#dark!marcus acacius x f!reader

[arcane-fox]

Legion Profligate (1/4)

Series Summary: Caesar’s Legion is invading the Mojave Wasteland. After your unfortunate run in with their horrific atrocities, a high ranking legionary spares you for one sole purpose.

Pairing: Dark!Acacius x Female Reader Rating: Explicit 18+ MDNI WC: 8k (AO3) Chapter Warnings: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT. VERY DARK. NONCON/DUBCON. Stockholm Syndrome, Explicit Smut, Violence, Power Abuse, Slavery and Forced Breeding, Age Gap, Derogatory Language, Creampies, Cum Talk, Unprotected PinV, Oral (m!receiving), Angst

Chapter I | Chapter II | Chapter III | Epilogue

Notes: This is a Fallout/Acacius crossover mini-series set during the events of Fallout New Vegas. You do NOT need to be familiar with Fallout to read this series. Huge thank you to Odi @thedilfdiaries who has been my biggest cheerleader for this series and my beta. Also huge thanks to Aly @iamasaddie for reading this over for me and giving me great feedback and courage. Endless love and gratitude to you both!

Series Masterlist | Notifs | AO3

It had been over 200 years since the atom bombs fell. The nuclear war that changed the globe forever. 200 years of radiation. Starvation. Violence. Factions splintering across the country and still fighting for the scraps of a forgotten world.  A never ending fight for survival that became the new normal for every generation to come. 

War never changes.

Word had spread across the Mojave that the Legion was pushing further West. The relative safeness of the settlements protected by the NCR was eroding. They had fewer soldiers to spare for protection and instead were mobilizing to protect the more important towns bordering the Colorado River and New Vegas.

Sunhollow was not a priority outpost, and the Legion could smell blood in the water. The New California Republic was struggling to hold on to its territory.

They came just before dawn's first light. At least 100 legionaries surrounded Sunhollow and the first wave charged in with spears and machetes. Snipers picked off anyone who tried to flee. Some of the citizens fought back but they were no match for the brutality that the legionaries wielded.

Just four NCR Rangers were stationed there and managed to take down several Legion soldiers with their submachine guns before they were overcome. They were quickly captured. They were gathered at the center of town and burnt alive on the pyres. Frightened townsfolk were slaughtered as they tried to run and their bodies were just left to rot with the rising sun. Everything smelt like death. 

This raid was nothing but a slaughter. The men were either crucified or beaten to death. The youngest children were rounded up and enslaved. The older ones were left to share the same fate as the men. They had already been influenced by the NCR values and could never be indoctrinated into the Legion. It was not worth the risk. Unlike the tribal towns that lived peacefully without the influence of the NCR, no man at Sunhollow was given the choice to pledge their loyalty to the Legion. 

The Legion referred to anyone in the NCR as profligates and used it like a filthy slur. An annoying blight to be removed and the last real opponent in their path to taking over the West. They stole nothing, instead just leaving behind an aftermath of death and blood and fear. Their numbers were growing, and their patience dwindling. Smaller Legion camps like this one had an eagerness to exterminate the outlier towns while final preparations were being made to wipe out the NCR Army once and for all.  

After hearing about the atrocities at the town of Nipton where only one person was left alive, this war has progressed far beyond just disrupting supply lines and taking out NCR soldiers. They wanted to demoralize anyone left standing with the NCR and eliminate anyone who shared their values. 

Personal liberties were not granted in the Legion. Everyone served Caesar and if you were to oppose you would be killed without question. The youngest and newest recruits were always used as front line attackers and many of them knowingly gave their lives for the cause, because it was what they were trained to do. Those who proved themselves were able to move up in the ranks with better weapons and armor. Loyalty was rewarded. This made the fiercest and most competent fighters the best equipped to survive. 

You had learnt all about the Legion while working closely with the NCR Rangers. The only reason you were in Sunhollow was to accompany a trade caravan delivering medical supplies between outposts. You were spending a few nights resting before heading back West. The trade route was relatively safe until recent months and you knew the risks. You could handle yourself with a firearm while the mercenaries took out the big threats. Not this time. You along with everyone else in Sunhollow were not prepared for this.   

Reading pre war books you had a wealth of knowledge on the Roman Empire too. You were fortunate to be raised to understand advanced literacy. While many people only knew how to read and write the bare minimum, it had become something you excelled at and leveraged in your line of work as a merchant. 

A useful skill that at this moment felt incredibly useless. There was no reasoning with legionaries and being an overly educated woman was a threat more than anything. Something to keep to yourself and blend in as a cooperative and docile captive. 

You dropped to your knees in a line with other “lucky profligates” that were temporarily spared. They made you watch the relentless slaughter of the townsfolk. Watching grown men cry and beg for mercy before receiving a beating or a blade to the throat. Your caravan of male colleagues had long been decimated. Being a healthy, young woman was the only thing keeping you breathing for now.  

You gathered that the pair of soldiers with the red plumes fanning across their helmets were the infamous Centurions. Rising to their comfy position because of their proven brutality. Their presence here was an indication that this was more than just a raid. They seemed to be accompanying a more practically dressed legionary administering the fate of the remaining captives. 

He walked back and forth along the row of women with bound hands, denoting many of them ‘unfit’. They were dragged off into the town hall by hungry wolves eager to have their way before taking their lives. Judging by the screams coming from the building, none of it was merciful. 

He didn’t wear a helmet, and his armor was splattered in blood. His machete hung at his hip opposite of his sidearm, adorning his traditional looking black and gold roman armor with nuclear age weaponry. The Legion was known for following the military structure of the ancient Romans, right down to the armor.  

He stood in front of the town hall, presiding over the soldiers assembling more crosses to crucify the remaining men. Observing the newly made slaves who were tossing bodies of their friends into the pyres. He looked tired of it all. Tired of wasting potential resources for the sake of spreading fear and demoralization. You caught the subtle way his expression was less enthusiastic, almost as if he found these immoral deeds repulsive. Or so you imagined. You were desperate for any sliver of hope that could save you at this point.  

Acacius, you heard the other men call him. You deduced he was some sort of higher ranking Legionary. He had a red tunic with gold accents under his armor, making him stand out. His armor was more ornate, too, with a golden Medusa emblem on his chest. Golden claws decorated his pauldrons. The worn, black patina of his armor made him look menacing and regal. 

“Ave, Caesar,” he said as he nodded to some of his men, appearing to give them permission to string up the unlucky souls. They did so without apprehension but his face wore a hint of disgust. It was easy to miss, but you were watching him intently. 

He was older than many of the others. Grey flecks throughout his scruff and his messy, dark curls. Sullen eyes and an aquiline nose. His shoulders were broad and commanding with a more tapered waist. His arms and legs were solid with lean muscles and he exuded power from every angle. His meaty thighs proudly showing  exposed flesh between the pteruges on his skirt and above his leather greaves. Legs that could chase you down in an instant. His body was built to fight and built to win with or without a weapon. 

He carried himself with a confidence that his word was absolute, and to challenge him would be met with his raw strength. Everything about his presence felt powerful and unforgiving. 

He was… handsome. An observation you lamented given the situation. 

He kept evaluating you with intrigue and finding something about you worth keeping around for now. You couldn’t stop trying to sneak a reading on him either. It was a dangerous game, but one you couldn’t seem to withdraw from.   

You also overheard one of the younger soldiers quipping quietly about his leadership. Criticizing him for sparing the lives of profligate women and children. How instead they should be slaughtering everyone to make an example, even the ones that had their uses. His eyes scanned over you as he said the last part with insinuation. 

Acacius apparently heard it too, as it sparked him to take action for mocking his command.  

“Hold your tongue, or you will join these bodies,” he threatened as he brandished his machete and pressed it to the soft flesh under the chin of the mouthy soldier, who cowered back. “You know nothing about building an empire.”

The soldier steadied himself, submitting only to get out of his situation. Even you could see this one was a loose cannon.

“Yes, Acacius,” he conceded with a fake docility.  

“Disobey me again and it will be your last breath.” Acacius stepped forward as he spoke those words and pushed his chin upward with the blade. A trickle of blood ran down his neck as he punctured him with the tip. 

His eyes caught you watching him and his face hardened, hiding any traces of morality as he sheathed his weapon. Your curiosity had overstepped and you had seen too much. 

You looked away, but could still feel him on you for a moment longer. Your gaze dangerously fluttered back to him as if he was willing you to look again. His penetrating glower investigating your misplaced interest in him.     

His body was still running on the adrenaline from the bloody slaughter earlier. Unlike most other men in higher ranks who still had unsullied armor, he was in the thick of it all. Ruthless and leading with brutality. He wasn’t just executing orders. He was an expert killer and didn’t happen to be in his position by accident. He demonstrated his skills in battle, and the snide comment he overheard sparked a primal rage in his core. How dare anyone question him?   

It was a wishful and foolish thought to find any sympathy in the Legion. You try to look away as he steps towards you, bracing for the blade that was sure to follow. 

He grabbed you by your neck and forced you to look him in the eyes. To his surprise, and yours, you met them with prowess. 

His gaze caught the two-headed bear badging on your shoulder. A mark of NCR allegiance. It enraged him.  

“Get up.” he barked. He towered over you as he pulled you up by your bound hands. “Make yourself useful, Profligate whore.” 

Your words stuck in your throat and you were silent. He was going to make a demonstration of his savagery, at your expense. 

–

You could hear some sneers coming from some of the nearby legionaries as he pushed you up the stairs and into the nearby building. They were laughing at your misfortune like savage hyenas as you were being paraded into the lion's den.  

A few more legionaries were inside, forcing themselves on captive women. Out in the open, it didn’t matter to them. They were barbaric. Celebrating their victory with some casual rape and torture. It was abhorrent. They seemed to have more privilege and were able to indulge in their spoils. Their helmets resembled war bonnets, decorated in black and red feathers. Some of them wore red face wraps or darkened goggles, making them look even more menacing. 

Everything about the Legion was so hierarchical and you figured they must be Decanus. Commanders under Acacius. Middle management. Leaders. Dangerous men who got away with too much and still had too much to prove to ascend even higher. At least they were easy enough to pick out.

When they saw Acacius the room tensed. He fanned his hand out to signal that there was no need to stop what they were doing. His silent command was somehow even more intimidating. 

Your chest tightened and you bit your lip to stop it from quivering. This was not a fate you would wish on your worst enemy. 

You turned to face him and tried to plead with a whisper, choking on your words in panic. He ignored you and pushed you into the middle of the room. You fell onto your forearms and knees, grabbing the attention of others who started to eye you like a piece of meat. 

He stood above you like a conqueror and used his foot to turn you on your back to face him. His expression was cold and dutiful. That morality you swore you saw earlier was gone.   

He kneeled down with his legs spread over you and pressed his body up against you. You struggled underneath him, fighting for your life as he caged you in. His hand wrapped around the front of your neck and tightly held it as he leaned over your shoulder. He spoke softly in your ear but with a vulgarity and crudeness that made you shudder. 

“You can be a whore for my men, who will use you up until there is nothing left. Or, you can behave and perform your duty to me as Caesar sees fit.”

You knew what that meant. The only duty women had was to be bred to make more soldiers. You heard the horror stories. Women were not free in the Legion. Nobody was really, but women had it the worst. The healthy and docile ones were relegated to breeders and the old and young used for slave labor. All of them were property to be used by the Legion men whenever they wanted. Anyone not compliant or too smart for their own good was killed. They only needed your body, and nothing more. You were either indoctrinated into the Legion, or your life was taken. 

Your survival instincts kick in as panic courses through your body. You can fight it or you can accept the hand dealt to you. The luxury of living is dangled in front of you with a cruel ultimatum that will likely end in death either way. You know for certain you are not ready to leave this world at the hands of being torn apart and defiled by multiple barbaric men. 

This was just one man. One large, powerful man who was giving you a choice.  

You give him what he wants and signal your obedience by relaxing your body under him. Your heart was hammering out of your chest with an obscene thud and he felt your fear pulsing through your veins. It was turning him on and you felt him swell between his legs.     

