in attendance with his mother.

His wife had pointed out no less than three women who had thrown themselves at Lucius, quietly snickering to him when they were rejected. According to her, a prospective paramour had tough competition in both Fortuna and Ravi— who shared a very interesting history. His anaticula loved gossip, it was the most endearing thing about her. And she had informed him with great relish how both Macrinus and Ravi had been lovers once who chose to lead very different lives after earning their freedom. Macrinus had been different then, but he had slowly rotted and corroded just as his owners had. Ravi would go out of his way to help those Macrinus owned, Lucius and Fortuna included— grieving for the man he used to be. She believed the Emperor would be sharing his lovers. Acacius didn’t care as long as none of them came to disturb him and his wife. 

Acacius pulled his wife to stand, urging the wedding to its final ritual. He unbound their hands, so she could pray to the lares of her father’s home and bid them goodbye. He wordlessly assured their household gods that he would take care of her and keep her happy while leaving an offering of food and coins at their shrine. He watched as his wife’s eyes glazed over with tears, helplessly his hand found her arm offering her warmth and comfort. 

“If the lares are unwilling to part with you, tell them they can find you in my home.” He whispered to her. The words pulled a teary huff of laughter from her. 

“I miss my mother.” She quietly confessed. And Acacius felt his heart break for her. He gently wiped at the tears on her cheek, his nose stinging with his own tears as she leaned into his touch.

“She would have been the happiest at this match”—Her father told her, as he handed his wife a clay mask resembling her mother’s face—“take her with you to your new home. Let her guide and protect your family.” Acacius was grateful for another addition to their shrine.

He could think of no better protector than her mother. Acacius had been young and barely literate when he had arrived in Rome and the woman had shown him enough grace and favour to educate him along with her children. It was at her behest that her husband had trained him as a soldier. As a General, he had learned that diplomacy and negotiation prevented unnecessary bloodshed. While he was no politician, these were skills he had learned as a youth when he had watched the woman run her household and business. He remembered anaticula’s mother to be remarkable, shrewd and protective— qualities that he was grateful ran to her daughter as well.        

She lit a torch from their hearth and passed it to the matron of honour before her father and brother tearfully embraced her to say their goodbyes. As he had no family of his own, this man— his mentor— had served the role of his father in all the wedding rituals while his wife’s brother had served as her guardian. There was an uncertainty in the air, even as the guests had begun the wedding chants and songs. As a groom, he was supposed to put on a show of forcefully ripping his bride from the arms of her family. But he knew his wife did not agree with this particular tradition so he waited for her lead. 

She reached out for him and he pulled her closer by the hand, kissing her knuckles as she stood by his side. But instead of walking together, Acacius stooped to carry her, his arm coming under her hips to offer her a perch, another arm supporting her knees. He shouldered past the curtains and flower garlands on the archway of their door to walk out onto the street.

The entire city seemed to have shown up to see her married; in addition to the passers-by, those who used the charitable services she offered had shown to throw honeyed almonds and walnuts at the newlyweds— shouting their blessings and good wishes for her. Her arms found purchase on his shoulders as she looked over them to wave at someone in the crowd. His wife, overwhelmed and astounded at the love people had for her, buried her face in the crook of his neck, and his skin burned with the tears she shed there. Acacius soothingly rubbed her hip and placed a chaste kiss on her arm. He couldn’t help but feel so proud of the woman he loved. 

She sniffled and collected herself as they neared the neighbourhood crossroads, “Acacius put me down, we have to worship the shrine at the crossroads.” He heaved her higher in his arms to readjust his hold on her and bring her closer to the shrine at the crossroads. She placed a ceremonial coin to the protective gods of the shrine along with some food a boy had carried for her. 

Her friend Aquilia, another former vestal, served as the matron of honour and led their group to his home. While her marriage was not as long as was required for the role, her husband’s love for her had persevered through the three decades of her duties in the Temple. Acacius liked the man, he had vowed to take no other woman in his life and had kept his word. Although, he was still upset that all of the Vestals had suspected his anaticula was alive when he had believed her to be dead, but they had not thought to inform him. 

“Surely you don’t intend to carry me all the way home.” She spoke into the curve of his shoulder. He most certainly will carry her to their home.

“I’m too heavy, you’ll tire yourself.” He didn’t grace that with a response. He had carried men heavier than her; in the heat of the battle he had lifted drawbridges and ship towers. She should know better than to question her husband’s strength, he hadn’t earned his physique without the heavy labour. 

She gave a resigned sigh, he felt her warm breath down the back of his neck. She nuzzled behind his ear, and took a deep breath before her tongue lapped at the sensitive skin. Acacius shivered and his knees weakened, his grip instinctually tightened on her so she would not fall. 

“Carissima, wait… we are on the street.” He hissed through his teeth while she quietly laughed. She could not have tasted anything other than the light sheen of sweat he had worked up in the warm evening. His anaticula picked a honeyed almond stuck in the folds of his toga and apologetically offered it to his mouth, Acacius did not forget to kiss her fingertips for the gift. She took another sweet treat for herself that had been trapped in a crevice between them. 

Acacius finally set her down when they approached the new domus, allowing the Pontifex Maximus to utter some more prayers while his wife smeared the fat of the boar to honour Ceres, and the fat of a wolf to honour Rome on their doorposts. She tied the wool strings that had bound their hands to the handle of the door. He felt the first stirrings of impatience, to be so close to their home and not have her to himself was making his hands twitch. 

The guests clamoured to warn her to not step on the threshold as she entered her new home— doing so would insult Vesta and bring bad omen. But Acacius simply lifted her again, with an arm under her waist and knees so that her feet were as far from the threshold as they could be and carried her into their home. 

Only their family followed them inside and watched her light the hearth of her new home with the fire from her father’s home. Acacius extinguished the torch and threw the wood at the audience gathered at their door who rushed to catch it. 

It seems his wife was becoming impatient as well because she had begun the prayer and offerings at their shrine without him. Acacius bent to unlace her sandals, removing the single coin she had stashed in her footwear and placing it at the feet of the wooden Vesta in the shrine.

“Does that statue… look a bit like me?” She murmured. She had yet to discover the depths of his devotion. 

Acacius offered her a lamp and a bowl full of water, “I give you fire and water”—she touched both items—“You are the Domina of this household and master over everything that resides within its walls, including your husband, Carissima.” 

He kissed his wife before turning to his guests, resolutely ushering them out of his home and unceremoniously closing the doors on their teasing and obscene jeers.

You stared at the nuptial bed. It was small— too small. It would barely fit just Acacius, and that too only in width, because one end of the bed lifted into a curve they would have to rest their back against so their feet didn’t hang off the other end. Or perhaps this wasn’t the nuptial bed because it was here, out in the open courtyard, rather than in your husband’s sleeping quarters. But the bed was finely made, with sturdy wood and soft cushions decorated with roses and crocus petals— a current tingled in your belly at the sight of the aphrodisiac flower. That won’t be needed.

Acacius returned in a huff after seeing off your guests, plopping down on the chaise— because really this can’t be called a bed. You looked down at him, resplendent under the glittering moonlight; it made the grey hairs in his curls glimmer silvery. The torches around the atrium cast playful gold shadows across his face. Instead of a white toga as was the custom, he had chosen to drape the red cloak you had made for him all those years ago, its gold embroidery gleamed against his tanned skin. 

But it was his eyes, that made your heart flutter with the verses of love you didn’t have words to express. Acacius managed to make even the cold, luminous moon burn bright and hot in his eyes. Sometimes the way he looked at you still made your heart feel raw and vulnerable. You had waited thirty very long years for him to simply look at you— to recognise you. While you had loved him for as long as you could remember, never once had you hoped for his love too. Your younger self would be in disbelief had you told them one day he would be your husband.     

“Are you hungry?” He asked while stretching out his hand for you. 

You hurriedly shook your head, your insides were suffused with enough love and awe to sustain you for a lifetime. He pulled you to sit on his lap, his thigh felt strong and firm under your bottom. 

Acacius stroked your back, his hand was large and warm as it reached up to cradle your neck; his fingers calloused and firm as they massaged away any tension. Your head lulled back over his hand, a soft sigh escaping your mouth. He leaned forward, another hand coming over your waist pulling you closer into the heat of his chest. You gasped as Acacius kissed along your exposed neck, his beard deliciously scraping against your sensitive skin as his lips lingered over your beating pulse before reaching your upturned chin. He playfully bit your chin. 

You turned in his arms until both your legs framed his waist and you had straddled his lap. You pulled at the wool of his toga, removing it from his shoulders so it lay spread beneath him before your hand slid into his hair; the curls wrapping around your fingers as you claimed his lips with yours. The force of the kiss pushed him down until his head was leaning over the backrest of the chaise.

What you lacked in experience you made up for with need and desperation. There was a groan from his chest and his arms wrapped around your waist to haul you closer to him— something hard was prodding at your thigh. You reverently traced the shape of his lips, feather-soft kisses to the plump cushion of them, light licks over the swooping edges. But you craved more, more, more. You needed to feel his tongue against yours, you needed to be closer somehow. 

