#Mill-wheels are silent

[thefishbread]

Mill-wheels are silent

The mill-wheels are silent now. This little valley, with its rich grassy slopes, ought to have been covered with herds of sheep and cattle. Not one was to be seen. The pretty little place was as lonely as a graveyard, or as though no living thing had trod its rich greensward for years. We ascended the slope to the right, and when we reached the top of the ridge which separated it from the next valley, we had a beautiful panorama spread out before us.

The mountains here seemed to extend around in a circle, enclosing a tract of country some eight or ten miles in diameter, considerably lower down, which was cut up by a great number of deep hollows and ravines that traversed it in every direction, and seemed to cross and cut off each other without the slightest appearance of anything like reference to a watershed. It looked more like an enlarged photograph of the mountains of the moon than anything else I could think of Guided Istanbul Tours.

Down in the bottom of one of these hollows we could make out a village, which our guide informed us it would still take us an hour and a half to reach, although it really seemed to be very near.

The hillsides

This was the village of Batak, which we were in search of. The hillsides were covered with little fields of wheat and rye, that were golden with ripeness. But although the harvest was ripe, and over ripe, although in many places the well-filled ears had broken down the fast-decaying straw that could no longer hold them aloft, and were now lying flat, there was no sign of reapers trying to save them. The fields were as deserted as the little valley, and the harvest was rotting in the soil. In an hour we had neared the village.

As we approached our attention was directed to some dogs on a slope overlooking the town. We turned aside from the road, and, passing over the debris of two or three walls, and through several gardens, urged our horses up the ascent towards the dogs.

[lifestylehotels]

Mill-wheels are silent

The mill-wheels are silent now. This little valley, with its rich grassy slopes, ought to have been covered with herds of sheep and cattle. Not one was to be seen. The pretty little place was as lonely as a graveyard, or as though no living thing had trod its rich greensward for years. We ascended the slope to the right, and when we reached the top of the ridge which separated it from the next valley, we had a beautiful panorama spread out before us.

The mountains here seemed to extend around in a circle, enclosing a tract of country some eight or ten miles in diameter, considerably lower down, which was cut up by a great number of deep hollows and ravines that traversed it in every direction, and seemed to cross and cut off each other without the slightest appearance of anything like reference to a watershed. It looked more like an enlarged photograph of the mountains of the moon than anything else I could think of Guided Istanbul Tours.

Down in the bottom of one of these hollows we could make out a village, which our guide informed us it would still take us an hour and a half to reach, although it really seemed to be very near.

The hillsides

This was the village of Batak, which we were in search of. The hillsides were covered with little fields of wheat and rye, that were golden with ripeness. But although the harvest was ripe, and over ripe, although in many places the well-filled ears had broken down the fast-decaying straw that could no longer hold them aloft, and were now lying flat, there was no sign of reapers trying to save them. The fields were as deserted as the little valley, and the harvest was rotting in the soil. In an hour we had neared the village.

As we approached our attention was directed to some dogs on a slope overlooking the town. We turned aside from the road, and, passing over the debris of two or three walls, and through several gardens, urged our horses up the ascent towards the dogs.

[lifestival]

Mill-wheels are silent

The mill-wheels are silent now. This little valley, with its rich grassy slopes, ought to have been covered with herds of sheep and cattle. Not one was to be seen. The pretty little place was as lonely as a graveyard, or as though no living thing had trod its rich greensward for years. We ascended the slope to the right, and when we reached the top of the ridge which separated it from the next valley, we had a beautiful panorama spread out before us.

The mountains here seemed to extend around in a circle, enclosing a tract of country some eight or ten miles in diameter, considerably lower down, which was cut up by a great number of deep hollows and ravines that traversed it in every direction, and seemed to cross and cut off each other without the slightest appearance of anything like reference to a watershed. It looked more like an enlarged photograph of the mountains of the moon than anything else I could think of Guided Istanbul Tours.

Down in the bottom of one of these hollows we could make out a village, which our guide informed us it would still take us an hour and a half to reach, although it really seemed to be very near.

The hillsides

This was the village of Batak, which we were in search of. The hillsides were covered with little fields of wheat and rye, that were golden with ripeness. But although the harvest was ripe, and over ripe, although in many places the well-filled ears had broken down the fast-decaying straw that could no longer hold them aloft, and were now lying flat, there was no sign of reapers trying to save them. The fields were as deserted as the little valley, and the harvest was rotting in the soil. In an hour we had neared the village.

As we approached our attention was directed to some dogs on a slope overlooking the town. We turned aside from the road, and, passing over the debris of two or three walls, and through several gardens, urged our horses up the ascent towards the dogs.

[socialifestyle]

Mill-wheels are silent

The mill-wheels are silent now. This little valley, with its rich grassy slopes, ought to have been covered with herds of sheep and cattle. Not one was to be seen. The pretty little place was as lonely as a graveyard, or as though no living thing had trod its rich greensward for years. We ascended the slope to the right, and when we reached the top of the ridge which separated it from the next valley, we had a beautiful panorama spread out before us.

The mountains here seemed to extend around in a circle, enclosing a tract of country some eight or ten miles in diameter, considerably lower down, which was cut up by a great number of deep hollows and ravines that traversed it in every direction, and seemed to cross and cut off each other without the slightest appearance of anything like reference to a watershed. It looked more like an enlarged photograph of the mountains of the moon than anything else I could think of Guided Istanbul Tours.

Down in the bottom of one of these hollows we could make out a village, which our guide informed us it would still take us an hour and a half to reach, although it really seemed to be very near.

The hillsides

This was the village of Batak, which we were in search of. The hillsides were covered with little fields of wheat and rye, that were golden with ripeness. But although the harvest was ripe, and over ripe, although in many places the well-filled ears had broken down the fast-decaying straw that could no longer hold them aloft, and were now lying flat, there was no sign of reapers trying to save them. The fields were as deserted as the little valley, and the harvest was rotting in the soil. In an hour we had neared the village.

As we approached our attention was directed to some dogs on a slope overlooking the town. We turned aside from the road, and, passing over the debris of two or three walls, and through several gardens, urged our horses up the ascent towards the dogs.