The pressure on your throat left you unable to speak and he pushed against you even harder as you struggled to breathe.

“That’s a good girl,” he growled into your ear. 

If you cooperated maybe it could earn you another day to live. Another day to figure out what the hell you were going to do. 

His hand relaxed on your throat as he pulled back to stand up. You gasped for the air you were finally afforded. He stripped your tattered clothes off your body with little effort and flipped you back over onto your stomach.

You lay there, prone and paralyzed with your bound hands outstretched in front of you. Naked and shaking.  

Acacius took off his belt and with it tossed his weapons to the side. He freed his hardness as he stepped out of his underclothes. Crudely, he spit into the palm of his hand and spread it along his cock and kneeled down between your legs.

His leather bracer slid roughly across your skin as he worked an arm under your belly to lift up your hips. He made just enough room to slide his hand over your mound and grab you with a rough hold. Blood and grime was still covering his body and the metallic, earthy smell made you recoil. You winced at the feeling of his filth making contact with you. 

He propped you up on your knees with your forearms supporting some of your weight while he nestled up to the plush of your ass against his hips. His massive form looming behind you made you feel even smaller and more insignificant than you already were. You had zero leverage. 

Your mind was racing. How many women had he taken in this way? How many women had chosen this same fate? How likely was it that after he fucked you he would take pleasure in killing you too?

Those thoughts fell to the wayside as his middle finger abruptly dragged into your slit, gathering your wetness. You didn’t expect your body to be preparing you like it was. Betrayal or gratitude, it made no difference.   

“Mmm” he groaned as he pushed two of his fingers into your hole. “You actually want Legion cock, don’t you?”

His absurd question goes unanswered and you resent your body. 

His rough, gritty digits worked you open and it couldn’t even be considered a poor excuse for foreplay. He wasn’t priming you for a good time. This was about him taking what he wanted, when he wanted and how he wanted. Prying you open so there was as a little resistance as possible when he inevitably drove into you.  

He pinched at your sensitive bud to see if he could draw a sound from you and scoffed when you did, as if to mock you for reacting to his touch. He cupped your mound hard and jammed his fingers back into you, splaying them inside. He teased more pressure on your clit with the heel of his hand until he was convinced you would be able to take him. Whether you were ready or not, he would make it fit regardless. That much you were certain of. 

You could feel his length getting harder against your ass. You tried to calm yourself from the panic that ensued when you realized how massive he really was as he began rutting his hardness against you. Sheathed in a needy, primal rhythm that was picking up tempo.    

Deep breaths. You closed your eyes, focusing on breathing as you hung your head low and braced for what was to come. He tore his hand from you and left you empty for the briefest moment. 

He wasted no time lining up his cock with your slit. The spongy head leading the way for his engorged member. Tapping it against you as he started to rut into you with fervor. Splitting you open with his thick shaft.   

Your eyes went wide and you cried out with a pained mewl. Not only was he denying you time to adjust to his size, but he was so swollen with need. The girth of his cock complimented his broadness all over. The pain from the stretch seared into you like a hot knife. Your eyes tightly shut and tears fell.

He pushed you down into the floor as he fucked you. His hands clawed into your hips, trying to hold you up and pulling you into him until his weight had you pinned under him. The floorboards scraped against your skin each time he pounded into you, making your knees and elbows raw. 

Your hands were clasped together in an iron grip. The rope around your wrists felt like it was getting tighter the more you struggled. 

The rough leather strips of his armored skirt slapped into your skin as he thrusted, drawing his full length out and driving it back in even deeper. Again and again. Forcing himself into you and taking up all available space, greedy to make more room. 

His groans were loud and animalistic. He was overcome by his nature and held nothing back. Pounding into you with ferocity. Each thrust harder and more urgent to lose himself inside you.  

“Please…” you horsley pleaded to him. “Please…” you didn’t know what you were asking for, you just wanted it to be over. 

You turned your head so your cheek was pressing into the floor and tried to gaze up at him. His focus on you was unwavering, boring into your soul. The darkness in his eyes had zero regard for your attempt at thwarting his intensity.

He didn’t let up.

As his cock twitched inside you felt him slow his pace, but not his force. You could feel him starting to come undone as he began knocking at your deepest parts. The tight coil in your belly started to unwind. 

Fuck no, please no. You pleaded to yourself.  

You resented your body for how it started to accept him inside you. Your walls clenched around his heat as he fucked you harder and harder. How could your body betray you so cruelly to give you any semblance of pleasure from such a vile man? The heavy drag of his cock against your ridges stirred something inside that you wanted to bury away, but it clawed itself out.

Despite where you were it felt like everything shrunk away and simplified. It was just two bodies fucking and teetering on the edge of bliss. Allowing your mind to escape into a place where it would be ok. A place where you could give in to the growing heat in your belly and revel in the way it washed over you.  

The pretty moan that escaped your lips was enough to send him over the edge before you could choke it back. He heard you unravel. Your convulsing walls gave you away anyways, and he knew he had you. Squeezing him tightly as something dark and sinister released within.

He grit his teeth and pulsed inside you, drawing from you a whimper. You could feel his hot cum filling you up as he panted, emptying his balls and painting the depths of your cunt with his spend. He fucked it deeper inside you until he finally started to soften and still. 

The room was silent except for his heavy breathing and your despondent sobs.

The tears streamed down your face as he pulled out of you and hovered on all fours over your broken body beneath him. His hand wrapped into your hair as he yanked your head up so your ear was to his mouth.

“You’ll take my cock when I give it to you,” he threatened. “I’ll fuck this profligate cunt until my cum is the only thing left inside you.”

The grip in your hair tightened as he urged you to acknowledge him. His hot breath puffed against your ear with each labored exhale.  

“You hear me?” he snarled. His grip was painful on your scalp and you winced.

“Yes, Ac-” your reply trailed off, not knowing if you should dare say the name you overheard.

“Acacius.” He enunciated boldly.

“Yes, Acacius.”  

Content with your reply, he pushed you back onto the floor. You laid there afraid to move or speak another word. 

He redressed and adorned his weapons. Ignoring you laying there like a discarded plaything he lost interest in. 

Except that, you didn’t know it, but he felt drawn to you in a way that he knew he had to have more of you. You intrigued him in a new way. You weren’t weak like the others, and you were observant. He wanted to challenge your resolve and break your spirit to succumb to him without hesitation. You saw something in him that he tried to hide away. Something inappropriate and unbecoming of a legionary in his position. Your dissolute temptation had to be snuffed out before it took hold on him and yet he couldn’t bring himself to take your life. Not yet. He had to try to tame you first. Fuck it out of you and taste your fruit before it spoiled.

You wondered why you were spared. Surely keeping someone like you alive with strong NCR convictions would be a great risk for the Legion. Maybe he wanted you to tempt him. To challenge him. Maybe it was all a game for him to see if he could turn you to his side. Or maybe he was waiting for you to fuck up so he could have his fun in new ways. 

It was all too much to think about when your fate was teetering dangerously at the hands of the enemy. 

“This one’s mine.” He casually commands to the other men as he walks away from your disheveled body without as much as a glance back. 

Mine. The tone of how he referred to you so nonchalant replayed over and over in your head. What did that really mean for you? 

Whoever he was, he had authority. You felt like you made a deal with the devil. Sold your soul and to what end? 

You could feel him leaking out of you as you shifted to curl your arms against your chest and draw your legs together tightly. You wanted to shrink away and disappear. Wake up from the nightmare.

What the fuck were you going to do now? Was this your life now? To be bred and kept like livestock and bolstering the future generations of Legion until you died? The thought of such a bleak destiny made your head spin and your heart race. 

You lay broken on the floor, catching your breath between tears. Feeling empty where he stretched you open. It was a hard feeling to reconcile. You had no concept of how much time had passed, only that it felt eternal, and you felt alone. Wanting for something that you couldn’t define.   

None of the other legionaries touched you, but you could feel their eyes on your broken body. Feel how much they wanted to. Perverse thoughts and immoral intentions being projected at you with their hungry gaze. Leaving you there vulnerable and subdued felt as much a test to them as it was punishment for you. 

You felt the tiniest comfort inside that you could not quite explain. Not gratitude, but some faded semblance of it. Acacius had been merciful in a twisted way. He stripped you of your dignity and your freedom, but he didn’t give you to the wolves. 

–

One of the decanus commanders came in after some time and approached you assertively. His face was covered up with a red cloth and black goggles, and his helmet was covered in black feathers flowing backwards. He looked ready to run into battle. 

He tossed a garb at you. A plain, linen dress style tunic except for a red X painted on the front. The mark of a legion slave. 

He brandished his knife and reached for your wrists to cut the rope binding your hands. The marks left behind were raw and bloody.  

Without your hands bound it changed very little other than some minor relief. There was no place to run and no way to escape without being hunted down in an instant. If you didn’t get picked off by a bullet, one of the mongrels would make quick work of you. Even if you somehow managed to get away, you would die in the Mojave with no supplies. Your hands were more useful to them being untethered and put to work. You weren't going anywhere.    

With your new found freedom you threw the dress to the side and turned away from him, wrapping your arms around your knees to withdraw the best you could. Was he expecting you to be grateful for something to cover up with? You’d rather be naked than wear those dehumanizing rags. 

What came next caught you off guard.  

The sting of his hand on your cheek shocked you. He had backhanded you, holding back nothing. The delayed pain came with a vengeance and your eyes welled up with tears. 

“Put it on and get outside with the others. We’re leaving.” 

You did.

– 

You and the few other women left were all given the same modest garbs to wear. Easy access for the taking whenever they wanted to. The thought made your stomach churn. They didn’t even give you proper footwear. You were expected to march with what were essentially socks.

You didn’t speak to the other women and they didn’t speak to you. They were all behaving compliantly. In shock from the neverending atrocities. Shells of their former selves. They had been broken too, just as you were. You didn’t know any of them from your short stay at Sunhollow and that realization further exemplified the feeling of truly being alone.

You were rounded up between two formations of soldiers and followed in line with the others as you moved out. You were given supplies to carry and you wondered how your body could possibly manage this for miles. It did, because there was no other choice. 

The sight of the pyres and burning buildings reminded you how Sunhollow would be forever transformed into a desolate graveyard. Inhabitable and soon the scraps would be picked over by raiders until nothing remained but bones and ashes.

You only saw Acacius from a distance. He had cleaned up since your last encounter with him, no longer covered in blood and his armor polished. He had a crimson cape draped over his pauldrons and was positioned to the front of the march. He looked regal and intimidatingly powerful.

He was leading the Legion onward to the next place to destroy. Legionaries near him were holding red banners with the signet of the bull. Anyone within eyesight of them wouldn’t dare intervene with their march. The Legion’s reputation for cruelty and brutality made them feared by everyone.

An unexplained pit formed in your stomach. He felt so far away and unreachable. While it should be a good thing to get as far away from him as possible, somehow it felt wrong. Dangerous even. It was hard to reconcile with the way you felt. 

You were safer with him than without. 

Crucified bodies lined the street as you were led away from your past life. Walking towards an uncertainty. You wondered if you would be better off to be strung up like them. At least their battle was over… until you noticed a few of them still breathing and left to die in the sun with a slow and agonizing death.   

You followed in line with the others, silent and defeated. Marching onward with strangers to an unknown future. 

–

It didn’t take long for your intuition to be proven right.

After a full night and day of walking across the Mojave with minimal rest, the army made a proper camp for the night. Basic tents were quickly setup along with fires to cook food and stay warm. Everything was done with efficiency like a well oiled machine.

The tents were basic and simply used for sleeping quarters. No comforts other than a bedroll. A place to rest with a fabric roof over their heads. Everybody was beyond exhausted and quickly off to sleep after eating. A few guards stood on the outskirts to keep watch, but for the most part, it was quiet. Almost peaceful with the stars above looking extra bright in the night sky. 