Your hand wrapped around his throat, fingers barely reaching the sides of the thick muscles. His heartbeat thundered on your fingers and then onto your palms as you slid your hand up to cup his wide, square jaw. You dug your fingers into his jaw to pry his mouth open. Acacius parted his lips to allow you to explore his mouth, you stroked and delved deeper in the chase for his tongue. He closed his lips around your tongue and suckled. His tongue met yours now, teasing and confident before he released you, placing a gentle kiss to the tip of your tongue and then on your closed lips.

“How do you want me, dulcissima?” He purred against your lips. 

You did not know what he asked of you, “Desperate.” You answered honestly. 

Acacius laughed. A loud, free sound that made your heart race. 

“For you? Always.” He promised as he guided your hips to sit directly on that hard, throbbing part of him. He did feel large.

“I will not do anything you do not wish me to, anaticula. Tell me, what do you want from me tonight?” His tone was breathy as if words were difficult for him. 

“Everything.” You didn’t want to waste another second. It didn’t matter how much it would hurt, but you needed a part of Acacius within you, physically and in every other way you could possibly consume him. 

“Are you sure?” He confirmed even as his hands had already unpinned your veil allowing it to fall behind you. But he waited, for permission, for something as small as a nod while he fingered the Hercules knot tied at your waist— a sign of your chastity.  

“Yes.” Your voice barely about a whisper. Acacius pulls the wool at your waist, both hands fisting your girdle around the knot, and breaks it with apparent ease instead of untying it. He then pushed your stola down over your shoulders until it pooled at your waist. Anticipation curled in your belly as he slowly pulled at the tiny bows that ran down your shoulders and along the sleeve of your tunic. Each tug of string was a sensual display of possessiveness and desire— his eyes were raptured on the swathe of skin as more of you was exposed to him. The tunic too fell at your waist, pooling over his lap and yours; only a plain binding lay between him and your breasts. And instead of unwrapping you, slowly as all his other actions had been. Acacius swiftly and impatiently tugged the fabric down. 

You both gasped at the movement, the cloth dragged across your sensitive nipples causing them to stiffen and bloom towards Acacius. The winds were blowing colder in the night than they were during the day. A shiver ran down your spine as you sat bare on his lap, he made no moves. Acacius just stared with intoxicating eyes; they roved over your body, studying your face, the slope of your neck, the expanse of your chest, the curve of your shoulder, the length of your arms and the swell of your belly until finally, they settled on the betrothal medallion that hung in the valley of your breasts. 

Even as you held still for him, allowing him to look his fill, the experience of being displayed thus was new and uncomfortable— no man had seen you this way. But it was not unwelcome. He looked breathless and awed, his hand faintly trembling as he brushed your nipples with the back of his fingers. The touch was so light, lighter than a feather, but it incinerated you, it sent a fiery current down to your womb which contracted; there was an insistent throb between your legs. 

But whatever sensation you felt seemed dwarfed by his reaction. Acacius shuddered. His eyes were wide and glassy. You placed a hand over his heart, its pace wild and erratic. Abruptly, he dug his fingers into your waist, lifting you off his lap and stood with you. Your clothes fell to your feet, and you fisted his tunic to guide it over his head. You regretted that he chose to wear the tunic that fell to his calf, the longer fabric took a few scant moments longer to be pulled over his head but the wait was torturous. His underwear swiftly followed yours on the floor. 

Acacius was better than anything you could have ever imagined. Better than those marble statues of gods and heroes, better than art and most certainly better than those erotic drawings you bought on the streets. He looked unworldly, bathed in both the cool of the moon and the warmth of the hearth. He had been stripped to his basest form now both hardened warrior and wild beast with the eyes of a man in love. Your husband. 

You laughed then, wide and happy, “You are divine, Acacius.” 

He answered with a chuckle, light flickering over the dimple on his cheek, “You do not see yourself, carissima.”

He held nothing of himself back as he allowed you to touch him; he sighed as you caressed his scars as if you relieved him of the pain, his breath hitched as your fingernails raked over the hair on his chest, he gasped as you scraped over his nipples. The planes and hills of his body leaned into your palm as you explored all the ways he was different from you.   

He did not stay still under your ministrations for too long and his lips fell on yours without reserve, his hands cupped your ass using it to pull you closer towards him. Your arms wrapped around his neck like a garland of love, a hand buried in his hair in a silent command for him to never stop kissing you, another hand exploring his broad shoulders, the stretch of his back and the bulk of his arms. You decided Acacius had to be naked until the sun rose tomorrow so you could study every freckle and spot on his body.

His kiss was raw, elemental— there were no gentle explorations and tentative touches. Acacius claimed and conquered, his lips on yours were hard and insistent while his hands on your body were rough and restless. He touched where no decent man would linger, using your delighted and shocked gasp to enter deeper into your mouth; you clung to his shoulders to keep up with his pace and only his hands held you upright. 

A calloused thumb grazed your nipple before he pinched and pulled at the sensitive flesh. You bit into his lip, giving it a sharp nip in response and Acacius groaned into your mouth. He kneaded the flesh of your hips, but his fingers slipped as they moved to the inside of your thighs. You were dewy and wet for him, the hairs and skin surrounding your sex were covered in slick moisture. 

He lazily explored your folds, his fingers parting and squeezing as they pleased until he bought his tips right against the bundle of nerves at the apex of your slit. You ground your hips against his curled fingers when he stilled his motions, desperate for the friction as your pleasure built, steadily climbing up your spine while he nipped under your jaw before receding to watch the sway of your hips to and fro, to and fro over his hand, smearing it with more of your sticky fluid. 

“Please…” You begged him. And Acacius moved his fingers then, in dizzyingly tight circles on your nub, his calloused finers offering just the right roughness needed for your muscles to seize. Warm currents coursed through your veins as you trembled and shuddered through your release in his arms— your skin overheated against the cold air. The hair on his chest dragged against your erect nipples causing more of your limbs to twitch; he held you close through your pleasure, his fingers unrelenting until the little bud was oversensitive to touch.

You rested your weight against him, your legs feeling too soft under you and took his flat nipple in your mouth wanting to give him the same pleasure he gave you. You gazed up through your lashes as he brought the hand that had been between your legs close to his mouth and groaned as he licked a wide strip from the side of his wrist to the centre of his palm. Your tongue lapped over his nipple to mimic the movement before encircling the little peak, you toyed it between your teeth and Acacius greedily shoved three fingers into his mouth to taste you— a soft breathy moan escaped him. 

He pulled you off his nipple, your lips making a soft pop sound as they left his flesh slightly red. His hand curled into your braids as he pulled you by the head, “Taste yourself on my tongue, anaticula. Sweeter than honey…” 

Your tongues met again in a dance of their own before you suckled his tongue as he had yours, drinking him in. You weren’t particularly sweet, but something about your taste mixed with the spit of his mouth sent a heady thrill through your body which made your toes curl. His hands roamed your body again, finding the spots and places that were sensitive, he lingered there with light touches and tender caresses— surprising you entirely when he sharply pinched your waist. You pushed deeper into the strength and heat of his body as your waist rolled with his unruly touch. Acacius swallowed the surprised moan from your mouth. 

He had always been so… staid, controlled and solemn that you had expected Acacius to be such in his intimate moments as well— respectful and gentlemanly. There had been a wild, unpredictable demon that had come out to play in your office all those weeks ago but you had attributed his actions then to the high tensions and unresolved conflicts. But he was here now, lurking in the dark gaze of his desire, the tremble of his lips and the urgent grasp of your body. He could barely contain himself. 

And it made you realise just how much of him you had yet to learn. Like the rest of the world, you had seen the dignified General. You knew the reluctant conqueror and the grieving soldier. You had met the loyal friend, the protective family, the kind elder in him. But you were unacquainted with this man before you— unrefined and almost savage under the influence and vulnerability of his own wants and impulses.   

It filled you with a childish, stupid sort of rage to know that others had seen him as such. He had lovers before you, while you were trapped in a temple. He was so familiar with the female body, while you had to flounder for answers. It made you all the more resolved to erase all those previous embraces and lovers from his mind. You clutched him closer still, his cock insistently pressing into your belly, the tip leaking and smearing a wet patch across your skin. 

From this day forward, there will be no other for either of you. It had been an entirely new discovery to know you were a jealous, shrewish sort of wife who could not even bear that her husband thought about another lover even in passing. Should your husband ever tire of this marriage, he will have to squeeze the life out of you himself to be free of you. And this realisation was entirely unsurprising, that you would be content with such a death. You only had one life and one heart but if you had more, those too you would gift to Acacius.   

You guided him to sit on the chaise again, and despite his forceful and desperate advances, he went obligingly— never once pulling his mouth away from yours, pulling you to sit on his lap. But you evaded his embrace and knelt between his feet the only way you knew how; like a devout priestess kneeling at the altar of her deity— like a lover submitting at the pulpit of her beloved. 

Your eyes trained on his phallus, you had seen the male form before on statues, art and even in ceremonial rites to ward off evil; but you had never seen one quite as wide or large as his— your fingers barely touched as you wrapped your hand around him. He hissed as you gripped him and stroked to its base, pulling some of the skin and exposing the angry bulbous head that was leaking clear beads of liquid. You moved to taste him as he had tasted you, but his hands framed your face, halting it in its descent. 