[lifestylearticles]

New Post has been published on Lalka

Mill-wheels are silent

The mill-wheels are silent now. This little valley, with its rich grassy slopes, ought to have been covered with herds of sheep and cattle. Not one was to be seen. The pretty little place was as lonely as a graveyard, or as though no living thing had trod its rich greensward for years. We ascended the slope to the right, and when we reached the top of the ridge which separated it from the next valley, we had a beautiful panorama spread out before us.

The mountains here seemed to extend around in a circle, enclosing a tract of country some eight or ten miles in diameter, considerably lower down, which was cut up by a great number of deep hollows and ravines that traversed it in every direction, and seemed to cross and cut off each other without the slightest appearance of anything like reference to a watershed. It looked more like an enlarged photograph of the mountains of the moon than anything else I could think of Guided Istanbul Tours.

Down in the bottom of one of these hollows we could make out a village, which our guide informed us it would still take us an hour and a half to reach, although it really seemed to be very near.

The hillsides

This was the village of Batak, which we were in search of. The hillsides were covered with little fields of wheat and rye, that were golden with ripeness. But although the harvest was ripe, and over ripe, although in many places the well-filled ears had broken down the fast-decaying straw that could no longer hold them aloft, and were now lying flat, there was no sign of reapers trying to save them. The fields were as deserted as the little valley, and the harvest was rotting in the soil. In an hour we had neared the village.

As we approached our attention was directed to some dogs on a slope overlooking the town. We turned aside from the road, and, passing over the debris of two or three walls, and through several gardens, urged our horses up the ascent towards the dogs.

[funfashionlife]

Mill-wheels are silent

The mill-wheels are silent now. This little valley, with its rich grassy slopes, ought to have been covered with herds of sheep and cattle. Not one was to be seen. The pretty little place was as lonely as a graveyard, or as though no living thing had trod its rich greensward for years. We ascended the slope to the right, and when we reached the top of the ridge which separated it from the next valley, we had a beautiful panorama spread out before us.

The mountains here seemed to extend around in a circle, enclosing a tract of country some eight or ten miles in diameter, considerably lower down, which was cut up by a great number of deep hollows and ravines that traversed it in every direction, and seemed to cross and cut off each other without the slightest appearance of anything like reference to a watershed. It looked more like an enlarged photograph of the mountains of the moon than anything else I could think of Guided Istanbul Tours.

Down in the bottom of one of these hollows we could make out a village, which our guide informed us it would still take us an hour and a half to reach, although it really seemed to be very near.

The hillsides

This was the village of Batak, which we were in search of. The hillsides were covered with little fields of wheat and rye, that were golden with ripeness. But although the harvest was ripe, and over ripe, although in many places the well-filled ears had broken down the fast-decaying straw that could no longer hold them aloft, and were now lying flat, there was no sign of reapers trying to save them. The fields were as deserted as the little valley, and the harvest was rotting in the soil. In an hour we had neared the village.

As we approached our attention was directed to some dogs on a slope overlooking the town. We turned aside from the road, and, passing over the debris of two or three walls, and through several gardens, urged our horses up the ascent towards the dogs.

[lifebg]

Mill-wheels are silent

The mill-wheels are silent now. This little valley, with its rich grassy slopes, ought to have been covered with herds of sheep and cattle. Not one was to be seen. The pretty little place was as lonely as a graveyard, or as though no living thing had trod its rich greensward for years. We ascended the slope to the right, and when we reached the top of the ridge which separated it from the next valley, we had a beautiful panorama spread out before us.

The mountains here seemed to extend around in a circle, enclosing a tract of country some eight or ten miles in diameter, considerably lower down, which was cut up by a great number of deep hollows and ravines that traversed it in every direction, and seemed to cross and cut off each other without the slightest appearance of anything like reference to a watershed. It looked more like an enlarged photograph of the mountains of the moon than anything else I could think of Guided Istanbul Tours.

Down in the bottom of one of these hollows we could make out a village, which our guide informed us it would still take us an hour and a half to reach, although it really seemed to be very near.

The hillsides

This was the village of Batak, which we were in search of. The hillsides were covered with little fields of wheat and rye, that were golden with ripeness. But although the harvest was ripe, and over ripe, although in many places the well-filled ears had broken down the fast-decaying straw that could no longer hold them aloft, and were now lying flat, there was no sign of reapers trying to save them. The fields were as deserted as the little valley, and the harvest was rotting in the soil. In an hour we had neared the village.

As we approached our attention was directed to some dogs on a slope overlooking the town. We turned aside from the road, and, passing over the debris of two or three walls, and through several gardens, urged our horses up the ascent towards the dogs.

[istanbul-history]

Mill-wheels are silent

The mill-wheels are silent now. This little valley, with its rich grassy slopes, ought to have been covered with herds of sheep and cattle. Not one was to be seen. The pretty little place was as lonely as a graveyard, or as though no living thing had trod its rich greensward for years. We ascended the slope to the right, and when we reached the top of the ridge which separated it from the next valley, we had a beautiful panorama spread out before us.

The mountains here seemed to extend around in a circle, enclosing a tract of country some eight or ten miles in diameter, considerably lower down, which was cut up by a great number of deep hollows and ravines that traversed it in every direction, and seemed to cross and cut off each other without the slightest appearance of anything like reference to a watershed. It looked more like an enlarged photograph of the mountains of the moon than anything else I could think of Guided Istanbul Tours.

Down in the bottom of one of these hollows we could make out a village, which our guide informed us it would still take us an hour and a half to reach, although it really seemed to be very near.

The hillsides

This was the village of Batak, which we were in search of. The hillsides were covered with little fields of wheat and rye, that were golden with ripeness. But although the harvest was ripe, and over ripe, although in many places the well-filled ears had broken down the fast-decaying straw that could no longer hold them aloft, and were now lying flat, there was no sign of reapers trying to save them. The fields were as deserted as the little valley, and the harvest was rotting in the soil. In an hour we had neared the village.

As we approached our attention was directed to some dogs on a slope overlooking the town. We turned aside from the road, and, passing over the debris of two or three walls, and through several gardens, urged our horses up the ascent towards the dogs.