You recognized where you were from your extensive time on the road with the caravan. You were following the Colorado river, and heading closer and closer towards New Vegas; the heart of the Mojave. The place where sooner or later the big showdown between the Legion and NCR Army would come to a head. Hoover Dam and New Vegas were the big points of contention, and you had been strategically distancing yourself as things escalated. Now, that was completely unavoidable. 

You and the other captives were left out in the open surrounded by tents in the cold, night air. The only comfort was the rags you were laying on and letting your feet rest. You were exhausted, and barely had time to think about it before falling asleep.

You were startled awake when you felt a cold blade graze your cheek. 

Your eyes fluttered open and you started to panic and let out a shriek until the man pressed his knife across your throat, daring you to make another sound. If anyone else woke up, they pretended not to see anything. 

“You think you’re special, don’t you? Well, I’m gonna see what’s so special about you myself.”

His eyes were blown out, black with evil intention.  It was this time you recognized this was the same soldier that was mouthing off about Acacius earlier. You had humiliated him without meaning to, and he wasn’t going to let that go. 

“No profligate is worth keeping alive, even if she’s a looker.” His tongue wet his lips and your face contorted in disgust. He was a repulsive man. 

The soldier was reaching his arm up your dress and you didn’t dare move a muscle with your throat a hairline from being slit. You tightly closed your eyes and heard a loud blast. A gunshot. Hot liquid splattered on your face. Blood. 

Acacius came out of the shadows and silenced the legionnaire with a single bullet to the back of his head. 

His lifeless body fell to the ground with his hand still resting on your inner thigh. Running his mouth had, yet again, been his downfall. Alerting Acacius who was restless in his nearby tent, and masking his footsteps.

Your heart was pounding with adrenaline from the close call, and gratitude for your savior. You looked him in the eyes and they were dutiful. He was protecting his spoils on the outside, but you saw a glimmer of fear in his eyes if he had been too late.   

Acacius dragged the body off of you and spit on his fresh corpse after he said something disapproving in a latin tongue. His insolence had reached its limit, and his now dead body was left there as a reminder that insubordination had consequences. 

The commotion at this point had awoken several of the men. The prying eyes of the obedient soldiers accompanied silence. They knew better. That soldier had it coming and Acacius had swiftly ended that incident.

You locked eyes with Acacius again, and he simply nodded towards his tent and turned on his heels. 

You got up to follow him, trailing behind like a lost puppy as he went back to his tent. A modest, semi-private cloth housing with nothing but a bedroll and a few supply crates. The thin door covering did nothing for sound but it provided the tiniest privacy from prying eyes.

His armor was laid near his bedroll along with his weapons. He tossed his sidearm in the pile and raked his hand down his face. He was wearing just his red tunic and looked so much more vulnerable; unarmed and frustrated. 

You feared following him to his tent was overstepping, but your adrenaline high from the recent assault made you do it anyway. 

“Thank you,” you gazed down, afraid to see his reaction as you approached. Afraid he would disapprove of you speaking to him. 

He reached towards you cupping your chin and forcing you to look up at him while he pulled you in closer.

“No one is going to take what’s mine. Nothing more than that.”

There it was again. Mine. 

His words were dismissive of what this really meant to you, but you could see through him. Now in a more private setting without the eyes of his subordinates he didn’t have to put on an act. There were cracks and an opportunity for you to explore his true intentions. Was he claiming you just for the sake of control or was there something more? He seemed brash on the surface, but underneath maybe you could strip away the noise and see what kind of a person he really was. 

He let go of your chin and pulled a rag out from a water bucket by his feet. He wrang out the excess and held your face against the palm of his hand while he wiped the cloth across your cheek. The bridge of your nose. The other side. Wiping away the blood of the man who dared to touch you. He was being gentle. Tender, even. He wasn’t making eye contact, focused instead of brushing away the filth.

You watched him intently. Impossible to read, but you couldn’t deny your intuition. He had a guilty aura about him. Guilty for what the man tried to do to you, or sympathetic for bringing you into this cruel world to begin with. You were going to find out.  

“Clean yourself up,” he said quietly as he handed the rag to you to finish the job. You could feel the blood still sticking on your skin and imagined you must be a sight. 

You kneeled next to the bucket and washed your skin the best you could, relishing in the cool kiss of the water's touch.  

Acacius groaned as he sat on one of the supply crates, using it like a chair. His posture was so tired and almost docile. It was hard to imagine he had just killed a man with zero remorse. Unphased by taking a life. 

What overcame you was that same undefined feeling you had earlier. You wanted to be closer to him, and give him a reason to want you close. While he had just saved you, you had only narrowly escaped. 

You crawled on your knees in front of him, slowly and with an eagerness to thank him. His tired eyes narrowed on you as kneeled between his legs.  

You reached for the hem of his tunic and found his cock half-hard. You gazed up at him with glossy eyes. 

“Let me thank you properly.” You paused with apprehension.

His cock twitched at your offer but he kept his face stern. It was hard to read him and know if you were overstepping or if this would be condoned. You swallowed back your hesitancy and pushed on, hoping for his approval.

You slid your hands up his thighs and pushed back his tunic all the way to his belly so you could have unobstructed access. You opened your mouth and let your tongue poke out, giving his tip a lick and placing a kiss. It was almost playful. You weren't sure what came over you, but you embraced it when he stifled a sound that you recognized. A pleasurable groan. 

Of course any man would enjoy this act, but this was a man that was used to taking. Not this unsolicited softness you were bestowing on him.  

He tangled his hand in your hair and urged you in closer, using his other hand to hold his cock steady at the base.

“Knew you’d be a good girl for me,” he said with a low and breathy voice. The praise from his words made that darkness inside you stir again. You wanted his praise.  

You swirled your tongue around the head of his cock, lapping gently at his leaking slit and relishing his flavor. You could sense his body was tired and resigned to letting you do all the work. It felt like a test too, to see how much you would do without him forcing you. See how much you wanted him and how far you would take this on your own volition.  

You took in more and more of his length, letting your tongue lick up the underside of his cock and feeling it stiffen even more. You were just now able to really marvel at its size. He was thick and weighty with a slight curve to the left. You traced the prominent vein that trailed along his shaft with your tongue, pulsing under your touch. You were getting sloppier with your mouth as he was getting harder and it was becoming a lot more to handle than you were used to.

The tightness in your core was starting to wind up. A heat spreading that called for attention you tried to push aside.    

Your hands left the tops of his thighs briefly to reach for his balls. They too were hefty and he stifled another moan as you worked them with your fingertips. He seemed to really enjoy that and you had a mind to give them more attention with your mouth if he didn’t have such a grip on you already.

He was fully hard now and jerked into you, losing some control. You relaxed your throat enough to let him thrust inward. Your hands returned to his legs to brace yourself as he bucked a little too hard and you gagged on his cock. The throaty groan he made watching you struggle was heavy with arousal.

“Easy. Take me nice and slow,” he ordered. It was easier said than done when he was the one bucking into you. He brushed his thumb to push back your hair and you melted at his tenderness and how his hands engulfed you effortlessly. 

You relaxed as best you could, taking in more and more of him. Both of his hands were twisted in your hair now, pulling your head to bob on his length slowly. He wasn’t holding you tightly, but you could feel his fingers curl into your scalp when you hollowed your cheeks.   

You looked up at him and saw his mouth parting open slightly. His eyes were intently locking with yours. He was submitting to your tongue in a way that felt new for him. Relinquishing some control even if it was just for a moment. 

You savored the pearly beads of precum that trickled out and wanted to receive more. His musky, sweaty scent combined with the saltiness of his taste made it all feel so raw and primal. 

Seeing your mouth stuffed full with his cock made him twitch even more and you could tell he was getting close. He was trying to pull you off of him slowly. You sucked the tip hard and it made a wet pop as it released from your lips.

It was turning you on too, and you could feel how wet you were getting between your legs. You initially just wanted to placate him, but it felt like it was becoming so much more. You wanted him to spill into your mouth so you could drink him down. Hear the way he moaned when you sucked him dry. It was a thirst that overtook your reasoning and you mouthed his tip again in defiance.  

There was a shift in his energy. That dutiful look returned as he fought against your needy mouth. 

“Not wasting my cum in your throat.” His words came out biting but heavy with need. Reminding you of your role to play. 

He yanked you off sharply and pulled you up to straddle his lap. Sitting over his meaty thighs he hooked his hand behind your back to hold you in place. You reached your arms out to hang off of his shoulders.

He grabbed the base of his cock and dragged the head along your swollen clit. He was already wet from your spit, but he gathered your slick for good measure. You moaned when he pressed into your clit and you caught the way he looked so pleased with himself. He was studying how your mouth gaped from his touch.

“Needy thing you are,” he groaned, low enough that you wondered if he meant to say it out loud.   

You were good and ready, and he wasn’t interested in waiting any longer to get his release. He pulled you down hard on his length, filling you to the hilt in one motion and looking you dead in the eye when he did it. Watching you gasp at the stretch and your eyes widened. You were so needy for his cock and it felt right having him inside you again. The pain from the sudden invasion inside your body was overtaken by euphoria. The emptiness finally being soothed. 

He held you like that for a moment and you wanted to beg him to move. You needed that friction to alleviate your aching hunger. He needed it too, but he was enjoying seeing you get impatient for his cock. You could feel him swell inside you and in this seated angle he nestled inside you even deeper.  

“Acacius…” you whined and tried to lift up on his shaft but he held you still. He pressed his thumb into your clit and rubbed. Holding you down, impaled on his cock; unmoving. Making you start to convulse on him and moan under his touch.  

“You’re gonna let me do what I want,” he said as his thumb’s motion intensified. “And I’m going to fill you with my cum.” More pressure on your clit. “Again.” Another circle. “And again.” Harder this time. “And again.” 

The pleasure blooming was becoming too much and he knew he had you.

“And you're going to be begging me for it.” With those words he thrust into you, teasing the release you were chasing.

You let out a whimper and tried to speak, but your words were swallowed up by your moans. He thrust again. 

“Fuck. Acacius… yes. I want..” he thrusted again “..want you to fill me.”

He hammered into you and the drag of his cock against your walls combined with the pressure on your clit was too much. Your orgasm washed over you in a way you never experienced before. A crescendo throughout your body, overtaking your flesh and soul. Clenching him and begging for him to cum. 

His seed blasted into you and you felt him filling you up. His heat seeped into you as he groaned. There was so much, filling you deliciously with his cum, just as he promised. 

He left you there for a moment, his cock slowly softening inside you but still plugging you up so nothing could escape while you caught your breath.

As the high of your orgasm began to fade it left you with a mix of emotions. Fucked out of your mind and also terrified of what you were getting yourself into. You knew he ultimately wanted to impregnate you, and you knew that you never wanted to bring children into this fucked up world. Still, the deep seeded fear of getting pregnant faded away when he was filling you so perfectly. He was right, you were going to be begging for it, and that future terrified you. 

It also felt like a problem for another day. Right now, you had to live in the moment and figure out how you were going to make it to tomorrow. As you began to fall for Acacius, you were certain of one thing. Keeping him content was your only chance.     

The tent was quieter now with you still in his lap and your shared breathing calming to an even rhythm. You didn’t want to leave his side. With him you were safe. He wasn’t going to hurt you, and he certainly wouldn’t let anyone else touch you if there was a chance you were carrying his child. It made you feel sickened to think of another potential life as armor, but it was the reality you were living in.   

“Can I stay here with you tonight?” You asked, sheepishly.

There was something you could not shake about Acacius. While his words and actions were cruel and despicable on the outside, something about him seemed shaken. A legionary who showed any sort of wavering would be killed without question. Loyalty to Caesar was above all paramount. He had no choice on how to conduct himself in the eyes of the other Legion soldiers.   

But you saw something in his eyes. Unexplainable but tangible. Something that gave you just enough hope that he wasn’t as evil as you thought. Maybe he was different after all. Maybe he was redeemable. Maybe he just needed someone like you to help him see the Legion for what it truly was. 