“What are you doing, anaticula? That is not for wives to do.” Of course, it wasn’t. It hadn’t been the old matrons who taught you how to suck a man’s cock. No husband from a respectable household would expect this from his wife. But you wanted this. And before shame could eat away at your courage you confessed to your husband. 

“But… I want to.” Ever since you had felt his tongue between your legs, there was very little you had thought of. You couldn’t bear the idea of never sharing this intimacy with him.

“You can explore all you like later. I can’t— I won’t last if you toy with me now…” His thumb caressed the apple of your cheek, his torso hulking and leaning over your knelt form.

“But we have all the time in the world, Acacius.” You struggled against the hold he had on your face, and stretched your tongue out of the confines of your mouth when he wouldn’t allow you closer to him. You barely tasted that small drop on the weeping slit of his cock on the tip of your tongue with a short cat-like lick. Acacius shivered.

He spread his legs wider and gave you a chaste kiss on your lips before lowering your mouth to his cock. The tip of it nestled against the curved roof of your mouth, the flared head pressing against the wrinkled ridges behind your teeth and it already felt so full. It was ticklish if not altogether strange sensation and you took him deeper until he was touching the more sensitive and softer part in the back of your mouth, your hand coming up to stroke the rest of his length that was left outside. 

You realised you could do this forever as your eyes closed shut. Your tongue was pressed to the vein that ran along the underside of his cock which thrummed with his heartbeat. It was like you were holding his beating pulse, his very heart, in your mouth. You felt his thigh quiver under your hand, and you chanced a curious glance up at your husband to behold the sight of him trembling, his teeth clenched and jaw twitching with the effort to remain perfectly still. And yes, you realised, you could do this forever— just hold him in your mouth until he lost his composure and grew desperate enough to fuck into your mouth. 

Acacius frowned at you, he looked dark and forbidding, “I know that look in your eyes, put away whatever idea you just came up with, wife.” He spoke through gritted teeth and his chest racked with the effort to breathe. 

You started moving your head, slowly at first as Acacius guided your hand to stroke over his length as he liked— tightening your grip and twisting your wrist. You hollowed your cheeks to envelop his cock tighter and suck him deeper inside your mouth, relaxing your throat to adjust to the fullness in your mouth. Perhaps, your husband was to be cursed with the most selfish sort of wife because you stopped looking for his reactions, his cock was in your mouth for your pleasure alone and whatever he might glean from it was secondary in your mind. 

He smelled of musk, sweat, the floral powder used to scent his clothes and something so addictingly Acacius. You rubbed your thighs together, the arousal had pooled from between your thighs to coat your ankles and feet under your folded legs. You hated to feel him receding from your mouth, sucking him as your head moved up, swirling your tongue around him to taste him before coaxing him deeper into your mouth again. Experimentally, you brought a hand to the sac hanging heavily under his cock, testing its weight and the hairy texture of the skin, gingerly massaging it until it drew tight in your palm. 

His cock jumped in your mouth as his hands entangled in your braids to pull you off him. But you suckled him with a petulant whine, refusing to be wrested off him. A warm, salty and slightly bitter taste filled your mouth while he wrenched your head off him, the rest of his spend falling in spurts across your face and neck. What a waste…

Acacius glowered down at you, mouth agape and panting, “You are going to be the death of me… One of these days you will kill me.” His eyes were focused on your tongue as you licked the side of your lips to taste more of him. And he watched as some of his cum glittered on your skin as it trickled down until it was halted in its path by the gold chain hanging from your neck. He lapped at your skin, collecting his cum from the chain and depositing it into your mouth with what could barely be considered a kiss, his tongue surged into your mouth until you had cleaned his thick release off it.

You felt a smug satisfaction as you noticed that he was still shaking, a bit unsteady on his feet as he stood and lifted you onto the chaise. You thought you could consummate your marriage now, but to your confusion he knelt before you— his cock looking much flatter, softer. You felt your lower lip wobble as Acacius guided you to lean back. Was it supposed to do that?

“What did you think was going to happen?” He chastised you. 

“I had no reason to believe he would just go soft like that… can’t you make him go up again?” You whispered, a bit uncertain of the male anatomy. Would you not be able to consummate your marriage tonight?

Acacius leaned over to kiss your pouting lips, “It comes back faster when you’re younger.” 

You adoringly caress his bearded cheek as he smiles down at you, an uncertain vulnerability curved about that smile. You struggled to think of what to say to him, he could be old and decrepit and you would still be glad to have him as your husband. You had still wanted him a few short hours ago when you had been expecting pain and shame on your marriage bed, and you wanted him more now that he had shown you pleasure and wonder instead. You loved him not because of his prowess in bed but because of the simple fact that he was Acacius— steadfast, loyal, protective, kind, and loving, oh so loving.

But complex sentences evaded your mind as his lips closed around your nipple, he lingered there with his teeth and tongue before moving just a bit below to bite under your areola. He insistently sucked the flesh of your bosom into his mouth until it came away with a small bruise. His lips traversed down your body in a sensual dance of kisses, nips and almost painful bites. He spread your legs and groaned at the sight of your arousal smearing large patches of your limbs. 

“So wet for me, anaticula.” His voice was breathless.

“You’re perfect.” You settled for simpler words that were just as true. He was perfect. Acacius huffed a warm burst of laughter. 

“I’m glad you think so, wife.” He chimed even as his gaze seemingly searched for the sincerity in your eyes.

“I love you.” You offered him another nugget of truth. 

You watched as the colour rose from his chest to his neck, Acacius shyly smiled before obscenely licking at your arousal and suckling another bruise on the inside of your thigh. He was marking you.   

You squirmed with anticipation, feeling his hot breath on your cunt as he spoke, “Don’t worry, he’ll be back just as we have prepared you some more.” 

“Here, hold these for me.” He spread your thighs and pushed them towards you, your hands came under your knees to hold yourself open for him as he had commanded. 

His mouth on your cunt was a reunion like no other. Acacius remembered every sensitive spot and fold of your sex. But the swooping in your womb had more to do with the sight of him rather than the pleasurable feeling of his tongue on your slit— his mouth attached to your cunt, eyes glazed over with a half-awake and half-asleep look in his eyes, lashes gracefully fluttering as he tasted you, a patch of his cheekbone shimmering under the lamp light where the slick from your thighs had smeared across his face.                

Gone was the urgency with which he had devoured you previously in your office, he was instead languid and slow. But there was a fervour in his grip and his fingers painfully dug into the flesh of your hips. He toyed with one of the lips covering your opening, sucking it into his mouth and nipping it with his teeth before doing the same with the over. His tongue roved over your sex sometimes just the tip, lightly and ticklishly grazing over a sensitive spot, and other times he was insistent, tongue flat against your folds as he roughly lapped up your essence. 

You grew desperate as he purposely avoided that crest right at the apex of your sex that would ensure you would see stars behind your eyes again. And you grind your hips against his face, hoping to catch the needy spot against his nose, or his lips or even his chin— the lightest of touch there could set you off, you were so close, the tension curled so tightly inside you. There was a resounding smack in the air, it didn’t occur to you that Acacius would hit you until there was a tingling on the side of your ass, the impact making you gush into his mouth.

“Of course, you would enjoy something like this,” He murmured. And he laughed. He had the audacity to laugh as his lips closed around the exposed little bud, the vibrations of his amusement travelling straight into your nerves. You came undone with a shout, your eyes unseeing while your veins felt alit with delicious flames coursing through them followed by warm currents that doused your body in a dreamy languor. You lost your grip under your knees, letting your legs fall apart in the most inelegant fashion but still spread so wide for your husband. Acacius moved away with a teasingly tutting at you, and you whimpered at the loss.

“Hold them for me again,” He said. And you obediently took your position, hands under your knees, lifting your trembling legs so you were entirely exposed for him. 

Acacius took your clitoris in his mouth again, his tongue encircling the oversensitive bud. You felt his thumb gather some of your slick before going down to the ring of muscles far below your cunt. You gasped his name in surprise as his digit followed the same dizzying circles around the ridged fig-like skin surrounding that opening. 

“Is this alright? Do you trust me?” You gave a hasty wordless nod for both questions. 

Acacius pressed two fingers into your cunt and suddenly it was all a bit too much. His tongue flicked the bundle of nerves, the intrusion of his fingers felt foreign and the thumb circling your other hole was sending waves of pleasure to muscles you hadn’t realised could be used for such a purpose. He watched you restlessly whimper and whine with half-lidded eyes as you squirmed at his touch. He released the nub of flesh from his mouth, making soothing sounds as he comforted you. 

“Relax for me, let it happen, my love, do not fight it.” He said as he curled his fingers inside you catching some dormant set of nerves which threw you into another release. You came with a gasp, still shaking and quivering as he pressed soft kisses to the inside of your thigh. You hadn’t yet descended from the heights of your pleasure, your muscles feeling fuzzy and boneless when he flipped you over. Your head rested sideways over the backrest of the chaise as Acacius guided your own hands to your ass. 

“Spread yourself for me, wife.” His tone clipped and terse. You had thought yourself past surprise and shame but were still so unprepared for the feel of his tongue against your anus. His tongue burned hot against the ring of muscle as he held it in place while his fingers found their way inside your cunt again, three this time instead of the two before. And this time he lets you grind yourself on his face. You are mindless and hazy with pleasure, there is no real pace or rhythm to your hips.