[foodtravels]

Mill-wheels are silent

The mill-wheels are silent now. This little valley, with its rich grassy slopes, ought to have been covered with herds of sheep and cattle. Not one was to be seen. The pretty little place was as lonely as a graveyard, or as though no living thing had trod its rich greensward for years. We ascended the slope to the right, and when we reached the top of the ridge which separated it from the next valley, we had a beautiful panorama spread out before us.

The mountains here seemed to extend around in a circle, enclosing a tract of country some eight or ten miles in diameter, considerably lower down, which was cut up by a great number of deep hollows and ravines that traversed it in every direction, and seemed to cross and cut off each other without the slightest appearance of anything like reference to a watershed. It looked more like an enlarged photograph of the mountains of the moon than anything else I could think of Guided Istanbul Tours.

Down in the bottom of one of these hollows we could make out a village, which our guide informed us it would still take us an hour and a half to reach, although it really seemed to be very near.

The hillsides

This was the village of Batak, which we were in search of. The hillsides were covered with little fields of wheat and rye, that were golden with ripeness. But although the harvest was ripe, and over ripe, although in many places the well-filled ears had broken down the fast-decaying straw that could no longer hold them aloft, and were now lying flat, there was no sign of reapers trying to save them. The fields were as deserted as the little valley, and the harvest was rotting in the soil. In an hour we had neared the village.

As we approached our attention was directed to some dogs on a slope overlooking the town. We turned aside from the road, and, passing over the debris of two or three walls, and through several gardens, urged our horses up the ascent towards the dogs.

[lifestylechangebg]

Mill-wheels are silent

The mill-wheels are silent now. This little valley, with its rich grassy slopes, ought to have been covered with herds of sheep and cattle. Not one was to be seen. The pretty little place was as lonely as a graveyard, or as though no living thing had trod its rich greensward for years. We ascended the slope to the right, and when we reached the top of the ridge which separated it from the next valley, we had a beautiful panorama spread out before us.

The mountains here seemed to extend around in a circle, enclosing a tract of country some eight or ten miles in diameter, considerably lower down, which was cut up by a great number of deep hollows and ravines that traversed it in every direction, and seemed to cross and cut off each other without the slightest appearance of anything like reference to a watershed. It looked more like an enlarged photograph of the mountains of the moon than anything else I could think of Guided Istanbul Tours.

Down in the bottom of one of these hollows we could make out a village, which our guide informed us it would still take us an hour and a half to reach, although it really seemed to be very near.

The hillsides

This was the village of Batak, which we were in search of. The hillsides were covered with little fields of wheat and rye, that were golden with ripeness. But although the harvest was ripe, and over ripe, although in many places the well-filled ears had broken down the fast-decaying straw that could no longer hold them aloft, and were now lying flat, there was no sign of reapers trying to save them. The fields were as deserted as the little valley, and the harvest was rotting in the soil. In an hour we had neared the village.

As we approached our attention was directed to some dogs on a slope overlooking the town. We turned aside from the road, and, passing over the debris of two or three walls, and through several gardens, urged our horses up the ascent towards the dogs.

[burgasholidays]

Mill-wheels are silent

The mill-wheels are silent now. This little valley, with its rich grassy slopes, ought to have been covered with herds of sheep and cattle. Not one was to be seen. The pretty little place was as lonely as a graveyard, or as though no living thing had trod its rich greensward for years. We ascended the slope to the right, and when we reached the top of the ridge which separated it from the next valley, we had a beautiful panorama spread out before us.

The mountains here seemed to extend around in a circle, enclosing a tract of country some eight or ten miles in diameter, considerably lower down, which was cut up by a great number of deep hollows and ravines that traversed it in every direction, and seemed to cross and cut off each other without the slightest appearance of anything like reference to a watershed. It looked more like an enlarged photograph of the mountains of the moon than anything else I could think of Guided Istanbul Tours.

Down in the bottom of one of these hollows we could make out a village, which our guide informed us it would still take us an hour and a half to reach, although it really seemed to be very near.

The hillsides

This was the village of Batak, which we were in search of. The hillsides were covered with little fields of wheat and rye, that were golden with ripeness. But although the harvest was ripe, and over ripe, although in many places the well-filled ears had broken down the fast-decaying straw that could no longer hold them aloft, and were now lying flat, there was no sign of reapers trying to save them. The fields were as deserted as the little valley, and the harvest was rotting in the soil. In an hour we had neared the village.

As we approached our attention was directed to some dogs on a slope overlooking the town. We turned aside from the road, and, passing over the debris of two or three walls, and through several gardens, urged our horses up the ascent towards the dogs.

[mapofistanbul]

Mill-wheels are silent

The mill-wheels are silent now. This little valley, with its rich grassy slopes, ought to have been covered with herds of sheep and cattle. Not one was to be seen. The pretty little place was as lonely as a graveyard, or as though no living thing had trod its rich greensward for years. We ascended the slope to the right, and when we reached the top of the ridge which separated it from the next valley, we had a beautiful panorama spread out before us.

The mountains here seemed to extend around in a circle, enclosing a tract of country some eight or ten miles in diameter, considerably lower down, which was cut up by a great number of deep hollows and ravines that traversed it in every direction, and seemed to cross and cut off each other without the slightest appearance of anything like reference to a watershed. It looked more like an enlarged photograph of the mountains of the moon than anything else I could think of Guided Istanbul Tours.

Down in the bottom of one of these hollows we could make out a village, which our guide informed us it would still take us an hour and a half to reach, although it really seemed to be very near.

The hillsides

This was the village of Batak, which we were in search of. The hillsides were covered with little fields of wheat and rye, that were golden with ripeness. But although the harvest was ripe, and over ripe, although in many places the well-filled ears had broken down the fast-decaying straw that could no longer hold them aloft, and were now lying flat, there was no sign of reapers trying to save them. The fields were as deserted as the little valley, and the harvest was rotting in the soil. In an hour we had neared the village.

As we approached our attention was directed to some dogs on a slope overlooking the town. We turned aside from the road, and, passing over the debris of two or three walls, and through several gardens, urged our horses up the ascent towards the dogs.