You had to try.   

“Not letting you out of my sight.” 

To be continued…

NPT for folks who interacted with my WIPS/Masterlist

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@aemondvelaryon @toxicanonymity @read-and-wip @rawrxbexjealous @sheepdogchick3

@witchy-and-persnickity @theanxietyqueen17 @wynonnapascal

TAGLIST (please comment if you want to be added!)

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@foggymoonbanana @burntheedges @gothcsz  @din-cognito @wheresarizona

More tags continued in the comments!

Please lmk if you wanna be removed or added

[fallenbratfiction]

✦ PEDRO PASCAL MASTERLIST ✦  

✦ minors do not interact with me, my blog, or my posts

• 🌒 dark •🧸 fluff •🩹 hurt/comfort • 🔥 smut • 💔 angst 

✧ ┈┈┈┈┈ *.⋆ ✧ ⋆.* ┈┈┈┈┈ ✧

˗ˏˋ Pedro Pascal ˎˊ˗ 

• **The parts you’ve been taught to hate**  

→ pedro reassures you• comfort 

• **Birthday Gift**  

→ in honor to pedro’s birthday • smut 

• **Does your mother know?**  

→pedro pascal + mamma mia + white lotus• smut 

˗ˏˋ Joel Miller ˎˊ˗ 

• **Fences and Cities**  

→ dad’s best friend • slow burn series (hiatus)

• **Gym Crush Part 1**   • **Gym Crush Part 2 **

→ older! joel is your gym buddy • smut

• **Daydream in Blue**  

→ two strangers in a motel • smut 

• **Stay put**  

→ joel takes care of sickly you• comfort 

• **Mrs Miller**  

→ blurb/snippet of fanfic • fluff

→ married life with joel • fluff & smut

• **Safe Haven**  

→ you and joel are each other's safe haven • dark & smut

• **Bambi**  

→ joel and tommy miller's sweet lil shared thing • dark & smut

˗ˏˋ Marcus Acacius ˎˊ˗

• **The senator’s daughter**  

 → marcus acacius forbidden love• smut

˗ˏˋ Harry Castillo ˎˊ˗

• **His assistant**  

 → you’re the richest and hottest man’s assistant• smut

˗ˏˋ Javier Peña ˎˊ˗ 

• **Mustache Deal**  

 → javier lets you ride his mustache only if you study• smut

˗ˏˋ Reed Richards ˎˊ˗ 

• ** Constants & Variables **  

 → reed comforts and reassures you mid crisis at the lab

˗ˏˋ Dieter Bravo ˎˊ˗ 

✧ ┈┈┈┈┈ *.⋆ ✧ ⋆.* ┈┈┈┈┈ ✧

✦ this took time, love, & late-night agony ✦ reblogs are cherished. comments fuel me.

✧ do not copy, translate, or repost my work ✧

[dontlookatme121]

(Smut) Fic Recs

Pedro Pascal characters, including Javier Peña, (mostly) Joel Miller, Frankie Morales, Oberyn Martell, Marcus Acacius, and Lucien de Leon.

fic recs from a girl who spends too much time reading smut.

WARNING: PLEASE read the warnings on these fics; almost all of them contain smut, dark themes, and other sensitive topics. read at your own risk. EXPLICIT 18+, MDNI.

Javier Peña

One-Shots:

FYBF by @almostempty | javier x f!reader

Just Friends by @punkshort | Javier Peña x f!reader

Maneater by @probablyreadinsmut | Javier Peña X Afab!Reader

Murphy’s Sister by @absurdthirst | Javier Peña x F!Reader

Not So Secret Santa by @lincolndjarin | javier peña x fem!reader

Purgatory by @gothcsz | Javier Peña x Fem!Reader x Fem!OC

Strangers by @joelmillerisapunk | Stripper!Javier Peña x f!reader

Series:

Thoroughfare by @gothcsz | Javier Peña x Original Female Character | (Ongoing)

★ my fav fic. you should read it & everything else by Kat!

Fantasize by gothcsz | javier peña x fem!reader | (Ongoing)

Neighbors by gothcsz | javier peña x f!reader | (Complete)

Salvatore by @devilmademewriteit | javier peña x afab!fem!reader | (Last updated 03/2023)

(Un)Faithful by probablyreadinsmut | Rbf!Javier Peña x Married F!Reader | (Ongoing)

Unscripted Desire by gothcsz | Pornstar!Javier x Pornstar!OFC x Fem!Reader | (Ongoing)

Joel Miller

One-Shots:

blurred lines by stellamarielu | joel miller x female reader

But daddy, I love him! by @sanarsi | older boyfriend!Joel Miller x f!Reader

Cherub by @thechaoticcherub | Priest!Joel Miller x reader

Dusk by gothcsz | No outbreak!Joel x Fem!Reader

Euphoria by sanarsi | professor!Joel Miller x student!f!Reader

For Cryin’ Out Loud by @gracieheartspedro | post-outbreak! joel miller x fem!reader

handsy by @stellamarielu | joel miller x female reader

I'm Happy Where The Devils Are by @dilf-docs | dbf!joel miller x younger!reader

Just This Once by punkshort | dbf!joel miller x f!reader

love thy neighbour by @ace-turned-confused | joel miller x f!reader

Middle of the Night by @frannyzooey | Joel Miller x f!Reader

Not Your Daddy by @celiababy | Pre-outbreak!Joel Miller x f!reader

october's end. by @salingers | joel miller x f!reader

room for three by @morning-star-joy | joel miller x f!reader x arthur morgan

The Christmas Auction by absurdthirst | Joel Miller x F!Reader

TRICK OR TREAT by @maiamore | No outbreak!Joel x Fem!Reader

Tomb rider by @joelspeach | dbf!Joel x female reader

feels so right by @fake-bleach | dbf!joel miller x reader

You're a Daydream, Stay A While by dilf-docs | joel miller x younger!reader

Series:

cowboy like me by @macfrog | dbf!joel miller x f!reader | (Complete)

Dark Shades of Innocence by @mermaidgirl30 | club owner/pleasure dom! Joel x fem! reader | (Complete)

Fourth of July by jrrmint | dbf!joel miller x f!reader | (AO3 Complete)

Give in Again by @pocketfullofkouhuns | No-outbreak!Joel x f!reader | (Complete)

i'll be home for christmas by punkshort | (Hallmark) Joel Miller x f!reader | (Complete)

My Burning Sun Will Someday Rise by @littlcdarlin | DBFJoel x f!Reader | (Complete)

right kind of dream by almostempty | joel miller x f!reader | (Complete)

slasher joel by @toxicanonymity | dark!Joel Miller x f!reader | (Complete)

Smooth Operator by @penascigarette | Joel Miller x F!Phone Sex Worker | (Ongoing)

swept away by punkshort | Joel Miller x f!reader | (Season 2 ongoing)

The F*CK IT LIST by @auteurdelabre | DBFJoel x f!Reader | (Ongoing)

unbeneath and you under my skin. by @tokkiwrites | mom's fiancé/bf! joel miller x f! | (Ongoing, last updated 11/2024)

worship by @mssalo | Joel Miller x married!f!Reader | (Complete)

i’ve read a lot more joel miller smut than i could’ve ever anticipated (ily dbf!joel)

Frankie Morales

Series:

The boyfriend act by @capuccinodoll | Frankie Morales x F!reader | (Ongoing)

Oberyn Martell

One-Shots:

The Watcher by absurdthirst | Modern!Oberyn Martell x F!Reader x Ellaria Sand

What’s Love Got to Do with It by almostempty | oberyn x f!reader

Marcus Acacius

One-Shots:

III by gothcsz | Marcus Acacius x Fem!Reader x Lucius Verus Aurelius

Blood Favor by @pedgito | Marcus Acacius x f!reader

Prima Nocta by @fuckyeahdindjarin | Marcus Acacius x F!Reader

The Farmer's Daughter by punkshort | Marcus Acacius x f!reader

The Future of Rome by absurdthirst | Marcus Acacius x F!Reader

Lucien de Leon

One-Shots:

Shameless by @milla-frenchy | Lucien de Leon x fem reader

there are some of the fics i've read and enjoyed since getting back into fanfiction in july 2024. it's a lot more than i expected, approximately 55. ill be posting monthly fic recs beginning march 2025.

thank you to all these fantastic authors who keep me up at night as i consume unreasonable amounts of smut. you're all amazing <3

dividers by @enchanthings

(updated 7/3/2025)

[missadangel]

⊱ AMOR MEUS AETERNUS ⊰

(Marcus Acacius x Ofc)

IV. Matrimonium

prev chapter series masterlist next chapter

Chapter Summary:  Here comes the -unfortunate time-traveller- bride! Ceremony: check, Applause: check, Sacrifice: check, Wedding band: check, Love: nah, Desire: unknown Groom: not leaving unlike the previous one Bride: thinking about escaping. Chapter W. Count and warnings: 11k; denial of feelings, blood, mention about sex, mention about virginity, a little fluff, angst injury, romantic comedy, ancient rome, using drugs (tranquilizer), anxiety attacks, violence, waxing, power imbalance, marriage, wedding, wedding night discussion, embarrasment, alcohol consumption. authors note: Pronuba: The Pronuba, the matron of honor, was still married to her first husband. She is univira, a one-man woman. Pairing: Marcus Acacius x Ofc!Reader (Her name is Rose, and her hair is dyed) Rating: Explicit, 18+ MDNI, Smut General Warnings: Harsh, cold, grumpy Marcus, and the reader is NOT innocent a little bitchy, Lucilla is mean, Lucius is a jerk(but falls in love with reader), its Septimius Severus' era but Geta and Caracalla are the prince of Rome, time travel, modern-ancient era travels, falling in love, slow burn, rough sex, smut, sex, oral sex (both f&m receiving), all sex, dirty talk, gladiators, battle, war, violence, blood, ancient time language, fluffy, injury, forced marriage, arranged marriage, sexism, haters to lovers, first love, angst, vestal virgins, vestal priestesses, age gap; reader is 25 Marcus is 42, reincarnation my masterlist

gif @userparamore

Theme....

"Julius, are you trying to kill me?"

He looked at you, eyes wide, still glistening with tears though. "Are you well?"

You stood up angrily, still reeling from the heartbreaking story he had just shared. "What exactly was the purpose of telling me all this? Because I'm about to have an anxiety attack." Your hands trembled.

"My apologies. I wanted you to understand the weight of my brother's burdens and the struggles he faces regarding this union—similar to yours."

"I get it; he’s still got that girl in his heart. But honestly, I don’t care. It’s not a real marriage, is it? By the time I get back, it’ll all be over—end of story. I should take my pill now or I won’t be able to sleep tonight due to nightmares." You said, then turned to leave, but he followed. You raised your hand to stop him, needed to be alone—just you and your pill, your best friend.

Trying to push thoughts from your mind as you walked through the dimly lit courtyard towards the stairs was a challenge. Tension gripped you again, a reminder of how cruel this ancient world can be, and you had no clue when you’d escape this nightmare. Your head spun as you climbed the stairs; you had to take your pill, and fast.

Lost in the darkness, your senses dulled by anxiety, you didn’t notice Marcus standing on the balustrade ahead. He noticed you, but just watched you walk by, still in shock and uncertain about what to do.

Upon entering your room, your eyes immediately searched for your bag.

There it was, on the bed. You unzipped it quickly, reaching for your medicine and popping one into your mouth. When you stood to grab the water from the table, you clumsily bumped your knee on the chair.

Yes, the same knee you had hurt earlier.

“Ah, damn!” You plopped onto the bed, lifting the hem of your dress. The wound wasn’t deep, but it was bleeding a bit. You thought you should apply some hand cream to it; after all, there was no pharmacy around. 

“Rosa?”

Startled by Marcus’ voice, you looked up, and he froze at the sight. Oh, right, your legs were exposed again. He averted his gaze, but not before noticing your wound.

"How can you just barge into my room like that?"