His hand curved around your waist so he could curl his fingers into your clit, providing delicious friction as you swayed your hips. His fingers lazily dragged in and out of you, his beard scraped against your sensitive skin, and his tongue pressing hot and wet against the opening of your ass, burrowing inside despite your haphazard movements. Acacius gives you a deep hum of approval the more desperate and determined you grow in pursuit of another release. 

It crept up on you, steadily climbed your spine, long and drawn out rendering you utterly silent as your body gripped and convulsed barely being able to hold itself up. For several moments you were lost to the world, Acacius circled and patted the erect bud of nerves until you stopped twitching while another had soothingly stroked and petted over your shivering skin. He turned to lay you on the chaise, pressing an affectionate kiss to your parted lips and covered you with his own body, whispering soft praise and encouraging words as his legs entangled with yours— you gasped at the feel of his weight, another throb coursing down your sated sex, you clenched around the tip of his cock as he bullied his way inside.

As he had promised, it did not hurt. But you felt full, and far too relaxed and pliant to be overwhelmed even with the slight burn of the stretch. Dazed, you noticed the wet patch on the backrest where his hand gripped— you had drooled. It was worse, your release had coated his cloak underneath you, it glistened against his face and it dripped down his chin, his neck, his chest. 

“Dulcissima, you have to let me in, please— you’re strangling me. Breathe—” Acacius was tense, speaking through gritted teeth, his words breaking from his effort to breathe. And your body complied with his request, you could never deny him. And you felt complete once he had nestled inside you, filling not only your cunt but your heart and your soul. Your gaze was wondrous and awed as you held him inside you, you clenched around him trying to pull him impossibly closer still. 

He gasped before kissing you again, trying to hold most of his weight off you. You stay that way, connected in more ways than just the physical, locked together in both love and ecstasy— your hands exploring his warm skin and the strong contours of his body. A surprising laugh bubbled up your throat when you realised Acacius had broken into goosebumps, his hair raised alert and small bumps ran along his arms. 

His forehead pressed against yours and you nudged his nose with yours gazing into the eyes of your beloved seeing the love and adoration reflected there. He softly caressed your cheek and your temple, “I haven’t done this in years,” he confesses. Years?

“Good.” 

He chuckles at your response, “Good? It means I won’t last long…”

“You don’t have to. It is done, is it not? The consummation.” 

He pecks your nose, “We aren’t done until you come all over my cock, anaticula.” 

And then he moves, in sufficiently long and deep strokes that have your eyes rolling back, grinding his hips so the hair above his cock rubs against the erect nub above your opening. Your nails dig into his back, the coil of pleasure winding tighter at your core. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered into the skin of your neck. 

“It doesn’t hurt.” You told him as your hips rolled to meet his thrusts.

“I’ve done you a disservice—” Why was he talking? Did he expect you to hold a conversation? All you could manage was a broken keen when he rubbed the most perfect spot on the inside. 

“You’ve been trapped in a temple for thirty years, you deserved to see the world, take a few lovers, but I have trapped you instead.” 

“No—” He couldn’t possibly be saying these things while his arm wrapped under you to massage your anus. 

“You can roam the world, freely conduct your business— take over Rome if you want to— I’ll follow you… anywhere. I’ll go.” He wiped the tears that slipped out of your eyes before continuing, “But this is what you will do at the end of every day, anaticula.”

“You will go about your dreams and ambitions and then you’ll come home every night into my arms, my bed, with my cock buried deep in your cunt. Do you understand?” He brutally snapped his hips into you while you responded with some sound between a sob and a laugh. 

“Say it, say it to me. Tell me you’re mine.” He commanded, his eyes overcome with a zealous light. His fingers dipped into the tight ring of your ass. You could feel his cock all the way in your throat.

“We’ll have to train this hole of yours open if you do not want children, carissima. This is where I will fuck you next. But you’ll take me, like a perfectly biddable wife— into your heart, into your body. It is my home, and you will not cast me out—”

“I want them— I want children, everything you give me— please please please— Acacius.” You begged. 

“I’m yours. Your wife, your lover, your whore— please, Acacius—” You weren’t sure what you were asking of him. But your husband, ever the provider, brushed his fingers against your clit and you shattered under him with a distorted scream. You convulsed and shook underneath him with no effect as his weight pressed down on you. And your husband followed soon after, shivering and groaning as he painted the inside of your cunt with his warm seed; your walls fluttered around him to milk every last drop of it. 

“Daughters… wife. Give me daughters, ones who take after their mother in both looks and heart.” He prayed to you. Acacius stayed that way for several long moments, reverently kissing your warm and sweaty skin while you felt him softening inside you. You clenched around him in distress, hating the inevitable loss as he slipped out of you.

You had watched with great interest as he had stumbled away from you, admiring the sight of his ass, wishing you can sink your teeth into it. And with even more interest, you stared at his cock as he returned with a wet cloth to clean you both along with a tray of food he had prepared. The both of you had ravenously polished off the feast of olives, cheese, fruits, stuffed dates, spiced cookies, bread and sausages. Your husband had plied you with more wine before dipping his strawberries in your cunt to eat them; they tasted sweeter that way he had claimed and you hadn’t believed him until you had cleaned up honey from his cock which had tasted impossibly sweeter to you.

You lay on him, sleep still evading you because you knew you had to address his words when he had been inside you. Your back leaned against his chest, and Acacius had parted his legs to make room for your bottom between them. Another reason sleep was not possible, this chaise was too small for both of you— you told your husband as much. 

“You should have seen the one they brought before, it was much smaller… So I built this one.” He chuckled.

“You built this bed yourself?” You whispered, appreciating the work and polish under new light. You thought he only worked on smaller projects.

He hummed in response, “And the bed in our chambers. Don’t worry, I made that one palatial.”

“So why aren’t we there?” You laughingly demanded. 

“Because I wanted the heavens to witness our consummation, dulcissima.” And your heart fluttered again. 

“I still quite like this one, despite how small it is… It’s our marriage bed and I’ll be fucking you on it as often as I can.” Despite, how sated and spent you felt, heat still curled in your belly at his promise. 

“You know, Acacius”—you turned in his arms to face him, chin resting against the swell of his stomach, you gazed up at him with imploring eyes—“You have done me no disservice. I wanted to marry you.”

You couldn’t hold in the words any longer, “You can never imagine yourself as some chain around my feet… you make me brave. You bolster me, make me feel safe— like I will always have someone on my side.” 

He sweetly caressed your spine, “I’ll never give you cause to be disappointed in our marriage, anaticula.” 

“You couldn’t disappoint me if you tried, Acacius.” You struggled against the insecurities in his mind, before realising that only time will reassure him. 

“I love you,” Acacius said, not as a confession or a desperate sigh, but in the same steady way he would voice a fact. 

“I love you, too,” You whispered against his chest. 

“Are you sore?” He gently asked. 

You were, not just between your legs but also in your heart— you shook your head in denial. Just a little white lie because you knew that having him close, having him inside you could cure all ails. 

Acacius watched the sun rise, as he would on most days of his marriage— casting his wife in an ethereal glow, the rays shining down on all the marks he had left on her body while she languorously rode his cock to their shared bliss. 

[alwaysachorusgirl]

I'm so addicted to these two! The way you took that prompt and just ran with it? Girl! Chef's kiss!!! 🔥🔥🔥🔥❤️❤️❤️❤️

his gift

a/n: I swear this is just a Marcus Acacius blog now, sorry everyone. I'm dedicating this chapter to my girlie @221bshrlocked, who I can always count on to lose her shit with me💕 I always welcome any and all comments and questions or deep dives, if you've sent me an ask for him and are thinking that I have missed it or ignored it, I'm not! I just have so many, but I promise to get through them all! Hope you enjoy 💕xo

Warnings; 18+ no minors, vague but big-legal age gap, piv sex, dirty talk, Roman era sex toy according to me (taking a big liberty), soft dom Marcus vibes, and soft submissive reader vibes, also some tiny allusions to being devoured? Context is important so read and be the judge, desperate, filthy Marcus, sexy bath, let me know if I missed any! **takes place between chapter X and XI**

This is the fic I referenced in this preview

Pairing: Marcus Acaciusx F!Reader

word count: 3.1k (whoops!)

reblogs are appreciated

Masterlist series masterlist

-

He had not mentioned anything about venturing out, you hadn’t even noticed until his guards and his attendants flank around him, his cloak being fastened to his shoulders while you frown. 

“I will be back in a few hours.” He nods to his guards and they make their way towards the door ahead of him. 

“May I accompany you?” It takes two of your steps to keep pace with one of his.

“No my love, you may not.” he smiles, mischief on his face and you frown further still. “I have an errand that you cannot know about, not just yet. It is a surprise.”

“A surprise? For me?” The annoyance evaporates, and curiosity fills the whole of you. 

“Yes. A surprise for you, now I must go. I will see you before nightfall. I will be here in time to dine with you.” His kiss is full of promise, and you chase his mouth for a moment before he leaves with a wink. 

—

He finds you in your chambers, mending a small tear in one of his togas. 