[yurstarc]

Mill-wheels are silent

The mill-wheels are silent now. This little valley, with its rich grassy slopes, ought to have been covered with herds of sheep and cattle. Not one was to be seen. The pretty little place was as lonely as a graveyard, or as though no living thing had trod its rich greensward for years. We ascended the slope to the right, and when we reached the top of the ridge which separated it from the next valley, we had a beautiful panorama spread out before us.

The mountains here seemed to extend around in a circle, enclosing a tract of country some eight or ten miles in diameter, considerably lower down, which was cut up by a great number of deep hollows and ravines that traversed it in every direction, and seemed to cross and cut off each other without the slightest appearance of anything like reference to a watershed. It looked more like an enlarged photograph of the mountains of the moon than anything else I could think of Guided Istanbul Tours.

Down in the bottom of one of these hollows we could make out a village, which our guide informed us it would still take us an hour and a half to reach, although it really seemed to be very near.

The hillsides

This was the village of Batak, which we were in search of. The hillsides were covered with little fields of wheat and rye, that were golden with ripeness. But although the harvest was ripe, and over ripe, although in many places the well-filled ears had broken down the fast-decaying straw that could no longer hold them aloft, and were now lying flat, there was no sign of reapers trying to save them. The fields were as deserted as the little valley, and the harvest was rotting in the soil. In an hour we had neared the village.

As we approached our attention was directed to some dogs on a slope overlooking the town. We turned aside from the road, and, passing over the debris of two or three walls, and through several gardens, urged our horses up the ascent towards the dogs.

[lifestival]

Mill-wheels are silent

The mill-wheels are silent now. This little valley, with its rich grassy slopes, ought to have been covered with herds of sheep and cattle. Not one was to be seen. The pretty little place was as lonely as a graveyard, or as though no living thing had trod its rich greensward for years. We ascended the slope to the right, and when we reached the top of the ridge which separated it from the next valley, we had a beautiful panorama spread out before us.

The mountains here seemed to extend around in a circle, enclosing a tract of country some eight or ten miles in diameter, considerably lower down, which was cut up by a great number of deep hollows and ravines that traversed it in every direction, and seemed to cross and cut off each other without the slightest appearance of anything like reference to a watershed. It looked more like an enlarged photograph of the mountains of the moon than anything else I could think of Guided Istanbul Tours.

Down in the bottom of one of these hollows we could make out a village, which our guide informed us it would still take us an hour and a half to reach, although it really seemed to be very near.

The hillsides

This was the village of Batak, which we were in search of. The hillsides were covered with little fields of wheat and rye, that were golden with ripeness. But although the harvest was ripe, and over ripe, although in many places the well-filled ears had broken down the fast-decaying straw that could no longer hold them aloft, and were now lying flat, there was no sign of reapers trying to save them. The fields were as deserted as the little valley, and the harvest was rotting in the soil. In an hour we had neared the village.

As we approached our attention was directed to some dogs on a slope overlooking the town. We turned aside from the road, and, passing over the debris of two or three walls, and through several gardens, urged our horses up the ascent towards the dogs.

[hederasgarden]

Protego te

Summary: Macrinus’s ambition brings you and Lucius to the Colosseum. Pairing: Lucius Verus x F!Reader Word Count: 2.1K Rating: 18+ only, mature themes. Brief attempted SA (nothing graphic), brief descriptions of violence and blood and Lucius being protective. A/N: This story takes place between Ab Initio and Post tenebras lux. Thank you to @ryebecca for beta'ing! Based on this request by @aninnai. Please comment or reblog if you enjoyed this and want to see more. Or scream at me in my inbox. That always makes my day.

Gladiator Masterlist ♡ Masterlist

The open-air carriage rattles as the wheels struggle over the uneven, dusty road. The rough ride forces you closer to Lucius and you lay a hand on his chest to steady yourself. He glances at you briefly, his fingertips brushing your hip in a subtle, silent reassurance. Outside the metal bars the crowd mills around, some pressing closer to catch a glimpse of the gladiators traveling with you. Lucius doesn’t acknowledge them, his gaze fixed straight ahead.

It’s clear he’s waiting for something, his breath steady, but shallow. The cart lurches and you gasp in surprise as the Colosseum appears. It’s larger than anything you've ever imagined, its imposing structure dwarfing everything around it. Despite the circumstances that have brought you here, you can't help but marvel at its grandeur. It’s nothing like anything you’ve seen before. 

Lucius seems less impressed by the sight, his expression darkening as he turns to face you. He tucks his head gently against yours, his breath falling warmly over the shell of your ear as he speaks in a low murmur.

“It will be different here,” he warns. “There will be other gladiators — men who don’t belong to Macrinus. Some won’t recognize my claim on you.”

You nod and the fear that’s always simmering just beneath the surface flares up again, expanding, spreading through you. It’s kept in check only by Lucius’s presence beside you. His touch grounds you. 

“I understand,” you reply quietly.

“You cannot be alone here,” he continues. You feel the tension in his grip, the unspoken warning laced in his voice. “You must always be with me or one of the men here.”

You glance up at the group of gladiators riding with you. All of them are seasoned fighters who’ve trained with Lucius as long as you’ve known him. While they don’t openly welcome you, there’s an unspoken understanding between you and them. They fear and respect Lucius enough to leave you alone. And Lucius believes that will extend to protecting you on his behalf as well. You feel less sure but keep that doubt to yourself.

When you arrive at the Colosseum, Macrinus is there to greet your party, a broad grin on his face as he claps Lucius on the back. His voice is animated, excitedly discussing the upcoming games the twin emperors plan to hold to celebrate their birthdays. Like always, his words are filled with a fervor that feels both unsettling and expectant.

He doesn’t spare you a glance as Lucius leads you forward. Your gladiator’s hand stays firmly planted on your lower back, a silent reminder of his claim on you as you pass others. As you are drawn deeper into the bowels of the arena Macrinus departs with a short, bald man in fine robes and a young boy appears to lead your group. 

Torchlight flickers, casting long shadows on the stone walls as you continue down the narrow, winding corridors. The air grows heavier and despite the steady pace, you can feel yourself losing track of where you came from. You knew the Colosseum was massive, but the underground world is a labyrinth, blending together in a disorienting maze. If you were left here, you’d never find your way out, you realize. That thought unsettles you and you grasp at Lucius’s tunic. 