"I heard your voice. Are you hurt?" he asked, turning his head slowly, his attention fixating on your knee.

"Why? Are you worried about me now? I thought you came to cut out my tongue."

He exhaled sharply and faced you. "Forgive me, Rosa. I was a bit angry."

"A bit?"

He stepped closer, reaching out to touch your knee, but you instinctively pulled back. “Let me see,” he said, sitting beside you and gently touching your knee. "How did this happen?"

What was going on?

Why was he acting so tender all of a sudden?

"I fell, and Lucius carried me here. Oh right, you didn't bother to ask; you preferred to threaten me instead," you said sarcastically.

"Lucius," he murmured. "Are you interested in him?" His tone sharpened, hinting at something deeper.

Puzzled by his reaction, you decided to tease him. "I don't know; he’s a handsome man."

His brow furrowed. "Keep that opinion to yourself. You’re about to be married."

Ignoring his awkard-possessive tone, you reached for your bag. "Can you hand me my bag? I need some cream for my knee."

He obeyed, passing you your bag while watching intently. His gaze traveled over your face, still stunned by the revelation from earlier. He was trying to reconcile the features of the woman he loved, finding uncanny resemblances in you that sent his mind spiraling.

So this is how she would have looked like if… if they hadn’t taken her from me, he thought.

The same frown line etched on your forehead, the delicate slant of your eyes, your long, lush eyelashes framing your gaze, your perfectly sculpted nose, and, most strikingly, your lips.

Those lips.

They were exactly the same.

Once again, he was taken aback.

How had he not noticed before?

Just the sight of your lips pulled him back into treasured memories, reminding him of their first kiss—a fleeting moment that was forever seared into his mind. So entranced by your lips, he nearly leaned in to kiss you.

Almost.

“Well, I guess this will do,” you said, slipping the cream back into your bag.

Your voice jolted him from his reverie. “That photo,” he said, peering into your bag with curiosity.

“Which one?” You reached into your wallet. “Oh, this one? It’s an old picture of me as a kid. Look, I was really young here—about 11 or 12—and Liz was just five. It was her birthday.” You sighed, gazing at the photo. It held a different meaning for both of you. “I miss her so much,” you whispered.

“Your family... you mentioned that your mother has passed away and that your father is currently experiencing health issues. Is there anyone else in your family?” His serious tone caught you off guard; he seemed genuinely interested, not just asking out of politeness.

“My dad’s in the hospital, in a coma, but I guess you wouldn’t really understand what that means. I have an aunt, but we’re not on the best terms. Why do you ask?”

“Have you always lived in Rome?”

“What’s with the sudden barrage of questions?”

He remained silent, clearly waiting for your response.

“Well, no, I was very young when we moved to Italy from the States— that’s where I was born.”

“States?”

Oh right, how could he know? America hadn’t even been discovered yet; it was still thousands of years away.

“Another... well, another country. Never mind, it’s a long story. I’m not sure I can explain it to you, and honestly, I don’t think you’re ready to hear it.”

You realized he seemed lost in thought, and you wondered what was going through his mind. You broke the silence. “Okay, your turn to answer, Mr. General. Julius said..."

'that the woman you loved when you were younger had a tragic end.'

How could you have said that to him?

The thought twisted in your mind; you could scarcely bear to face it yourself.

“What did he say?”

You took a moment to gather yourself. “Well, he said you visited that place I mentioned. Is that true? Did you go there?”

Nice save.

He looked you square in the eye and stood up. “I appreciate that you informed me,” he said, leaving you bewildered.

“What does that mean—yes or no?”

“You don’t need to concern yourself with that matter now. The wedding is the day after tomorrow. Have some rest. Sleep well, Rosa.” He turned and walked out.

“The day after tomorrow?” Frustrated, you grabbed the pillow and hurled it at the door. “'Have some rest,' you say? You rest!” you shouted as you flopped onto the bed in a fury. “Please, God, help me get back home.”

It was one of those mornings again—heavy, disorienting, melancholic.

Those mornings when you open your eyes and instantly realize that both the place and time you occupy no longer feel familiar. A wave of emotions crashing over—disappointment, longing, a sense of confinement, anger...

And then there’s that other emotion, one that seems to be trying to break through: acceptance.

But surrendering isn’t an option.

No matter what happens, you tell yourself you won’t despair; you’ll find your way back.

You know you will.

Because the moment you let go, the moment you lose hope, this harsh and unforgiving world would consume you whole. You didn’t fit in here; you felt like a puzzle piece that doesn’t belong.

You pulled your phone out of your bag and turned it on, having a sinking feeling when you saw the battery down to 17%.

Just like your hopes, just like your patience, it was wearing thin.

If that weren’t enough, what awaited you in the courtyard with Julius and the others tested your limits further.

"What do you mean I have to stay in another house?" you exclaimed, your voice bouncing off the walls of the courtyard.

Julius placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, trying to soothe your rising frustration. "Please calm down. You only have to stay for tonight."

Balbina lounged in her usual spot, seemingly relishing your discontent, while Lydia stood nearby, smiling awkwardly. "Since you're an outlander, allow me to explain," Balbina started, her tone dripping with condescension. "According to Roman law, the wedding occurs in the bride's home. As patricians, we must adhere to this tradition. Since you don't belong to the patrician class, you might not be familiar with this terms."

"She will be part of our class upon her marriage to my brother," Julius stated, maintaining a respectful tone. He then presented you with a meticulously crafted leather-bound scroll. "This document signifies your new status; you are now a Roman citizen."

You took the document, untying the thread that bound it, and opened it. All you recognized was your name, along with the word 'Roman.' Beneath your name was the seal of Emperor Severus, complete with his likeness. “Well, my Latin isn't great, but is this some kind of identification like an ID?”

“Indeed, it is,” he replied with a smile.

“But why do I have to stay in another house?”

“It’s part of the ritual. You must be brought from the bride's house to the groom's house.”

“Fine, but my house...” -is in Rome in the year 2025.

"You required to stay at Claudia’s house." Balbina instructed, not looking at you. "Julius, take her there at once. We have much preparation to undertake here already."

Julius nodded and turned to you. "If you're ready, we need to leave now."

As you walked to the garden together, ensuring you were away from others, you said, “Julius, please, I don’t want to go. I’m still trying to adjust to this place.”

“You’ll only be there for one night.”

“Where’s Marcus? Does he know about this?"

“He left early for preparations. He chose Claudia’s house���it’s trustworthy and conveniently close to our house. Remember, the law dictates that the wedding must take place at that house, you need to emerge there as the bride, as if the daughter of that house. Marriages within the same family are forbidden, simply as weddings cannot occur in the groom's house.”

“A mere formality, is it?” you muttered, grimacing. Suddenly stopping in your tracks, you added with anxiety, “My bag, I left it in the room.”

“Leave it,” he said as he helped you into the carriage. “Your belongings will be moved to my brother’s chambers tonight, along with your dowry.”

“Dowry?”

He settled next to you in the carriage. “As I mentioned, Marcus is busy with the arrangements.”

It seemed that Marcus had shouldered the burden of all wedding arrangements, paying out of his own budget. Julius had made it clear from the outset that such an approach was rather atypical.

“Your mother, Balbina, asked me to stay in another house to avoid dealing with the wedding preparations she didn't want any part of, right?” you said.

Julius was silent, and you knew that meant yes.

"I'm not surprised," you replied, "after all, she doesn’t like me. But I thought Marcus was the head of the family, that he was in charge. Apparently not, huh?"

Julius chuckled lightly. “You still don’t seem to grasp the seriousness and significance of the situation.”

"What do you mean?"

"You are marrying the head of the Acacius family, and general of Rome. Just imagine how hard this must be for my mother. Soon, you’ll be addressed as 'domina' in the villa. Can you grasp that now?"

You paused, realizing the gravity of his words; you never fully acknowledged how important this was. “But I didn’t ask for that.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Rosa, but your desires are beside the point. What truly matters is what my brother wants. This is the strongest way he can protect you, even from my mother.”

He was kinda right; if you compared it to the modern day, 2025, Marcus was akin to the top soldier in the army, something like a chief of staff. His wife would be both important and respected.

Yet, despite all that, it was an arranged marriage, and the bride had zero desire to marry.

None whatsoever.

The villa where Lady Claudia lived was indeed close by. It was smaller than Marcus’s but still lovely—typical for a Roman villa, modest yet charming. You felt a knot of anxiety in your stomach; staying there even for one night seemed unbearable. As you entered the courtyard, the buzz of activity caught your attention.

Slaves—poor souls—were dashing around: some were decorating with white flowers, others carried trays, while still more were busy cleaning the upper floors. It was a pre-wedding frenzy...

All for you.

Great.

When you spotted a slave who had dropped a cup while rushing along with a tray, you quickly picked it up for him. His eyes widened in surprise, and he bowed his head in gratitude before hastening back to his tasks.

“Julius.”

A woman’s voice called out moments later.

Julius replied, “Lady Claudia.”

At first, you brushed off the similarities in her voice; it had been over a decade since you had last heard it. But as you turned to look at her, shock coursed through you. Lady Claudia’s face mirrored your mother’s—warm smile intact. As she drew nearer, your body trembled, and your heart raced.

The peaceful, lifeless visage you had seen at the funeral was now alive and smiling again. After seeing your father's doppelganger, this was truly mind-blowing.

You covered your mouth, stifling a sob.

"Rosa?" Julius’s voice dripped with concern.

Claudia frowned, her expression a mix of confusion and worry. “Are you well, dear?”

You forced yourself to regain composure, feeling as if you were trying to escape from an invisible weight pressing down on you. "I- I am..." you stammered, struggling to find the right words.

Julius placed a comforting hand on your shoulder. "What’s the matter, Rosa?"

You couldn’t tear your eyes away from Claudia. “Forgive me, I'm just confused. You resemble my mother, whom I lost years ago.”

Claudia smiled softly. "How unfortunate. Please accept my condolences."

Oh, she seemed like a better person than your dad's evil twin.

Overcome by a sudden yearning, you hesitated but then mustered the courage to ask, “Can I hug you?”

The slaves around looked surprised, but Claudia nodded and opened her arms. You embraced her tightly, closing your eyes and burying your head in her shoulder, filled with longing. Claudia wrapped her arms around you, taken aback by the warmth of your affection. "You loved your mother very much, I can tell." You nodded, sniffling, still resting against her. “I hope you meet her again in another life.”

Oh well, that's precisely what is happening now.

Suddenly realizing you were clinging to her a bit too tightly, you pulled back and managed a nervous smile. “Thank you.”

Claudia returned the smile. "That was a warmer greeting than I expected, wouldn’t you agree, Ennius?"

You noticed a young boy beside her looking at you with judgement. He didn’t resemble anyone you recognized, hopefully. “I’d call it slightly inappropriate, Mother.”

“Now, now, my son. Remember, she’s a woman about to marry General Acacius—show some respect. Now, come, dear, there’s much to do.”

“I must take my leave,” Julius said, glancing at you. “I look forward to seeing you tomorrow.”

You waved goodbye. "See you."

Normally, you would be in a panic right now—left alone in a place surrounded by strangers. But Claudia reminded you of your mother, not only in appearance but also in her behavior. It was almost enough to make you feel at ease, and you couldn't tear your gaze away from her.

As the hours slipped away, a growing sense of unease began to creep into you while Claudia passionately delved into the traditions surrounding a Roman bride. She described it in vivid detail, almost as if you were her own daughter. Although your grasp of history equipped you with knowledge, nothing compared to experiencing these customs firsthand.

By evening, when the slaves arrived carrying large shells look like plates, you asked Claudia about the sticky substance they held, her response left you stunned.

“Beeswax,” she explained. “Now, undress, please.”

You instinctively wrapped your arms around yourself. “I don’t have any unwanted hair, I swear.” You lifted your skirts to show your smooth legs, a result of your regular laser hair removal sessions.

"I insist on seeing the rest of you," she said firmly.