“We can have someone else do that–” He frowns, but you stop him. 

“I am aware, but I enjoy it. It passes the time and I am skilled with needle and thread.” Your eyes are focused on the task, cutting at the string with a small knife. 

“That, I cannot deny.” He huffs out an amused breath, resigned. “Have you eaten? Shall we dine together?” he places a small bundle under the bed and your eyes track it, narrowing at him. 

“And that? Is that not my surprise?” knife safely tucked into your basket of sewing supplies, you rise and move towards it but he stops you. 

“Yes, but it is not for you to see just now. I will give it to you in due time.” Softly, but firmly, he guides you out of your private chamber, and towards your meal. 

He speaks of nothing and everything as you eat, plans he has for the villa, people he ran into during his errand, supplies he must replenish and you listen intently.

Hours pass and you enjoy your evening with him, sitting in the peristyle drinking mulled wine and eating honey cakes while the dogs lay at your feet. You sit out there together, laughing and speaking of all manner of things until night truly settles and it is time for bed. By the time you are cleansed, and curled up in his embrace, the package is all but forgotten. 

-

Weeks go by, and Rome beckons him once more. People he must meet with and delegations he must lead. The lines around his eyes deepen, the grey in his hair spreads, a visual representation of how it tires him but he takes it with good grace. Above all else, he is a soldier, and soldiers do not balk when duty calls. 

Despite your wish to, you cannot accompany him. It is not a place for wives, my love, his tone is soft, but firm and you have no choice but to accept. There is no doubt he will return to you, but it does not make his time away any easier to bear. 

You oversee his arrangements, hand-picking the robes he will take and making sure that he has everything he needs. You keep yourself busy with the tasks of preparing his journey while keeping your house in order, ignoring the glaring absence of him looming over the horizon. He does his best to reassure you even though he himself is so busy. His hand ever a comforting weight on your hip, his lips on your temple, a soft whisper in your ear. 

On the day he leaves, as you walk him to the door in the blue dawn, he reminds you with a smile. “The package under the bed, open it tonight, while you are in our bed.” 

His expression is one you carry with you throughout the day and it's that unshakeable foundation of obedience that stops you from running to it as soon as the door is closed. You suspect he might know this, despite never commanding or ordering you to do anything once your relationship had been established. Once the change from slave to wife had been made.

His words ring in your ears as you sit nestled in your shared bed once the house is asleep, altogether too big and too empty without his form filling it alongside you.

Curiously, you pull apart the strings tying the small bundle closed, unable to guess just what it might be. 

What greets you when you finally breach it, makes you gasp out loud.

It is a polished, sizable wooden cock. Heat floods your cheeks as you hold it in your hands, the size and shape almost identical to Marcus. 

A small vial of oil falls from the seemingly empty wrappings onto your lap and the intended use of this gift is quite obvious. You laugh, inspecting it in your hands, half embarrassed, mostly aroused to know that in his absence, he still wants you to be satisfied. 

It feels forbidden in your hands. Smooth as glass, the grain in the wood like the stripes of a tiger. It has been years since you touched a cock not belonging to your now husband, years since you felt pleasure from anyone that was not him, with exception to yourself. Heat blooms from head to toe to imagine him having this made for you, an ache for him grows between your legs. 

It is with a rebellious glee that you slip back into your nest of pillows, surrounded by the scent of him in your linens and test the efficacy of his gift.

It helps, and you do enjoy it, but in the end it isn’t him. 

-

When he returns, you greet him without any sort of decorum. He laughs, weary and just as eager to be home with you, the strong grip of his arms around you, the desperate edge to his lips at your neck all proclaim it. 

“How I have missed you, my love.” His words seep into your skin like a balm, like a breeze on a warm day and you sigh your response. 

“As have I, come, let me feed you.” You pull him towards your table, calling forth a spread and your attendants are quick to obey. He smiles, obliging you despite the droop in his eyes, the weariness of travel, the toll it all takes on him.

“Eat, and then I will have water warmed for a bath, we can retreat, spend the next few days in our bed, yes?” He pulls you forward to sit on his lap, presses his face into your chest. The grit in his hair collects under your fingernails, he smells of smoke and dry heat, his own sweat, the oil he favours and no other scent has ever pleased you more. 

“My wife is wise, she knows the remedy for all.” His hands are restless at your back, spanning wide on your shoulder, taking up so much space your heart races. “I would have you bathe with me.” His lips crawl across your collarbone, his voice lower, calling forth gooseflesh.

Platters of food and good wine are set down before you, but his lips only move further up your neck, before capturing your mouth in a searing kiss. A dry, calloused palm slips under your robes, across the side of your thigh before grabbing at your backside. It pulls a laugh from somewhere and you break the kiss. 

“Patience my love, eat first.” Your fingers comb through his waves and he makes a noise from deep in his chest. “Eat, and then I will bathe with you.” You kiss one cheek, then the other, he lets out a breath, nodding before reaching for bread with one hand, while holding you close with the other. 

-

He breathes out a groan when he lowers himself into the tub, steam rising, the scented oils and salts filling your nose. The tub had been filled in the peristyle, the perfect place for it amongst the greenery and warm air of dusk. 

The silver of his hair darkens to iron when he tilts his head back, fingers running through the strands to slick it away from his face. Silvery scars mar his face but they do nothing to diminish his beauty, the strength in his arms, the strong grip of his hands, he’s the picture of virility and your thighs press together to finally have him back home.

“Come my love, you promised to bathe with me.” His smile is sharp, but his eyes are soft and you press forward, following, obeying, submitting to him freely and happily. 

His touch is reverent, almost shy despite the edge of pure want in his expression. 

“Gods above, I could devour you whole.” He pulls you closer, slippery skin gliding as you slide right into his lap. Your breasts pressed against his chest with how tightly he hugs you and you laugh, breathless. The water sloshes over the edge with every one of his movements, darkening the mosaic below but he doesn’t even notice, he doesn’t even care. Your hands sweep over his back, his shoulders and up his neck in gentle attempt to soothe, to slow him down. 

“Peace Marcus, we have all night, let me reacquaint myself.” You smile, pull back when he presses forward, relishing the way he bites his bottom lip in all his bottled up desperation. “Slow, soft.” You press kisses to his cheeks, ignoring the ache in your core at just how hard his sex is under you. 

His hands flex at your sides, his sincerest attempt at control and you keep your expression neutral, keep the taunt hidden, the game fair. 

“I missed you Marcus, missed you so much it was like a wound.” You rake your nails across his scalp, clean the dirt and sand from his skin while his hands slip across your belly, your thighs, while his fingers graze and pinch at your nipples. The hitch in your breath bolsters him. 

“My poor—“ his lips caress at the soft skin just below your ear, dragging softly along your neck as he speaks, “neglected, lonely little wife.” The press of his fingers into the cheeks of your backside is hard enough to bruise, hard enough to make you gasp softly before he claims your mouth in a kiss that blanks your thoughts, stills your hands for a moment. 

“Tell me how you missed me, tell me you imagined me in our bed.” You pant into the empty air at his words, his tone, cunt clenching in painful arousal when he maneuvers you onto his cock, hot and hard and slotted perfectly between the lips of your sex. “Did you enjoy my gift in my absence?” 

The head of his cock slides deliciously against your clit, slowly, maddeningly, unraveling the strings of your arousal as well as your sanity. 

“Yes-“ your arms wrap around his neck, letting him rock you onto his cock in the warmth of the water, in the open air smelling of jasmine and laurel leaves, the sun baked bricks of your home.

“I want to watch you, I want to see it, the thought of you fucking yourself and thinking of me kept me awake at night, fisting my cock and coming in my hands.” His words, his intensity, the thought of it lights you up from the inside, a sunburst of arousal bright enough to blind you. 

“I want you to come just like this, want you all wet and open for me when I get you in that bed my love.” His mouth lowers, lips pressing against your nipple, the warmth of his mouth and the flicking of his tongue, then the cold air against wet skin before he moves to the other breast and repeats. His hands are a brand on your hips, rocking you back and forth, that perfect slip of the head of his cock against your clit building the pleasure in your hips, in the base of your spine. 

Soft, breathy moans spill from your lips and your fingers curl into his hair, holding him tightly to your breast as you climb that steady ladder higher and higher. 

“Come on, my pretty girl, come on my cock, I know you can do it.” He breathes against your chest, teeth gliding against your peaked nipple and it’s like a slow wave when it crests. 

His mouth sucks harshly, making you gasp, thighs trembling as he keeps rocking you, every bump tightening the muscles in your belly as you ride out the pleasure.

“That’s my good girl, my perfect little wife with her pretty little cunt.” His eyes are black pools, lust blown and wild.

You catch your breath, heart slowing as you finish cleansing him, limbs syrupy and pliant in the afterglow of your flutters.

Once finished he rises and pulls you to stand with him, he barely lets you wipe yourself down with your clean linens before he is all but pulling you towards your chambers. Naked and stumbling through the halls of your house in the red haze of passion.

When you land in your bed, he does not follow, he doesn’t line himself up and sink into you like you thought he might. 

“Where is my gift?” You rise up to lean on your elbows, momentarily lost in the arousal of him before your mind catches up.