He responds with a low, comforting sound and his hand briefly touches yours in reassurance. You continue on, the feeling of disquiet lingering in the pit of your stomach until you begin to ascend once more. Daylight filters through the gaps in the stone and with another sharp turn you find yourself in a large room with a high ceiling. 

Gladiators line the long wooden table in the center of the room and the rumble of their conversation dims when they notice your group’s arrival. The young boy steps forward, announcing to the gathered crowd that Lucius and the other gladiators belong to Macrinus. Most of the seated men size up the competition but enough of them stare openly at you that you feel Lucius’s hand shift to the back of your neck, his fingers curling around the soft skin there. 

Without a word, he pulls you roughly forward, bringing you closer to the table. His shoulders square and his presence seems to dominate the space as all eyes fall on him. His gaze is colder than you’ve ever seen and you swallow nervously, the shift in his demeanor catching you off guard. The Lucius you know, calm and calculated, seems to vanish, replaced by someone else. Someone dangerous. 

“This concubine belongs to me,” he announces. “Touch her and I will take your hand as payment.” 

A low mummer passes over the table but no one challenges Lucius. He stares at the group with his unblinking gaze for a moment longer before he turns away and strides down the length of the table, pulling you in his wake. He takes a seat at the end and the other gladiators with him follow suit.

“Bring me wine and food,” he commands you loudly. 

You hurry to do as he asks. The young man who guided you earlier steps forward to help and his hands shake as he assists you in loading the plate with fruit, bread, and a thick, straw-colored soup. It’s obvious he’s terrified of Lucius and you wish you could offer him some comfort but you know better than to show any overt sign of sympathy. Your safety depends on their fear of Lucius. 

When you return to Lucius’s side, he draws you into his lap and wraps a possessive hand around your middle. As he begins to eat, you hesitantly look up, your gaze drifting down the long line of faces. Most of the men immediately avert their eyes, but there are a few who meet your gaze head-on. One of the largest men smiles, tilting his head slightly as he watches you with unnerving interest. The scar along his jaw pulls taut, becoming more pronounced as his lips curve upward, giving his grin a vicious edge. You quickly look away and rest your hand on Lucius’s forearm, feeling the powerful tendons flex beneath your palm when he adjusts his hold on you.

–

The first few days after you arrive at the Colosseum pass without incident and you quickly learn the rhythm of life here. The slaves mostly keep to themselves, speaking with you only in brief exchanges. Their eyes are wary, but there’s an unspoken understanding between you all, a shared burden of survival. You find yourself speaking to Rufus, the serving boy you met when you first arrived, the most. He’s so young that it breaks your heart to realize that this is the only life he’s ever known.

There is only one other concubine in the entire arena, a woman who belongs to Emperor Geta’s prized gladiator. You’ve only heard whispers of her, but you’ve never seen her. From what you gather, she spends most of her days locked away in her gladiator’s cell, out of sight and out of mind. You try not to think of her too often, all too aware she likely does not have the arrangement you do. 

With a sigh, you push the troubling thought away and busy yourself with preparing Lucius’s evening meal alongside Rufus. You’re ladling a thick soup into a wooden bowl when the door slams open with a suddenness that makes you start. A young slave you don’t recognize rushes in, his face flushed. He spots you immediately, calling your name urgently.

“Hano calls for you,” he says breathlessly. He gestures for you to follow, his hand trembling slightly as he beckons you closer. “Hurry, he is hurt.”

Without a word, you gather your skirts, abandoning the meal on the counter. Fear claws at your chest as you follow him through the dimly lit corridors. What has happened you wonder, dread pooling in the pit of your stomach. Another more selfish part of you panics at the thought of losing his protection and strength. Lucius has become the one thing in this chaotic, brutal world that feels somewhat certain. Your survival, your very existence, is tied so intrinsically with his that without him, you are truly lost. 

But beneath that fear lies another, more troubling one. You realize, with a jolt of surprise, that you care for him, beyond what he could offer you. You quicken your pace, your mind so focused on reaching him that you do not see the looming shadow until it is too late. Strong arms wrap around your middle, hauling you back against a firm chest. The stale smell of sweat and something rancid fills your nose. The man’s hold is unyielding, his grip like iron as you thrash in his arms while the young slave stares at you. 

“Leave us,” the man behind you orders, his voice rough and commanding. “Your work is done here.”

A gold coin spins through the air and lands with a dull clink at the young slave’s feet. It glints in the dim light, but he doesn’t move. He hesitates for a moment, watching you before he picks up the gold coin and scurries away. 

“Take your hands off me,” you shout but the man only chuckles darkly, his grip tightening around you like a vise. The force is enough to squeeze the breath from your lungs. It feels as though your ribs might crack. 

“Your gladiator is not here,” he rumbles, releasing his hold on you to shove you forward violently. 

You hit the dusty floor with a sharp gasp, the impact stealing what little air you have left. The stone floor is cool beneath your palms and you scramble away from him but he advances on you quickly. He lifts you as though you weigh nothing, pinning you to the wall with a hand around your throat. 

“I am curious to see what all the fuss is about,” he leers. “You must have some cunt on you to make Hano so possessive.”

His vulgar words send a wave of revulsion through you and you claw at the hand around your neck. Your nails tear at his skin, leaving deep bloody marks but he doesn’t even flinch. Instead he nuzzles the side of your face, his sour breath nearly suffocating. In desperation you kick out, trying to break free, but it’s useless. You’re at his mercy.

You squeeze your eyes shut, praying to any deity that will listen to deliver you from this nightmare. But just like all the times before, your plea falls on deaf ears. Your dress is ripped from your shoulder and a heavy hand paws at your chest. Tears leak from your eyes and you realize with a hollow sort of horror that the fate you’ve long avoided has finally found you. 

But then, through a blur of tears, you see a flash of movement. The man before you cries out, an agonizing guttural sound that’s almost deafening. You blink rapidly, trying to clear the wetness on your lashes and bring the world back into focus. You stare at the bloody tableau before you, your mind struggling to process the scene. The gladiator is sprawled on the floor, clutching his forearm as the hand that was around your neck now lies in the dirt between you. 