At her command, the slaves began to undress you, treating your body with the indifference of peeling fruit. Despite their casual handling, you couldn’t shake the feeling of discomfort; thankfully, Claudia exuded a maternal aura. When she glanced at your armpits and noted the absence of hair -due to the laser treatments-, she couldn’t help but express surprise. However, the pubic area was another story. You had let that grow a bit over the weeks, and Claudia’s solemn words echoed in your ears: “We must remove the hair here.”

“But I usually use a razor for that area; my skin is too sensitive for laser treatment, and waxing, I can't even think of it,” you protested.

She didn’t seem to hear you, -probably didn't understand what were you saying- and you flushed with embarrassment as the slaves guided you to sit on the lectus. “I should’ve just done it myself,” you muttered, remembering the sting of waxing in a sensitive area from a previous experience.

Shaking slightly with trepidation, you settled in. One slave held your arms while another nudged your legs apart, and a third applied the honey-scented wax to your skin, coating the hair with it.

Claudia leaned back, chuckling at your plight. “Stay still, dear. You’re a Roman lady now; all the hair must be removed. Agreed?”

Your answer was nothing short of a shrill scream, piercing the quiet, startling any birds perched nearby on the balcony.

Once the brutal hair removal was complete, pain pulsed through you, mixing with a simmering frustration aimed at Marcus. “This is all your fault, Marcus; I hate you,” you grumbled. Slaves girls and Claudia quietly laughed while leaving you alone to nurse your throbbing discomfort.

Thinking twice, maybe you didn't like Claudia that much.

As dusk settled in, you took a moment to gaze from the balcony of your new room in that villa. Earlier, you had a special pre-wedding bath in the private bathhouse, accompanied by Claudia's advice for your wedding night, which made your face turn red from embarrassment. Below, the slaves still scurried about, busy with their tasks, just as they had been all morning. The area they waxed was still a bit sore, but thankfully, Claudia, being the considerate woman she was, had sent you some soothing oil to ease the discomfort.

You couldn’t help but feel sorry for the women of this era.

When some of the slave girls entered to apply the soothing oil for you, you thanked them gratefully. It worked somehow.

"My lady," one of them giggled, "Maybe you could ask the general to help ease your pain tomorrow night when you’re alone together.”

Confused, you asked, “How?” as you rose from the lectus.

Their laughter rang out, and you felt heat rush to your cheeks as you realized the implication of their words.

“Don’t you girls have something better to do?” you scolded them.

They bowed their heads and apologized, still snickering as they left the room.

Once they were gone, you felt your blush deepen at the thoughts they had put in your head.

Damn estrogen.

This marriage was a sham after all; why were you feeling so anxious?

Seeking some fresh air, you made your way to the courtyard. You found a quiet corner away from the noise of the slaves and the chatter surrounding you, retreating to one of the gardens.

A wave of melancholy washed over you; you were off your anxiety pills and struggling to believe this was actually happening. Just a few weeks ago, if someone had told you that you’d be kidnapped to ancient Rome and thrust into marriage, you would have laughed until it hurt.

Yet now, you were living through this absurdity, constantly wondering, 'Why me?'

Looking up at the sky, you noted the crescent moon—perhaps two weeks until the full moon? You hoped to find a way back home then.

Suddenly, a crunching sound drew your attention. Before you could react, a large hand clamped over your mouth. You turned to see Lucius and his intense blue eyes signaling for silence.

He slowly removed his hand.

“What are you doing here? Why are you sneaking around?”

He was wearing a black robe. “I came to take you away from here.”

Your eyes widened in disbelief. “What? What do you mean?”

“I can see that marrying him isn't what you truly want. Let me help you.”

“How can you help?”

“I’m heading out of Rome tonight. I can take you back to your family, your homeland. I promise, I’ll make sure you arrive safely,” he urged, determination flashing in his gaze.

You felt a mix of emotions. “Oh, Lucius, if it were only that simple.”

“Where does your family live? No distance is too great for me. I will find a way to take you there."

Confusion clouded your thoughts. “Lucius, why would you do this for me?”

His gaze dropped to your lips as he took a deep breath. “I…” he hesitated. “You’ve changed something in me. I think I’m in love with you,” he confessed with a grin.

“What? You must be joking. Why would you fall for me? Surely, you have plenty of women around,” you countered.

He shrugged. “I’ve never met anyone like you. But that’s not why I’m offering to help. I am here because Acacius is forcing you into this marriage. I can’t allow it.”

With a heavy sigh, you conceded, “Lucius, you need to understand—I appreciate your offer, but I can’t accept. Marcus isn’t forcing me. I want to marry him,” you lied, hoping to sound convincing. After all, Marcus was your only ally in this unfamiliar world, even if he made you furious.

“Are you certain, Rosa? If it’s protection you seek, I can give that to you.”

You shook your head, your gaze steady. “I have faith in Marcus to look after me. He has promised to reunite me with my family someday. Despite the way he can irritate me at times, he’s a man of his word.”

“But you won’t find happiness with him," he murmured.

“Why are you leaving, by the way?” you asked, changing the subject.

His expression turned serious. “Things might get complicated soon. I need to leave before it does, much like I’ve done before. My whole life has been a series of escapes anyway.”

“Why?”

He let out a sad laugh. “Because I’m an unfortunate, damned prince of Rome.”

He touched your cheek, and you swallowed hard, feeling a strange connection between you. “I hope you find happiness, flower. Take care until we meet again.”

Suddenly, he leaned in and pressed a brief, light kiss on your lips. You barely had time to react before he slipped away into the darkness, lost among the trees and shadows. You stood there, stunned, your lips lingering in shock as you blinked away the moment.

As the morning sun poured into your new room, a battalion of slave girls invaded, bustling in with an eager excitement that danced in the air. One girl flung the thick curtains wide, allowing a cascade of golden sunlight to spill into the space, while another approached with the most exquisite wedding dress, placing it delicately upon the bed like a treasure awaiting its moment. A third girl laid down a long, ethereal tulle in shades of soft yellow and orange, and yet another carefully peeled back the sheet, revealing you to the ancient world once more.

Today, as the bride, you were the center of attention, and all eyes would be on you.

The time traveler bride.

The girls began to dress you in a flowing white dress when Claudia entered the room. Instinctively, you smiled at her. She returned your smile warmly and tenderly touched your cheek. “Rosa, did you sleep well?”

“Yes, thank you, Lady Claudia,” you replied.

“Do you feel ready?” she asked.

“For what?” you said, smoothing the hem of your dress.

She laughed gently. “It’s your wedding day, dear.”

"Oh, right,” you said, nodding, trying to mask the tumult of emotions swirling within you. You didn’t want her to sense your unease.

Claudia placed her hands on your shoulders. “I don’t know what you feel about him, but I’ve known General Acacius since he was young. He’s a good man, and I’m certain he will treat you well.”

“I guess he is,” you said, pursing your lips. You wanted the day to be over as soon as possible.

It felt like you were reliving a bad dream.Your previous wedding ended with the groom leaving you at the altar, but now it feels like you want to leave the groom this time.

You wished for a way out, but there was none.

As your hair was braided, the other slave girls announced the arrival of the guests. Soft music and quiet chatter came from downstairs. Soon, they informed you that the general and his family arrived. The girls placed the long, yellowish veil on your head, so long that you had to twist it around your arm a few times. Worse still, it obscured your vision.

“Am I really supposed to wear this all day?”

Claudia chuckled. “Have you forgotten already? Your husband will lift your veil when you reach his home. But first, he’ll unveil your face to kiss you.”

The word “husband” hit you like a punch to the gut.

Claudia took your arm as you made your way down the stairs, and the music shifted to a slower tempo, the atmosphere becoming lighter. As she had mentioned, she was taking you to your groom. It was an ancient ceremony, surprisingly representing a modern one: the groom waits by the priest while the bride walks through the guests.

The only difference was that this was ancient Rome.

You sighed, wondering what Lizzie would say if she saw you like this. She’d probably laugh a lot. Smiling to yourself, realizing you had many stories to share when you returned home.

As you approached Marcus, thoughts began to spiral in your mind. What if you couldn’t go back? What if you were destined to live here forever as his wife?

How could you endure this sham of a marriage?

Would you ever come to love him?

Would he ever soften his hardened demeanor?

If you considered things from the perspective of an ordinary woman living in this era—not as a time traveler—perhaps you could find something to appreciate in him or love him. He was handsome and, despite his tough exterior, a really good man.

But you still couldn’t forgive him. He had pulled you into this situation and forced you to marry him. No matter his reasons, it felt wrong. He still had someone else in his heart, and you had no feelings for him that would ever change.

You stood directly in front of him, dismissing the curious gazes around you, while the high priest began his ceremonial speech. As you caught a glimpse of his face, you couldn’t help but stare.

He looked undeniably handsome.

When you suddenly heard the sound of the sacrificial pig, you found yourself gaping at Marcus, disbelief washing over you.

What the hell?

Did he notice you staring?

Yes, he did, and he was looking right back at you.

That smirk—damn.

Oh no.

Why was your heart racing?

Get a grip, Rose. You’re angry with him—cool your jets.

Why was there this sudden flutter in your chest, especially when you hadn’t felt an ounce of excitement since morning?

You weren't marrying the man you loved; you didn’t love him at all.

You hated him.

The high priest’s words sounded like murmurings, lost amid the cacophony of voices swirling in your head and heart. He gestured for you to raise your hands, and Claudia, as your pronuba, grasped your right hands with both of hers, intertwining them. Marcus slipped a gold ring onto your finger, featuring the image of two hands clasped together, reminiscent of the ones you’d seen in museums.

Oh great, the anxiety was creeping in again.

When he lifted your veil, it became time to recite the words you’d been trying to memorize since the night before. “Ubi tu Gaius, ego Gaia,” you said, your voice steady but avoiding Marcus's gaze, opting instead to focus on his chin.

“Ubi tu Gaia, ego Gaius,” he replied softly. As he leaned in for the kiss, you held your breath; even though it was obligatory, you weren’t prepared for it. Yet, his kiss was gentle and brief, and you were surprised to find his lips warm and soft against yours.

“And the contract is signed. General Acacius, this woman is now yours,” the high priest announced, his voice resounding like a solemn bell. The guests responded with a warm blend of applause and joyful laughter.

Claudia then handed Marcus a cake that one of the slaves had brought on a special plate. You swallowed hard; your stomach grumbled—hunger gnawed at you, and you couldn’t wait to eat something. Marcus made you take a bite of the cake, but he didn’t offer you much. He chuckled when you frowned at him, especially since he broke the cake over your head as part of a Roman wedding tradition.

Damn ritual cake.

You should be enjoying it in your belly, not having it drop on your head.

Fortunately, the rituals wrapped up, and the feast commenced. The food was delightful—lamb, fresh and dried fruits, bread, and, of course, wine.

Okay, the Romans knew how to celebrate.

Laughter filled the air as people indulged in food and drink, coming over to congratulate you both. If you weren’t so busy devouring everything in sight, you might have noticed Marcus watching you intently all night, but your hunger took precedence. You probably ate so eagerly on your wedding night that your appetite became the subject of conversation throughout the entire city more than your beauty did. Julius and other men approached and exchanged words with Marcus. Soon, Lucilla came over to congratulate Marcus as well. He responded to her with a cold but respectful thank you.

“That’s enough,” Marcus said all of sudden, taking your hand to stop you from reaching for the wine cup.

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Isn’t this my wedding night? I can drink as I please.”

“Then I’ll stop you, as your husband.”

“I thought this marriage wasn’t real,” you muttered.

Marcus glanced around and then leaned close. “Be quiet; someone will overhear.”

His tone conveyed anger, but it felt more like a warning than a rebuke. Something had changed in him but what?

Or was he merely playing the part of a devoted husband?