“It is where you left it, under the bed.” Once you’d finished with it, you’d cleaned it and put it back—you frown when he pulls it out and brings it with him. Once settled between your thighs he unties the covering while his cock slips over your mound, a hot, teasing weight over your sex.

“I want you to show me.” He tosses the wrappings aside before holding the wooden cock out for you. Your eyebrows rise into your hairline. 

“But, but you are home, I want you—“ your fingertips reach down to tease the head of him but he slips the wooden cock into your hands instead. 

“I want to see it, I want to see how you take it.” He urges, soft tone but hard gaze and your heart races. The need to obey him, to make him happy, to oblige him makes your cunt clench. You take the toy from him and he settles on his haunches, hands lifting your legs, pressing against the backs of your thighs to hold you spread open wide for his gaze. 

The wood is cold against the slicked up mess of your cunt and you’re wet enough that you don’t even need the oils, it slides right in, stretching the dark pink of your insides open for his eyes.

“That’s it, fuck yourself, how does it feel?” Slowly, you spear it into yourself, in, out, wetting it in you as his hands press harder, spreading you wider.

“Feels good—“ you pant, tongue peeking out of your mouth to wet your lips. 

“It does doesn’t it, look how fucking wet you are.” One of his hands slides down, his thumb sliding through your slick at the edge of where you’re spread around the thick of the wood, he smears it against the lip of your sex, petting, sliding up to work at your clit. 

“I think you can go a little faster, I think you want to fuck yourself a little harder, don’t you my love?” His thumb swirls, sliding and circling around your clit as you speed up.

Your heart races, sweat beads at your temples, heat crawls across your body under the strain of it, under his heavy, burning gaze. 

The sounds are obscene, the ache of working it inside you growing in your shoulder, in the tensing of your belly but you can’t stop, not with how good it feels, now with how enraptured he is at the sight—

“Is that all you can do?” He tsks, thumb working just a little bit harder until you flutter around the toy, the pleasure taking you by surprise, thighs tensing but he doesn’t let you close them, doesn’t stop swirling, and suddenly the pleasure comes again, too quick, too strong and you whine at the intensity of it.

He pulls his hand away and removes the wooden cock from your hand and from your cunt and throws it somewhere in the linens, only to replace it with his own. A mutual groan fills the air between you, high and breathless from you, low and punched out from him. He gives you no respite from your release, no softness, he ruts—fucks you like you haven’t seen him in years.

That aspect of him that you see sometimes, the caged animal within rears its head, sharp snaps of his hips into the slicked-up, swollen, dark pink of you, heavy hands and a firm grip that reminds you, schools you on the fact that you are his. 

You flutter around him again, the blunt head of him stroking, petting at that bundle of nerves only he ever seems to find until you seize, scream and gush around him, soaking him in your passion.

“That’s it, that’s it my love, take it-“ he pushes forward, turning his heavy stroke into a tight grind while you balance on that edge of pain and pleasure, ecstasy and excess. Your hands press against his shoulders, the middle ground of pulling him closer and pushing him away. 

His mouth sucks at the delicate skin of your neck, teeth scraping and for a heartbeat you wish, or hope, or just imagine that he might actually devour you, moan at how much the thought excites you. His groan is loud, his cock swells before the warmth of his gift fills you, his forehead moving to press to your chest so he can watch it, watch himself spearing inside. 

It’s quiet in the immediate after except for the heavy thump of your pulse in your ears, and his sharp pants against your chest.

With limbs weighed down by pleasure, you lift your hands slowly and thread them through his damp waves, admiring the warm golden skin pressed to yours. The wet spot beneath you cools, making you wince in discomfort, despite how lovely it is to be surrounded by him. He senses it though, and pulls out with a hiss and hauls you into his embrace. 

“Give me a few moments, and I will have someone change the linens.” You nod into the sweet smelling skin of his chest, pressing your lips to a scar on his shoulder. “I missed you.” He whispers into your temple, soft and devastating, the animal satisfied, the man in the forefront.

“I missed you too.”

-

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[bitchesuntitled]

Costco

Marcus Acacius x F!Reader wc: 2,421

Summary: Imagine if you will that you work at Costco, there's some weird stuff in the jalapeno poppers and some time travel happens. Warnings/Tags: MDNI 18+ content(GO ON GIT), Sex pollen-ish(?), Unprotected PinV(be smarter than this), jalapeno poppers, costco, inappropriate use of a storage room, explicit language, time travel shenanigans, oral sex, think that's it if I missed anything let me know! A/N: I wrote this for a discord server fic exchange and it is for the wonderful @beefrobeefcal who I also tricked into helping me edit it because she is the sweetest! She's already seen it, I'm just now getting around to posting it. Thank you much to @jay-zzle for the amazing moodboard and helping me brainstorm on this story, without you this would not be a thing <3

Masterlist||AO3

divider by @saradika-graphics

“New! Bacon-wrapped stuffed jalapeños!” The front of the box states. What should be delicious looks more like if someone picked up a dog turd and wrapped bacon around it, trying to pass it off as something edible. John, your boss, was making you pass out the free samples of these supposed stuffed jalapeños.

Surely they aren’t that bad , you think, stomach rumbling, reminding yourself you had skipped lunch today. Glancing around to make sure no customers were about before grabbing one of the samples and popping it into your mouth.

“Oh god,” you mumble past a mouthful of cream cheese, bacon, and jalapeño in disgust. They look and taste like shit. You suppose you can’t expect much from prepackaged frozen food though. The bitter sour taste still on your tongue as you grab your water bottle off the table, chugging some of it to try and rid your mouth of the gross flavor. 

Reaching for the box to check the expiration date on these things, they’ve got to be expired with that sort of flavor. The ground begins to shake violently, toppling the box onto the floor. Your head snaps up to look around. What the fuck was that?

—

All Marcus could remember was running on the battlefield before slamming into this mysterious shelf housing weird colorful goods. A woman in strange clothing gasped, grasping the child next to her, also wearing strange clothes, before quickly scurrying away. Where are their tunics? The footwear they wore looked suffocating compared to his thin leather sandals. He looked around, trying to determine where he was.

Everything in this place was so damn bright and colorful. Not that Rome didn’t have its fair share of colorful beauty, but these appeared ten times brighter than Marcus has ever seen, such as the weird candles above his head that appear to possess the sun’s power with their bright intensity. He starts walking along the smooth stone passage, hoping to find someone he can speak with to figure out where he is and hopefully get some answers on how to get back to Rome.

He spots a beautiful woman in a blue apron standing behind a table. A kind smile graces her face as people walk past her. He thinks she must be selling goods at her table and decides to approach her for help. This must be a sign from the gods. This woman with her sweet smile and beauty beyond anything he could ever imagine, surely she’d be able to help him in his time of need.

—

After eating the supposed stuffed jalapeño, you weren’t feeling the best but you knew the last thing John would do is let you leave. Business as usual, doling out polite smiles as customers pass you by, glancing at the free samples and shaking their heads. No one wanted to try these monstrosities and you didn’t blame them.

“Oh, great,” you huff, rolling your eyes, spotting a man dressed in full Roman garb walking around aimlessly, “Must be some sort of convention in town again.” The man approaches you cautiously.

“Good afternoon,” you say with an upbeat, chipper tone, “Would you like to try some brand new stuffed jalapeño poppers that just came in?” you ask, gesturing to the stuffed peppers before you. “Despite how they look, they are indeed pretty tasty,” you say, giving the man a saccharine smile.

“What?” The man murmurs, glancing at the samples sitting on the table.

“They are a new product we just got in,” you explain, tilting your head to study him. The man continues to stare down at the table; he appears somewhat frazzled, like a small child who has lost his mother in the store. “Have you ever been to a Costco, sir?

“A Cos- what?” The man repeats, brown eyes narrowing as he stares at you. A fire in your veins lit up from his dark eyes peering at you, goosebumps rushing across your skin from his heavy glare.

“Costco,” you gulp, your tongue feeling like sandpaper against the roof of your mouth. You gesture your arms around. “The store we’re in? Listen, you okay, man?” you ask, grabbing your water bottle again.

“Never been here,” he murmurs, gripping the table between you, taking deep steadying breaths.

“It’s all good! I can understand the panic,” you chuckle nervously, taking a swig of your water bottle. The cool water gives your throat a short sense of relief as it travels down your esophagus. “This place is kind of overwhelming your first time. But we like to give customers samples of food so they can try it before they buy it?”

“Is this the local market for your region?” He asks, peering up at you. 

“Market? Region?” You ask, rolling your eyes, “Dude, I get you might be in character or whatever,” your eyes trailing up and down along his form, butterflies flitting about in your stomach as you really take notice of him. His skirt showing off his bare muscular legs, his strong torso filling out the chest plate of the armor he wore, his biceps straining against the fabric of his tunic, “But let’s keep it to today's times, please.” You grab one of the jalapeño poppers and shove it towards him. “Eat it.”

He takes it from you gingerly, fingers brushing against one another and a tingly sensation shoots straight through you to your core, thighs clenching together as you feel a rush of arousal seeping into your underwear. The man looks at you and then at the food.

“Just take a bite of it.” You laugh nervously, “Not like it’s poison or something.”