Lucius stands over him breathing heavily, his features twisted in rage. The tip of the bloody sword rests lightly against the dirt but his body is coiled tight, ready to strike again. 

“Lucius,” you breathe, throwing yourself into his arms. 

Relief sinks into your skin, easing the terror that’s consumed you. His free arm wraps around you, pulling you tight against his chest, and you bury your face in his neck, inhaling the familiar scent of his sweat and skin. You cannot stop the way your body shakes, the tremors coursing through you as the adrenaline slowly fades. 

“I am here,” he murmurs, holding you to him. 

Over his shoulder, you catch sight of Rufus, standing a few paces back, watching the scene unfold with wide, uncertain eyes. 

Lucius turns to him, his voice brooking no argument as speaks. “Get Ravi. Tell him what has happened.”

Rufus takes a hesitant step forward, his worry obvious in the way he glances at you before his eyes return to Lucius. You manage a shaky smile, trying to reassure him, even though your own heart is still racing in your chest. The smile is small and fragile, but it seems enough and Rufus nods before he leaves in search of Ravi. 

Your attacker still lies on the floor, bloody and defeated. You turn away from the scene, focusing on Lucius. He looks like Mars personified, tan, fierce, and unwavering, his body filled with the potential for violence. 

“I warned you about the cost of touching what is mine,” he says to the man writhing in agony. “I keep my promises. If you survive, you will do well to remember that.”

♡

Also part of this series:

Ab Initio

Post tenebras lux

Finis

My inbox is open for your thoughts on this story, requests for drabbles with Lucius and further scenes with Lucius and the Fisherman's Wife.

[annwrites]

⸻ see somethin' you like, darlin'? ⸻

· pairing: billy hargrove x fem!reader · type: part of a series · summary: you & billy are far from hawkins & get a room for the night. · tw: mentions of domestic violence, mentions of near-childhood molestation · word count: 3,518

When you wake, it's daylight out and the car is stopped, the smell of gasoline wafting through the cabin.

You slowly sit up and see that you're at a gas station.

You look around, and spot Billy, who's standing behind the car, gassing it up.

You exit the car, and he glances to you.

"See you're finally awake."

You'd only woken one other time in the middle of the night, and had listened silently as Mötley Crüe played quietly on the radio, Billy softly singing along. You'd let his voice put you back to sleep.

You nod, stretching, and he licks his lips as your t-shirt rides up a tad before settling back over your hips.

His eyes meet yours again.

"Where are we?"

The nozzle jerks and Billy removes it, screwing the gas cap back into place. "Missouri."

Your brows raise.

He comes to stand in front of you. "Slept right through Illinois."

You'd gone through an entire state overnight.

Something about him letting you sleep peacefully all night while he raced to get the both of you away before anyone could come after you makes warmth bloom in your chest.

You cross your arms gently. "Do...do you think we're okay?"

He shrugs. "My folks will probably know I'm headed for California. I'm guessing your dad wouldn't know where to start looking for you?"

You shake your head.

He reaches into the back pocket of his jeans, pulls out a pack of smokes, then retrieves a lighter from his front right pocket and he lights one up. He takes a long drag before speaking again, eyes wandering over those milling around the gas station, fueling up or wrangling unruly kids, taking bites of their gas-station snacks.

He then looks back to you again. "You hungry?"

You blink up at him, more worried about being caught and dragged back home than grabbing a candy bar.

Not one to dwell on serious matters, he is.

You shrug. "A little."

He turns, heading to go inside.

You follow behind.

When you enter the small convenience store, the smell of hot dogs and something sugary greets your senses, cool air washing over you.

The two of you go in separate directions.

You opt for something hot to eat, him, a bag of chips and a pack of M&Ms. You grab a bottle of water from one of the coolers, while he opts for a Red Bull.

Once you're standing up front before the cashier, you begin patting your pockets, realizing your wallet is in one of your bags in the car. "I'll be right back, I have to go grab some cas—"

He pushes your food together with his. "It's fine, I've got it."

"Thank you," you say quietly.

The older woman behind the counter with dyed-red hair and a bit too much eyeliner glances between the two of you with a concerned expression.

Your brows furrow, confused as to why she's giving you a strange look. Your pictures aren’t already being broadcast on TV, are they? And then you remember that you'd been beaten black and blue last night.

Billy rolls his eyes. "I'm not the one that gave her a tune-up. So, you want to ring my shit up now, or what?"

You look down, embarrassed.

The scanner starts to beep.

Once you're both back in the car—you taking small bites from your hotdog, Billy taking sips from his energy drink—you remain silent as he turns out of the parking lot, merging back into traffic.

"Are you still okay to drive? I mean, aren't you exhausted? You look tired."

He glances to you with a smirk and a raised brow.

Great, the pretentious asshole is back.

"If you think I'm about to let you behind the wheel, sweetie, you have another thing comin'."

You lean back, taking another bite of your food.

You swallow. "I wouldn't know how, even if I wanted to."

He shifts gears. "Don't tell me you only know automatics."

You take a sip of your water. "I don't know any."

He slows for a red light, looking at you. "Your old man never taught you how to drive?"

You shake your head.

He rolls his eyes, accelerating again. "Figures."

You're in Oklahoma when Billy finally stops, the sky now a dusky pink color, splotches of orange melded in.

The two of you spend most of the day in silence—well, not talking, that is—at one point he turns his music back on, blaring Sammy Hagar's I Can't Drive 55, while, of course, refusing to drive that himself, instead cutting people off in traffic, while going well over the speed limit.

You try to tell him that if he keeps it up, he'll inevitably get a ticket. And what if the cops then find out that he's been reported missing? That both of you have? Not that you’re sure either of you have been yet, but that paranoia of being discovered and carted back to Hawkins refuses to release you.

He then smirks, smoking another cigarette—you hate the smell, and he knows it—and he tells you "You worry too damn much, darlin'. Might help you relax if you just got laid.".

You groan, lean your head back against the seat, and stare out the open passenger-side window.

He merely laughs, turning back to the road.

Currently, you're standing next to him at the front desk of a Super 8 motel, your bags at your feet as he asks the receptionist for a room for the night.

"We currently have a few rooms available. How many beds?"