After the banquet, you walked from Claudia’s villa to Acacius', accompanied by the sound of drums. To your surprise, the streets outside were crowded with people cheering for Marcus while gazing at you with wide-eyed awe. Their excitement felt genuine, unlike the women who had eyed you with envy during the banquet. As you attempted to walk beside Marcus, young men, including Julius with torches in hand, accompanied the procession. Occasionally, you stumbled over your long veil, prompting Marcus to offer you his arm. Accepting it made navigating the dark streets easier, but by the time you finally reached the villa, your legs were exhausted. After enduring a few more rituals, your patience was wearing thin.

Sure, they knew how to celebrate, but their devotion to ceremonies was grueling.

Once the fire and water rituals concluded in the villa’s courtyard, everyone suddenly turned to stare at you. You were accustomed to the typical glares from Balbina and Lydia, but the attention from even the slaves was unsettling.

Did you miss another ritual?

Marcus leaned in close, whispering, “My apologies.”

“Apologize all you want; I won’t forgive you. How dare you force me to—ah! What are you doing?”

He suddenly scooped you up, tossing you over his shoulder. Others laughter echoed as you thrashed about.

“I meant to say, ‘apologies for this.’”

“Marcus! My stomach is full; put me down now or I swear I’ll throw up! I mean it!” You struggled, but then his hand found your backside, you froze.

“Calm down; I’ll lower you down shortly.”

You couldn’t see much being upside down, but he turned left after ascended the stairs, veered a little, passed through a grand doorway, and behind a satin curtain, gently placing you back on your feet. It took a moment to regain your balance, then you took in your surroundings.

This must have been the biggest room you’d ever seen—a large bed, a big wardrobe, a hefty desk, chairs, and a passage that led to a balcony.

“Wow, so this is Mr. General's room,” you said, glancing around. 

“Do you like it?” he asked. 

You turned to him. “I prefer my own room, but this isn’t bad. Oh, I’m so tired; let me just sit here.” You plopped down on the edge of the bed. “Hey, this bed is really comfortable,” you remarked, bouncing slightly and testing the mattress. Although spring mattresses didn’t exist back then, this one was surprisingly soft.

Marcus approached you. “Let me help you with your veil; it seems tangled in your hair,” he offered, reaching out. 

“Yeah, I’m finally getting rid of this annoying thing.” 

“It suits you,” he said with a smile. 

You squinted at him.

“I didn’t intend to call you annoying; it suits you beautifully I meant to say.” 

“Whatever,” you yawned. “What a long day.” 

“Yes, it truly was,” he murmured.

You both stared at each other in awkward silence for a moment until you finally broke it. “It feels strange, doesn’t it? The fake wedding, and now we’re pretending to be husband and wife.” 

Suddenly Marcus frowned, turning away to lift the curtain and scold someone outside. “Return your quarters immediately. No one is allowed near this room."

Once he was came back, you were taking off your shoes. “What just happened?” 

“Slaves. Must be Balbina’s doing.” 

“What do you mean?” you asked, removing your other shoe. 

Marcus let out a weary sigh. “She’s intent on finding out if the marriage has really been consummated.”

You widened your eyes in surprise. “They were actually waiting to listen? Wow, you people surprise me every single time.” 

Marcus began to remove his shawl. “It’s tradition. Isn’t it the same in your time? The married couple does something different on wedding nights?”

“At least no one eavesdrops on you there, except in some narrow-minded cultures,” you replied, struggling to untie the belt around your waist. “Ugh, it’s too tight.” 

He stepped closer. “Allow me,” he said, effortlessly untying the knot. 

“Wow, you follow traditions so well. Are you taking this marriage seriously or what?” you said with a smirk. 

But you immediately regretted the joke when he shot you a piercing look. “If I truly took this marriage seriously, I wouldn’t be standing here having a conversation with you. Instead...” He tilted his head, gesturing the bed.

You turned your head away, swallowing hard. “Okay, okay, it was just a joke. By the way, where’s my bag?” you asked, glancing around. 

Marcus unfastened his belt and left it on the bed, then retrieved your bag from the wardrobe and handed it to you. “Here.” 

“Oh, my bag,” you exclaimed, taking it from him and giving it a tight hug. 

He laughed. “You must really have missed it.” 

“Oh, you have no idea,” you admitted. “Thanks for looking after it.” You pulled out your cell phone. “Now I can finally clear my head,” you said, sitting back on the bed. 

Marcus came over and perched on the edge of the bed. “What are you doing?” 

“I need to jot down the lunar calendar and important dates. The battery might die soon,” you explained while searching for your notebook in the bag. 

“You mean you need to write? You can use my desk,” he suggested, glancing at it. 

You peeked over and noticed a reed pen, ink, and parchment set up nicely. “Thanks, Mr. General, but I’ve got something better.” You pulled out a ballpoint pen and a small heart-shaped notepad. 

Marcus frowned. “You’re going to write with that thing?” 

You chuckled. “Oh, I’m sorry; you don’t know about this invention, do you? It has a little reservoir for ink, so you don’t have to keep dipping it.” 

He examined the pen and scribbled something on the paper. “If I’d known about this earlier, I would have written my letters faster.” 

You took the pen back from him. "Just be careful; you might change history in a dangerous way."

You both smiled.

He stood up and grabbed some fruit from the table while you continued to write on the notepad. 

“Care for a taste? Or perhaps you've had your fill after the banquet,” he asked with a teasing glimmer in his eye, lifting a luscious grape to his mouth. 

“Yeah, I’d love some grapes, please.” 

“You certainly possess a much appetite for a woman,” he teased, placing a plate of grapes on the bed. 

“Hey, it says here that the next full moon is in six days,” you remarked, focused on your screen while popping a grape into your mouth.

Marcus seemed to enjoy watching you. “Six days,” he echoed, and a strange sensation pricked at him. He didn’t like the thought of you going back home in six days; it stung. 

“Yeah,” you replied cheerfully. “I hope it works this time,” you said with a grin. 

“And what if it doesn’t?”

You frowned at him. “Hey, let’s steer clear of negative thoughts; we need to stay positive.” 

He couldn’t fault you for that; he understood. He had already promised to help you return, yet he found it increasingly challenging to let you go, as the mere thought of it hurt him.

“Oh shit, no fucking way.”

“What happened?” he asked, bending down to look at the phone's display. 

“My battery's almost dead, the phone's going to shut off,” you said sadly.

“This little device was everywhere in your time; every individual was holding it. It must hold a lot of significance.”

“Yes, very much so. Some people walk around never putting the phone down. You can keep up with the news, chat with your friends, get recipes, take notes, anything you can think of.”

"It allows you to send messages and speak with each other, it does not?"

“You are a good observer, general. You know, you could have called the barracks with it,” you laughed at the prospect. “Of course, first you'd have to have a cell phone and a cell tower nearby."

He laughed softly. "It could've simplify things."

“Yeah. You know what I say? Since the battery is running out, I might as well look at the photos for the last time. I miss my sister. Do you want to take a look? After all, you're stuck here with me tonight.”

“True, I have nothing else to do,” he said, smiling nervously.

He asked you a lot of questions as you showed him the photos from the gallery, he didn't look amazed like Julius, just observant and detailed. When you mentioned that Claudia looked like your mother, he was surprised and even more surprised when you showed him an old picture of your mother.

And then he was lost in thought.

When you paused at a picture, he realized that your face had fallen.

“I should have deleted this photo,” you said angrily. And you deleted it and threw it in the trash.

“Why?”

“I mean, I tore that stupid wedding dress and seeing it again made me angry.”

“You never mentioned that you were married before.”

“I wasn't, the asshole left me on my wedding day.”

"What kind of man would do such thing," he muttered.

“Someone who's not a man, obviously,” your voice cracked.

He touched your shoulder. “Rosa,” he whispered. You looked at him, his brown eyes were intense, sparkling. "He is not worth your sorrow; do not allow yourself to feel sad because of him."

What the hell?

Your heart raced, pounding against your ribcage like a drum—thump thump thump thump.

“Thanks, Marcus,” you said, feeling warmth spread through you at his kindness. His hand lingered on your shoulder, igniting a flutter of nerves within you—not in a bad way but in a thrilling, electric way as he looked you over, his features undeniably charming.

Suddenly, the phone vibrated, and then the screen went dark.

“Shit,” you said and threw the phone across the room.

Marcus picked up the phone from the floor. “It might be broken now,” he said.

“Forget it,” you said, standing up. “There's no electricity anyway, I can't even charge it, so it doesn't matter.” you said, pouring the wine decanter on the table into a cup. Then you took your pill out of your bag and were about to pop one in your mouth when Marcus came up to you and stopped you by grabbing your wrist. "You have consumed enough wine already, and I've noticed you reaching for that medicine too frequently."

“What, have you decided to pretend to be my husband?” you asked sarcastically.

He took you in his arms without breaking his serious expression. You gasped. “Hey Marcus, I was joking!”

He approached the bed and laid you on it. You opened your eyes wide when he leaned over you, but he was bending down to pull the covers over you. “Sleep now, you must be tired.” he said, turning around to extinguish the oil lamp.

“But where will you sleep?”

“Here,” he said as he lay down on the lectus.

You sat up on your elbow and looked at him. “Hey that thing looks pretty uncomfortable.”

He smiled and put his arm over his face.“I’ve endured far brutal conditions during the war. This is comfortable option compared to that one.”

“Hmm, okay then,” you murmured and lay back down. “Good night, Mr. General.” As you closed your eyes, a wave of unexpected drowsiness washed over you, and you drifted into sleep almost instantly.

Marcus shifted his arm from his face and turned to watch you slumber, a soft smile gracing his lips. “Good night, Rosa,” he whispered, his voice barely audible in the quiet darkness.

Marcus awoke before you, the remnants of a restless night still etched on his face. He had spent countless hours watching you sleep, captivated by your peacefulness, while thoughts of you swirled in his mind. In an attempt to quell his overwhelming desire to reach out and touch you, he had paced the room like a caged animal, frustration simmering beneath the surface. A nascent anger bubbled up within him—for your inability to remember him—but he quickly quelled those feelings, aware that neither of you held the power to change things.

It felt as if the gods themselves were casting a mocking smile in his direction.

As you stretched in bed, you were pleasantly surprised to feel refreshed when you opened your eyes. It had been a long time since you had slept this well. Marcus's bed was far more comfortable than you had expected.

But where was he?

You sat up and scanned the room, yawning.

Just then, he lifted the curtain and walked in, his face lighting up with surprise at the sight of you awake. "Did you sleep well?" he asked.

"Yes. You won't believe it, but I actually slept great," you replied. He approached the bed and lifted the covers, which caused you to startle. "What are you doing?"

When you spotted the dagger-like knife in his hand—an instrument used by Roman soldiers—you instinctively pulled back and curled your legs up. "Marcus, are you out of your mind?"

“Easy now, I won't hurt you,” he reassured you. “The slaves will be here shortly to collect the sheets."

He pressed the knife into his palm. You were shocked that he didn't even flinch when he cut himself. He placed his hand firmly on the sheet and clenched his fist, few drops of blood trickled down and stained the fabric. You looked at him in confusion, but he seemed completely at ease, as if he were completing a task.

"Geez, we should have poured some wine or something. Did you really have to cut yourself?" 

"Balbina would have noticed." 

"What is she, Sherlock Holmes or something?" you muttered, wrinkling your nose in disgust at the sight of blood on the sheet. 

As he wiped the knife on a piece of cloth, you stood up, reached for his hand, and examined it. The cut was deep, but it was nothing Marcus would worry about. "You're quite determined to cut yourself, aren't you?"

He frowned at the insinuation in your voice. 

“Julius told me you were willing to die.” He looked into your eyes, waiting for you to continue. You sighed before you spoke again. “He also mentioned why that is.”

You both locked eyes in a moment that stretched on, the air thick with unspoken words. “Do you really feel that way? Do you want to die so badly because it would take away your pain?”

He didn't answer, he was still looking into your eyes, but he wasn't angry, as if he had a lot he wanted to say but couldn't put it into words. He looked at the piece of cloth again and picked up the other one, but you took it from him. “Let me do it,” you said as you wrapped it around the cut on his hand.