His eyes narrow at you with the mention of poison and he continues to stare at it.

“Look, I’ll even eat one too, so you know it’s not poisonous,” you murmur, picking up one of the jalapeños and taking a good-sized bite to prove your point. “Mmmm,” you let out an exaggerated hum around a mouthful of the disgusting appetizer. The man slowly brings the pepper to his lips before biting into it, grimacing at the foul taste in his mouth, but continues to swallow before grabbing another to devour. “Hey man, you’re only supposed to take one.” you caution, watching him eat the second sample before he grabs your water bottle, attempting to open it. “Woah now, hold on just a minute there.”

“Water!” he gasps, shaking your water bottle, his big hand gripping the flesh of his throat. “I need water.”

Your eyes widen, nodding dumbly as you open the water bottle for him and hand it over. He snatches it from your hands, suckling down the liquid in heavy gulps, watching as his throat bobs up and down as he swallows. It feels like someone has turned up the heat, your breath coming faster as you watch him. This should not turn you on as much as it is. This man is simply drinking water to quench his thirst.

“W-what’s your name?” you ask, the ache between your thighs growing in intensity the longer you stare, watching as he places the water bottle back on the table with a loud – thunk – he stares at you, his pupils overshadowing the deep brown of his irises.

“Marcus,” he growls. Your cunt flutters around nothing, hearing the baritone of his voice. “And yours?” you let out a small squeak, giving him your name. You can feel the sweat dripping down the column of your spine as you stand there staring at one another. You watch a bead of sweat slide down from his temple, trailing to the side of his neck. It makes your insides scream, wanting to leap across the table and lick it off his skin. You can’t take it anymore.

“Follow me,” you whisper, a small whimper escaping your lips, reaching across the table, gripping his wrist firmly, and pulling him to follow you to the back of the food section. The storage room for the freezers should be a good spot. No one likes going in there because of how cold it is but the frigid temperature doesn’t even register with the way your body feels like it’s on fire.

You grip Marcus’ wrist harder, pulling him in and shutting the door behind you, turning to face him. A puff of air escapes your lips as you breathe out, approaching him slowly, watching his dark eyes drink you in. He grabs your waist, pulling you flush against him, his mouth descending onto your own with a grunt as his tongue flicks against your bottom lip. You gasp, creating enough space between your lips for Marcus to plunge his tongue into your mouth, tongues rolling against one another, fighting for dominance. He grunts, pushing you against the wall, trailing his lips across the column of your throat.

“Marcus,” you pant, breath hitching at the simple touch of his lips against your neck. He groans as your fingers tug his dark curls, “More, Marcus. Please,” you beg, shoving his hand below your apron, letting him feel the heat of your pussy through the jeans that cover your legs. His hand comes to the waistband of your jeans, trying to tug them off before you help him unbutton them and slide them down your legs, kicking off your shoes in the process. Goosebumps ripple down your legs as Marcus’ strong calloused hands caress your skin, inching their way back towards your thighs.

“Beautiful,” Marcus hums, grabbing one leg and placing it on his shoulder, “Such a sight to behold,” he murmurs, kissing the soft skin of your inner thigh.

“Marcus,” you gasp, your hand reaching down to grasp his hair and pushing his face where you want it most. He lets out a deep chuckle, nosing the fabric that covers your mound.

“You smell delicious, sweet girl,” He grins, taking a deep breath in against your pussy. His fingers toy with the elastic of your underwear, hooking them in and pulling your underwear to the side as his tongue makes contact with your center. Already feeling the coil in your belly tightening at the first contact of his tongue. You let out a ragged moan as his tongue swirls against your bundle of nerves.

“Fuck, Marcus,” you whine, and he grunts against your pussy as you tug on his hair. The vibrations against your clit causing the coil to snap inside you. Your back bows as waves of pleasure wash over you. “ Fuckfuckfuckfuck ,” you cry out, smothering Marcus’ face with your juices.

Marcus stands, his lips and chin glistening from your arousal as he looks down at you, “My turn,” he grunts, gripping your waist quickly and pushing you to the nearest flat surface. His hand comes to the back of your neck, gently nudging you down against the pallet of fish sticks. You want to laugh at how ridiculous this all is, but a moan comes out instead, feeling his thick fingers push inside you. The frills of his skirt hit the back of your thighs, and your pussy clenches around his fingers, turning your upper half to try and get a look at him. His fingers leave the warmth of your sex, one hand still gently on the back of your neck while the other reaches under his skirt and tunic, pushing the fabric aside for his length to bob freely, shuffling closer to you.

“Oh gods, I need to feel your warmth around me,” He growls, looking up at the wrecked expression on your face, “This is okay, yes?” he asks, rubbing his tip between your folds. “Please tell me it’s okay,” he grunts, notching the head of his cock at your entrance.

“Fuck yes,” you cry out, the fire in your veins burning brighter from his touch, “Please,” you whisper, your legs trembling with effort to stay upright. Marcus snaps his hips forward, plunging his length into your heat. Your walls create space for him as his thick cock kisses your womb. Your hands scramble, attempting to find something to hold onto. Marcus’ arms reach past your shoulders, caging you beneath him as he grips your hands and shushes you.

“It’s all right, sweet girl,” he coos. “You’ll be fine,” he continues, pulling back a few inches before snapping back into your warmth with hunger. “Remember, it's my turn now.” He taunts, feeling your walls already beginning to flutter around him.

“Oh god,” you whimper, writhing as his length saws in and out of you with fervor.

“Oh gods, look at you,” Marcus grunts, grinding his cock into you harder, “Taking me so well,” he groans, squeezing your hands tighter as his hips continue to move against you. His chest comes flush against your back, “Are you going to come for me, sweet girl?” he breathes against your neck. You let out a pitiful moan and nod. “I can feel how much you’re enjoying this,” he comments with a grin, moving one of his hands down to your center, feeling his length punch into you over and over again.

“Fuck !” You scream out when Marcus pinches your clit, your walls clenching tightly around his cock as your orgasm takes over. It feels like a ball of energy has erupted within your body and zips down all your limbs, ears ringing as you faintly hear Marcus grunting and growling behind you. 

“Oh gods,” he shouts behind you, thrusting into you half a dozen more times before painting your walls with his warm spend, collapsing on top of you. “I have never felt like that,” he murmurs, kissing your shoulder.

“Me neither,” you hum, feeling your body floating back to earth.

—

You pull your pants on clumsily as you hear your boss calling your name through the faint buzzing in your ears. 

“The hell are you woman?” Pushing through the freezer storage doors, John shouts, “Why are you back here?”

“I- we- I- well,” you start, smoothing your shirt down before slipping your apron back on.

“Save it,” John huffs, glaring between you and Marcus. “Get him outta this room,” he says, pointing at Marcus, “and start pulling those jalapeño poppers off the shelves. The FDA called every grocery store in the country and issued a mass recall. Apparently, they’re having some weird effect on people,” he says with a shrug of his shoulders.

“Sure thing, John,” you huff, walking with Marcus towards the door, giving John a pat on the shoulder, “But I gotta go to the health section first and see if we have any plan B in stock.”

[thatboisus]

me logging onto tumblr after consuming a new piece of media

[chuulyssa]

being an x reader writer and trying to be inclusive of all readers makes me overthink so much like should i write about you having smth with milk in it? no no what if the reader is lactose-intolerant. about the reader being the big spoon? noo what if they wanna be cuddled like a little spoon. about fingers through your hair? noooo what if the person reading it is bald

[kiss-me-muchoo]

IM SORRY HES SO HOT MARCUS CLAIM ME NOT THE CITY

[andy-15-07]

Hi,

I love your work. Can we get a story about marcus conquering a city and then be in a political marriage with the princess of the fallen city ? She hates him at first and then of course they both fall for each other

The Princess of a Fallen City

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x female reader

Word Count: 1961 | Requests are open! (send requests, I will gladly answer them all)

Pedro Pascal Masterlist

The city of Lystra fell under a blood-red sky. Marcus Acacius, General of Rome, stood at the edge of the conquered city’s grand palace, his armor glinting with the remnants of battle. Soldiers celebrated in the streets, their cheers echoing through the hollow corridors of what had once been a seat of power.

Marcus’ gaze fell on the bound figure brought before him. Princess Y/N of Lystra stood tall despite the chains adorning her wrists, her eyes blazing with defiance.

“The lion of Rome,” she said mockingly, her voice sharp as a blade. “Come to gloat, have you?”

Marcus’ lips curved into a slight smile, though his dark eyes remained cold. “Gloat? Hardly. This was a necessity, not a pleasure.” He motioned to the soldiers to release her chains. “I prefer my conversations unrestrained.”

“How generous of you,” she replied, rubbing her wrists as she was freed. “Do your victories often involve slaughtering innocents?”

“War is never clean,” he said, his voice even. “And no one is truly innocent in a rebellion against Rome.”

Y/N’s jaw tightened, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of a retort. Instead, she straightened her posture, looking every bit the queen she would have been.

Two days later, Marcus stood in the opulent hall of Lystra’s palace. The once-bright tapestries had been torn down, replaced with Roman banners. The elders of the city knelt before him, offering allegiance. But his attention wasn’t on them. It was on the proposal laid out by his advisors.