He glances to you and you stare up at him in return.

"Which is cheapest?" He asks, turning back to the receptionist.

You both wait patiently as she checks the motel's log book before looking back to Billy. "We have a room with a double-bed that's twenty-five a night."

His jaw flexes. "And if I want two beds instead?"

She glances to you—your bruised-up face—then back to him, then her log book once again. "It'd be double the price."

He sighs, pulling out his wallet, slapping a twenty and a five down on the counter. "One bed it is, then."

You watch as he writes down the name George Thorogood in the guest book, your lip twitching in amusement.

She hands him the key, and each of you pick up your bags from the worn, stained carpet, then, and head back outside, and you follow him up a flight of stairs to your room for the evening.

Once the door is closed behind you, you switch on the light, taking in the low-budget space.

A single bed is shoved against the middle of the wall, small wooden nightstands on either side of it, an AC unit under the window to your left. Against the opposite wall is a box TV sat atop a dresser, with a placard on top stating that they have HBO. To the right side of the bed is the closet, past that, the bathroom. There's also a small table with two chairs by the door you've just entered.

You watch as he drops his bag on the floor, before kneeling down and pulling a jewelry box out, placing it on the bed, and then a small steel strong box.

Your brows furrow.

He flips open the lid of the jewelry box, dumping the contents onto the comforter. He begins sorting through everything, separating it all into two distinct piles: cheap, and expensive-looking.

"Did...did you steal that from your mom?"

He looks to you. "Step, and yeah, I did. Got a problem with that?"

You study him for a moment, then shake your head.

He turns back to the jewelry—hand hovering over a silver ring—which he then picks up, and lets out a low curse. "This was my mom's. Fucking bastard. Bitch."

He shoves it into his pocket.

He looks to you. "Think a pawn shop would take costume jewelry?"

You shrug. "Maybe. If not, you can always try an antique store. They probably won't give you very much for it, though."

He dumps all the expensive pieces back into the box, then shoves the rest into a pocket on his duffel bag. Next, he slides the heavy strong box toward the spot the jewelry box has now vacated.

He stares down at it for a moment, considering.

He then walks into the bathroom.

You sit, listening for a moment before you hear something being jimmied, and then he comes back into the bedroom, handle-arm from the tank in-hand.

He kneels before the box, shoving the piece of thin metal under the lid and he pushes upward as much as he can, his lips pressed into a firm line.

He stops for a moment.

"Gonna end up breaking the fucking thing instead," he mutters to himself.

He looks back to you over his shoulder. "Do you have any bobby pins?"

You stand.

"I think so."

You walk over to your bag, pick it up, and set it atop the table. You begin rifling through the pocket where you'd put a few personal care items, including a small pack of bobby pins.

You hand them to him, your fingers brushing against the palm of his callused hand.

He takes two out, unbends them, and he shoves both into the keyhole of the box and begins to slowly turn them.

He stares at the headboard a few feet from him, going off of feeling alone, trying to concentrate.

"Motherf—" He bites his lip, turning them the other way.

He shoves one in further. "C'mon, you bitch."

And then you hear something click and a wide smile breaks out across his face. "Ha! Fuck yeah!"

He stands, throwing open the box's lid, and both your eyes widen when you see the rolls of cash inside.

He looks to you—who's still standing beside him—with a raised brow and a pleased smirk.

"My old man's savings. What I could get my hands on anyway. He has an account at the Hawkins Credit Union, too, but..."

He begins counting the bills in his hand. "Twenty, thirty, forty, fifty..." He continues in only a mere whisper then.

You sit down, waiting patiently for him to finish.

Finally, he puts the last of the bills he'd been counting back in the strong box, practically vibrating with excitement. "Three-thousand fucking dollars!"

He turns back to you. "Do you have any idea how long that'll keep us going for, honey? Fucking weeks—longer, maybe."

You smile at him.

He turns back, nodding. "Goddamn, three thou'."

"How much did you bring?"

You flush, feeling inferior in comparison, because you'd done the same as him before leaving home: stolen from him. But the amount you've brought along is practically chump-change in comparison.

"Not nearly as much. My dad...he spends most of his paychecks on booze and scratch-offs. So, only a little over three-hundred."

You reach into your bag, rifling through an inner pocket, until your fingers brush again cool metal.

"I did take this, though," you say, handing him a Rolex.

He whistles. "Damn, how much is this worth?"

He looks at you from under his lashes.

You shrug. "My mom bought it for him at some point before she left."

His smile falters then, his eyes staring into your own.

You wonder what has caused his sudden shift in mood.

"Yours left you, too?"

So that’s why.

You nod, taking the watch from him.

"It was a long time ago,” you say, dropping it into your bag.

He steps away, flopping back on the bed, hands behind his head as he stares up at the ceiling. "So, what was the plan, anyway? If I hadn't come along, I mean. Were...you meeting someone?"

You tuck one of your feet under you. "No. I just planned to walk for as long as I could. Maybe thumb a ride if need-be."

He snorts.

"'If need-be'," he repeats back to you. "You realize California is over two-thousand miles away, right, honey?"

You shrug. "I hadn't necessarily planned on California, specifically. Like I said: I just want to go West."

"Well, that's where you're headed now. Specifically."

He smiles to himself. California. Home. He’s finally going home. He'll never have to be around those people again.

"You mind if I ask how long he's been doing it for?"

You don't need to ask him to elaborate what he's asking exactly.

You're quiet for a moment, staring down at your recently-painted toes. "Since before my mom left. But before she did, he never hit me. Only her. So nine."

He chews the inside of his cheek. "That the only thing he did: hit you?"

You know what he's asking. And you don't want to answer.

"Does it matter?"

You've given him the answer without even having to say it.

"How many times?"

You sigh, wishing he'd drop it. You briefly consider snapping at him, just to cause an argument, which will get you off of this subject, most assuredly.

"Never, technically."

He sits up, looking at you, forearms resting against his thighs, fingers steepled. "No?"

You shift uncomfortably.

"When...after I turned twelve and hit puberty... There was this one night when he came home—drunker than I'd ever seen him before. I'd been in bed asleep. He woke me up. Called me my mom's name. I think he thought I was her. I decided to knee him in the groin when he started trying to take off my nightgown. He hit me for it, but it got him off of me, at least. I slept outside that night. Well, stayed outside. I didn't do much sleeping, too afraid to close my eyes.

"The next morning, it was like it never happened. Maybe he didn't remember. I sure as hell wasn't going to remind him out of fear of him finishing what he'd tried to start the night before."

You're both silent for a moment, a pregnant pause settling between you until Billy speaks.

"I'm sorry."

You look at him. "Me too."

He doesn't want you feeling sorry for him, though. Doesn't want you asking him to open up like you just had.

Men are built different. Girls can cry and get upset all they want—they’re emotional little things to begin with. Men need to be tough. You want to feel something? Get angry, then.

He stands, shrugging off his jacket, tossing it back on the bed. He then grips the back of his shirt, pulling it off as well, and you look away, blushing.

He smirks at the look on your face. A dozen sly comments make their way through his head, but he refrains. For now.

"I'm going to take a shower to wash the road off of me."

He glances to your bag for a moment. "You got any makeup in there, like Revlon or some shit?"

You look at him with furrowed brows. "No. Why?"

"Well, maybe you should get some. Tired of people giving me dirty looks thinking I did that shit to you," he states, gesturing to your face.

You shrug. "It'll heal eventually."

"Yeah, in a couple weeks, if not longer."

"I thought you were going to shower?"

He raises a brow. "Saw it when I went to get the handle-arm. Big enough for two."

You roll your eyes, standing, then flop down face-first on the bed. "I'll be just fine right here."

He stares at your ass for a moment. "Oh, I'm sure you will, sweetheart."

You groan and he chuckles as he heads in the direction of the bathroom.

He doesn't bother closing the door and you hear the water start.

And he of course sings loudly the entire time—the lyrics to Warrant's Cherry Pie.

You cover your head with a pillow.

Fifteen minutes later, Billy emerges from the bathroom with nothing but a towel hanging low on his hips, his happy-trail visible. He'd positioned it exactly-so in front of the mirror before coming out.

...And you’re busy staring out the window. Because of course you are.

He clears his throat and immediately turns toward his bag when you turn to look at him.

"Shower's free," he states, dropping his towel to the floor as he pulls on a pair of black briefs.

Your eyes widen. "Billy!"

He glances up to you with a bored expression.

Meanwhile, your face is now cherry-red, your expression that of mortification.

A mischievous smirk then crawls its way across his lips as your eyes glance from his now-clothed waist, to his muscled chest—still wet from the hot water—then your eyes meet his, noticing his damp, slicked-back curls.

"See somethin' you like, darlin'?"

You grab the clothes you picked out for wearing to bed tonight while he'd been cleaning up, and storm past him, slamming the bathroom door behind you, even locking it as you turn the water back on, sitting on the toilet lid, head in your hands as you try to calm your now-thundering heart.

Billy merely lays back on the bed again, feeling content, a wry smirk on his face. "Oh yeah, she wants me."

When you emerge from the bathroom, you find Billy asleep on the left side of the bed, nearest the door, light from the window shining down in thin slivers which arch across his bare back.

You quietly pad over, pulling the curtains closed, the room darkening.

Your stomach then rumbles and you decide to go out in-search of a nearby place to get some dinner. It's when you open the door to the room—a twenty from the money you'd taken from your father tucked away in your pocket—that Billy's eyes pop open.

"The fuck're you doin'?" He mumbles, face half-buried in his pillow.

"I'm hungry."

He closes his eyes. "Then order room service."

You shift on your feet. "I don't think they offer that here."

He groans in tired irritation. "Fucking delivery, I mean."

"Why can't I just—"

"Because I don't need to worry about your ass disappearin'. And I'm fuckin' beat, so I'm not going back out. Close the damn door."

You sigh, doing as he's said, sliding the chain-lock back into place.

"Deadbolt, too," he commands.

You oblige.

You walk over to the bedside table beside his head and pull the drawer open, hoping to find some menus inside, and you end up in-luck. You bend over to grab them, and his hand suddenly slides up the back of your thigh then and you jerk, standing up straight, nearly dropping the laminated papers from your grip.

You swat his hand away, stepping back over to the table.

He snickers to himself and you just look at him, shaking your head.

"Is that all you think about?" You ask, voice full of disbelief that he'd just done that.

He rolls onto his back, folding his hands atop his bare chest, eyes still closed. "You sure you want the answer to that, honey?"

You roll your eyes, perusing the menus. "Are you hungry?"

"For food or somethin' else?"

Pig.

"What do you think?" You spit at him, and his lip twitches at having gotten under your skin so easily. Again.

"Not really."

You feel the need to berate him for going to bed on an empty-stomach.

All he's had today is a couple bags of junk food, but you know he's tired, so you instead let it go.

You order a small pizza from a local Italian place, and twenty minutes later, there's a knock at the door.

And Billy is woken yet again.

You silently pay the man, closing and locking the door behind you as you set the box on the table.

"Smells good," he says, words slurred.

And he said he didn't want anything. Men.

You plop a piece down on a paper plate and walk it over to him. "Here."

He looks up at you. "Really tired. Maybe I should let you feed it to me."

Jesus Christ—he never stops, does he?

You toss it down on the nightstand. "Your arms aren't broken."

It doesn't take long for the two of you to finish eating. After which, you brush your teeth, then come back into the bedroom, the sky now dark outside.

You stand on the side of the bed opposite him, considering sleeping on the floor instead.

"You comin' to bed?" He asks, head turned toward you, eyes closed again.

"Are you going to keep your hands to yourself?"

He shrugs one shoulder. "No promises."

You briefly consider smothering him with a pillow, but instead opt for postponing committing homicide. For now.

You lie down next to him, right on the edge of the bed, and his eyes flutter open.

He smiles. "Knew I'd get you into bed eventually."

"Go the hell to sleep."

He closes his eyes again, a warm smile on his face. "I don't mind 'em fiesty, y'know."

You roll over, facing away from him.

"Mm, even better view."

You let out a loud, irritated groan, stand, then climb beneath the comforter, wrapping it around you. You close your eyes, ignoring the fact that Billy is lying just a few inches away, as you drift off to sleep.