“A political marriage,” his second-in-command explained. “It will secure loyalty. The people will be less likely to rebel if their princess is bound to you.”

Marcus considered the idea, his expression unreadable. He didn’t need a wife, much less one who despised him. Yet, there was logic in the suggestion. “Summon her.”

When Y/N entered the chamber, her expression was wary. Marcus gestured for the guards to leave, leaving the two alone.

“You summoned me, General?” she asked, her tone dripping with sarcasm.

“I did,” he said. “Sit.”

She didn’t move. “I’d rather stand.”

“Suit yourself.” Marcus rose from his chair and walked toward her, his imposing frame towering over her. “The terms are simple. A marriage between us. You’ll remain in this palace, and your people will be spared further suffering.”

Y/N’s eyes widened in disbelief. “You expect me to marry the man who destroyed my home?”

“Expectations are irrelevant,” Marcus said evenly. “This is a matter of necessity.”

“Necessity for whom? Certainly not for me,” she snapped.

“For your people,” he replied. “You claim to care for them, yet you’d risk their future out of spite?”

Y/N’s fists clenched. “Don’t you dare speak of care to me. You don’t know the meaning of the word.”

“Perhaps not,” he admitted. “But I know loyalty. And I know duty. Think carefully, Princess. The choice is yours.”

Her silence stretched, heavy with tension. Finally, she spoke. “I’ll agree. But don’t think for a moment that I’ll ever forgive you.”

Marcus nodded, unperturbed. “Forgiveness isn’t required.”

The days leading to the wedding were filled with preparations. Y/N’s attendants fussed over her, but she felt like a prisoner in gilded chains. Every glance in the mirror reminded her of the man she would soon call husband—a man she loathed.

Marcus, on the other hand, approached the event with the same stoic detachment he applied to war. He made no attempt to ingratiate himself with Y/N, understanding that time and actions would speak louder than words.

The ceremony was grand but cold, much like their union. As Marcus placed the ring on Y/N’s finger, she fought the urge to recoil. His touch was firm yet impersonal.

Weeks passed, and life in the palace settled into a tense rhythm. Y/N avoided Marcus whenever possible, though their paths inevitably crossed. One evening, as she wandered the palace gardens, she heard his voice.

“You find peace here?” he asked, stepping into view.

She stiffened. “Peace is a rare commodity these days.”

“For both of us,” he said, surprising her. “You think this is easy for me?”

“Is that supposed to make me feel pity for you?” she retorted.

“No,” he said simply. “But perhaps you might understand. I do what I must for Rome. Just as you would do for Lystra.”

For the first time, she detected a hint of vulnerability in his tone. She frowned, unsure of how to respond. Instead, she walked away, leaving him alone in the fading light.

Their dynamic began to shift subtly. Marcus’ actions—small gestures of kindness, moments of unexpected humor—chipped away at her hatred. He had a way of speaking that made her question her preconceptions, though she fought against it.

One night, during a formal dinner, a senator insulted Lystra’s culture. Y/N bristled, ready to defend her people, but Marcus spoke first.

“You forget yourself,” he said coldly. “Lystra’s traditions deserve respect. They are now part of Rome.”

Y/N stared at him, startled. He met her gaze briefly before returning to his meal, as if nothing had happened.

It was during a rare moment of vulnerability that the walls between them truly began to crumble. Y/N found Marcus in the war room late at night, staring at maps with a haunted expression.

“Can’t sleep?” she asked, surprising even herself.

He looked up, startled. “No.”

She hesitated before approaching. “What keeps you awake?”

He sighed. “The faces. Of those I’ve lost. Those I’ve killed.”

For the first time, she saw the weight he carried. “Does it ever go away?”

“No,” he admitted. “But you learn to live with it.”

Their eyes met, and something unspoken passed between them. For the first time, she saw him as more than a conqueror. And he saw her as more than a defiant princess.

Months turned into a year, and their relationship evolved. Their shared moments grew more frequent, filled with tentative smiles and genuine laughter. Y/N found herself drawn to Marcus’ strength and quiet resilience, while he admired her fiery spirit and unyielding determination.

One evening, as they walked through the gardens, Marcus took her hand. She didn’t pull away.

“I never thought this would happen,” she admitted softly.

“Neither did I,” he said. “But I’m glad it did.”

Their lips met, tentative at first, then with a passion that spoke of everything they had endured. The past didn’t vanish, but in that moment, it no longer defined them. They were no longer conqueror and captive but two souls finding solace in each other amidst the ruins of war.

As their bond deepened, Y/N began to see Marcus in his element as a leader beyond the battlefield. He often walked through the streets of Lystra, speaking to its people. Though they were wary at first, they slowly came to respect his pragmatism and fairness. It was his way of showing that he was more than the general who had broken their gates.

Y/N joined him on these walks, observing how he handled disputes and sought to rebuild what had been destroyed. “You don’t have to do this,” she told him one day.

“I do,” he replied. “It’s my responsibility now. Just as you’ve taken on yours.”

She nodded, a faint smile on her lips. “Perhaps you’re not as heartless as I thought.”

“Perhaps you’re not as inflexible as I thought,” he countered, his tone teasing.

The seasons changed, and with them, so did the hearts of the people. Y/N’s initial resentment gave way to admiration as she saw how deeply Marcus cared for the future of both Rome and Lystra. He, in turn, found in her a partner whose strength and compassion matched his own.

One evening, as they stood on the palace balcony overlooking the city, Y/N leaned against him, her head resting on his shoulder.

“Do you think we’ll ever be free of the shadows of the past?” she asked.

“No,” Marcus said, wrapping an arm around her. “But we can build something new. Together.”

And for the first time since the day the city fell, Y/N believed him.

Their relationship blossomed, a delicate flower in the shadow of war. Marcus, surprised by the depth of his feelings, found himself seeking out her company. He would find excuses to visit her chambers, bringing her rare fruits from distant lands or books of poetry he thought she might enjoy. He would linger in the gardens, hoping to chance upon her, their conversations growing longer, their silences more comfortable.

One evening, as they strolled through the gardens, the moon casting long shadows across the path, Marcus stopped and turned to face her. "You know," he began, his voice husky, "I never thought I would find… this." He gestured vaguely between them.

Y/N looked at him, her eyes wide with surprise. "This?"

"This feeling," he clarified, his gaze unwavering. "This… peace. This… joy."

A blush crept up Y/N's neck. "I… I feel it too," she admitted softly, her voice barely a whisper.

Their hands brushed against each other as they reached for a fallen blossom. A jolt, electric and unexpected, passed between them. Marcus's breath hitched. He wanted to pull her close, to taste the sweetness of her lips, to lose himself in the warmth of her gaze. But he hesitated, unsure if his feelings were reciprocated.

Y/N, sensing his apprehension, took a deep breath. "Marcus," she began, her voice trembling slightly, "I… I don't know how to explain it. But… being with you, even amidst the ruins, it's… it's like finding a sliver of sunlight in a darkened room."

Marcus's heart soared. He took her hand, his touch gentle, reverent. "Then let us bask in this sunlight, my princess," he murmured, his voice rough with emotion.

Their first kiss was a hesitant exploration, a tentative touch of lips that quickly ignited into a fierce passion. They clung to each other, their bodies trembling, their souls yearning for a connection that transcended the boundaries of their past.

In the aftermath, they lay side-by-side, the moon casting long shadows across the garden. "I never thought I would feel this way," Y/N confessed, her voice a soft sigh.

Marcus smiled, his hand tracing the curve of her cheek. "Neither did I."

Their love story continued, a delicate dance amidst the ruins of war. They faced challenges together – political intrigue, the lingering resentment of some of Lystra's citizens, and the ever-present shadow of Marcus's past. But through it all, their love grew stronger, a beacon of hope in a world scarred by conflict.

They learned to cherish the quiet moments – sharing stories by the fire, exploring hidden corners of the palace, simply enjoying each other's company. They found solace in each other's arms, their bodies seeking warmth and comfort, their souls finding a haven in the depths of their shared love.

Years later, as they sat on the balcony, watching the sun set over Lystra, a city now thriving under their joint rule, Y/N looked at Marcus, his face etched with the lines of time and the weight of his responsibilities.

"You know," she said softly, "we built something beautiful from the ashes, didn't we?"

Marcus turned to her, his eyes filled with a love that transcended time and circumstance. "We did," he agreed, his voice thick with emotion. "And it's all because of you, my love."

He leaned down and kissed her, a long, slow kiss that spoke volumes of their journey, their resilience, and the enduring power of love to heal even the deepest wounds. As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the city in a warm, golden glow, they knew that their love story was far from over. It was a testament to the enduring power of hope, a beacon of light in a world that often seemed shrouded in darkness.

[lovebugism]

✶ ┄ 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.”

[letsgobarbs]

ooh a lil time travel? We love to see it <3

A snippet of what’s to come

You weren’t supposed to meet him. You aren’t supposed to be here. This is wrong but it feels like it was meant to be like- like it was destiny.

You see him now, a man stripped from his title and thrown to the lions den. The man you had met when he was the feared, powerful general, now fights for his life in the colosseum.

You aren’t supposed to be here. You don’t belong here.

Rome 211 AD is not where you belong.