He watched you intently as you worked, swallowing hard, captivated by the sight of your eyelashes and the beauty in your eyes. Resisting the urge to touch you, to kiss you... Such a strong urge that it felt far more challenging than facing an enemy on the battlefield. He knew he would have to learn to cope with it.

“Don't die,” you whispered, not taking your eyes off his hand as tears began to trickle down the sides. "If anything happens to you, I can't go back. You're the only one I trust here. I need you." When a tear fell on his palm, he surprised, took your face in his hands. “I assure you that I won't. I no longer have a desire to die, so please, do not cry.”

You smiled and wiped your tears, sniffling. “We have a deal.”

He smiled and wiped the other tears with his thumb, nodding. 

"Besides, you promised to help me back. You can't die without keeping your promise." you said, teasing him.

He nodded again. "You have my word."

And at that moment there was a knock at the door. Marcus withdrew his hand and returned to the bed. He picked up the sheets and walked to the slaves waiting at the door. Then he came back. "I have some duties in the barracks and need to leave soon. You shall have this room—and the entire villa—as your own home now. Feel free to indulge in whatever pleases you."

You looked around. “Okay, I'm sure I'll find something to do.”

"And please, don't go out unannounced. Now that you are my wife, you can put me in a difficult situation, you understand? It's essential to consider the reputation of your general husband."

With a playful salute, you nodded. “Yes, sir.”

He chuckled and took one last look at you before leaving the room. 

After he left, you sat on the bed.  It felt peculiar; something had changed within Marcus—he was softer now, more open than before. Even when you brought up the past with him, he didn't get angry or avoid the subject. Maybe he felt sorry for yelling at you last time, who knows.

Later in the day, the slaves entered the room to change the sheets and dress you in your new attire. You walked around, feeling uncomfortable in the elaborate attire. Sewing and designing appeared to be easier than actually wearing it. The gold bracelets on your arms and the necklaces and earrings around your neck clinked with every movement. Typically, you weren't fond of wearing so much jewelry, but it seemed that being a married woman in this era came with such expectations.

How lovely.

Your heart sank when one of the slaves informed you that Balbina wanted to see you. You hesitated, dreading the encounter with her, but you had no choice; your step mother-in-law called for you. Sooner or later, you would have to face her, given that you lived in the same house.

As you descended the stairs, you stumbled a few times, struggling with the stola while trying to keep the shawl wrapped around your arms. Balbina was seated in the courtyard with Lydia and Claudia. Once they spotted you, all heads turned in your direction. You smiled at Claudia, you were pleased to see her. She stood up and greeted you, “My lady.”

You arched an eyebrow. “Me?”

She chuckled. “Now that you’re the General’s wife, you must be treated with respect.”

Lydia looked away, while Balbina stared at you intently. “What wife? Your husband left the villa early, it seems he’s not quite satisfied with you. You obviously failed to please him.”

You rolled your eyes, trying hard not to say anything bad. 

Claudia joined you on the same lectus, making herself comfortable. “Come now, Balbina, isn’t that typical for the first night?”

Lydia let out a sarcastic laugh. “Lady Claudia is right mother. It’s quiet impressive they even managed it.”

They all burst into laughter.

What the fuck?

Were you really being interrogated about your wedding night? And worse, being ridiculed for it?

What was wrong with these people?

The rest of their conversation was nothing short of appalling, filled with discussions about blood on the sheets and other cringeworthy topics. It seemed normal to them to make the newlywed woman feel embarrassed, part of their tradition.

Before she take her leave, Claudia discreetly spoke to you in the garden by the fountain. She not only resembled your mother but treated you like one too, almost. “I noticed the sheets. Are you in pain or bleeding?”

You sighed, feeling annoyed. “No, I’m fine, really.”

“I’m relieved to hear that. Try to gather strength for the next time you’re together. I know it’s tough, but I assure you you’ll adjust in time, Each time, it will get easier."

Your face flushed, but you felt irritated. Remembering your first time, you hadn’t even thought about it, much less discussed it. It was just a fleeting memory. Yet, in this era, it seemed to carry immense weight. But it was hard to listen to her, not only because you are not inexperienced but because you and Marcus are not really husband and wife, and you had not done it but pretending like you did.

“To earn Balbina's admiration and respect, you must bear a child. If you give the General a son, you’ll earn the highest respect in this villa.”

You pursed your lips, still pretending as if you cared. “Does it really matter that much?”

“Indeed. When you’re together, after he finishes inside you, I advise you to lie back, stay still, and place a pillow under your hips—it will help."

Oh, damn, you were well aware of all this and more, coming from a modern era.

But how could Claudia have known? You wouldn't blame her for that.

You nodded, your cheeks burning. “Well, thank you,” you replied nervously.

What she suggested got something stirring inside you; it had been so long since you last hooked up that it was hard not to feel anything.

Yet, there was no fucking way you were going to sleep with someone in ancient Rome.

“Damn it,” you sighed softly as you sank onto Marcus's bed in the dim light of the evening, squinting into a small mirror you had fished out from the depths of your bag. The roots of your hair stood out starkly against the golden caramel hue, begging for attention. Your natural color contrasted sharply with the caramel hue. As you fidgeted with your hair, frustration bubbling beneath the surface, Marcus stepped into the room. He caught sight of you—holding the mirror in one hand, your fingers tugging at the offending roots with the other. He couldn't help but smile as he observed you from behind the curtain. “Is it your hair that’s making you so angry?”

You turned to face him, noticing he was wearing his dark red tunic. You hadn’t seen it on him before because he usually kept it hidden under his armor. That’s right—you were in his room, and you were technically his wife, so he felt at ease around you.

“As soon as I get back, I need to get it root-dyed again,” you sighed.

“The color of your natural hair is more beautiful,” he said.

You rolled your eyes. "Thanks, but you're not helping. And my French nails are a disaster, too. I need to get those done as well. You have no idea how tough it is for someone who goes to the salon every week.” You stretched out your hand to him.

He took your hand , observing. “I think your nails are perfect."

"Why am I even asking for your opinion?” you complained.

“How was your day?” he asked, settling on the edge of the bed.

"It was a bit dull. It’s so hard without my phone."

"I am considering forgoing my duties at the barracks tomorrow. Would you be interested in joining me for a horseback riding excursion?"

You raised your eyebrows. “Really?”

He smiled, and for the first time, he enjoyed saying the word from your time: “Really.”

"That would be fantastic, Marcus. So you can skip work whenever you feel like it?"

"Not quite," he smirked. "Julius and my second-in-command will be present in my absence."

"Your second-in-command? Since you're a general, is he a lieutenant general, major general, or something? I’m not great with military ranks."

"I do not understand the terms you are using. A second-in-command is called Optio."

“Hmm.”

A peculiar silence fell between you.

Normally, as newlyweds, you should have been preoccupied with other activities during your alone time at night, but this wasn’t a real one. You both exchanged anxious smiles that lingered until the silence became nearly unbearable.

You finally broke the stillness.

“Marcus, I just had a great idea. Since we have some time to sleep, why don’t we play a game? It would help us get to know each other better. What do you think?”

“A game?”

You stood up. "A drinking game—It called 'I Never.'"

He frowned. “I am uncertain about what that is.”

You set the wine decanter and cups on the tray, returned to the bed, and placed them down. “It’s quite simple,” you explained as you settled cross-legged in the middle of the bed. "You say 'I never,' and finish the sentence. If it’s something you did, you drink; if not, you don’t."

Marcus positioned himself more comfortably at the edge of the bed, facing you with his arms crossed. “It doesn’t seem to make much sense.”

You rolled your eyes. "That’s why it's called a game. Learn by example. I’ll start: I never killed a man. Now you drink, because you did, right?"

"True, I killed many." He smiled slightly as you poured him some wine. “I think I understand the logic now.” He took a sip.

"Yes. Now, Mr. General, your turn.”

Pursing his lips, thinking. “I never had a phone."

You laughed. “You’re getting the hang of it.” Pondering your next move, you continued, “I never fell in love.”

He met your gaze.

You shrugged. “I thought I was in love with that jerk, but I was mistaken.”

Marcus took another sip of his wine, clearly enjoying what you just admitted, a smirk playing on his lips as he spoke. “I never dyed my hair.”

You chuckled. “I'd pay to see that.” You considered the things you were curious about him. “I never slept with a woman.”

Marcus shot you a look. “Do you think I’m pure?”

“Okay, let’s put it this way: I never slept with a whore.” You raised your eyebrows, waiting for his response.

He sighed, taking a sip of his wine sheepishly.

“Aha, not quite so innocent, are we?”

"I never claimed that I am an innocent man," he explained, smiling.

"Wait, are you actually playing or just saying?" 

"Just saying," he echoed your words, looking at you piercingly, which left you blinking and swallowing.

“I’m not judging. I don't care who you slept with or... how many." You cleared your throat. "It’s just a game. Okay, your turn.”

“I never slept with a man.”

You rolled your eyes. "Come on, really? You know I’m not a virgin."

He tilted his head curiously. “The game, you said.”

“Fine.” You squinted and took a drink. “Just one man, and you know who.”

He nodded in understanding.

And the game continued on.

By the time the jug of wine was empty, your head was spinning. “I think I’m getting drunk,” you admitted, feeling a bit woozy. "I guess you won," you said, laughing uncontrollably as you clapped your hands and leaned your head on his shoulder.

He wrapped his arm around you gently. "Are you well? Rosa?" He lowered his gaze, checking your face, but your eyes were closed—unconscious. Brushing the hair back from your face, he sighed softly.

"I regret having made that promise. How can I endure watching you leave?" His fingers gently caressed your hair. "After all these years of yearning, how can I allow you to slip away once more?" He leaned down and placed a tender kiss on your temple.

"When will you truly remember, my love?”

“It’s beautiful here.”

As the midday sun bathed the landscape in a golden glow, Marcus led you to that enchanting spot he had spoken of. The meadow unfolded like a green carpet, vibrant and alive, with a shimmering pond nestled at its center, reflecting the azure sky above. You eagerly took off your shoes, walking barefoot on soft grass that tickled your toes as you stepped onto the earth.

“What are you doing?” Marcus asked, astonishment written all over his face.

“Earthing. I’m just savoring the feel of the soil,” you replied.

“Be careful, Rosa—you might step on a thorn."

But then, a realization struck him; this moment felt oddly familiar.

“Relax, I’ll be fine. It’s good for your feet and body; it helps you unwind, lowers the stress. Just give it a try, Marcus.” 

'Come now, Marcus. Try.’

He smiled.

The way you pronounced his name was like music to his ears, just as she used to say it. In that moment, he realized that no one else could say his name quite like you did. He had brought you here hoping to spark some memories, but he felt uncertain.

This was where he had first met her—a sanctuary, a place of refuge where they had spent countless moments together. Now, as he heard that familiar phrase from you, it ignited a flicker of hope in his heart. He needed to try something different. 

He removed his sandals. “It might be a bit challenging to fasten these later. Would you be able to lend me your assistance?” he asked, his heart racing in anticipation, waiting for your answer. 

The response he received wasn’t what he expected—not even close. “What am I, your babysitter, old man?" you laughed while reaching for an apple on the tree. "'Ain't your mama. Oh, I love that song. I wish I could listen right now.” you kept murmuring the song unaware of Marcus' feelings.

He frowned, feeling annoyed.

Still, he shook off the momentary disappointment; he was determined to keep moving forward. While you dipped your legs into the cool pond, he wandered through the meadow, gathering a bouquet of wildflowers bursting with colors—bright yellows, violets, and whites. He returned to you, presenting the vibrant collection with a hopeful smile.

“Okay, you’re starting to freak me out,” you said, your eyes wide in surprise. 

He raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean by that?” 

“Because you’re being way too nice to me.” 

He took a breath and said, “I realize I haven’t treated you as kindly as you deserve. How about these flowers I collected for you? Will you accept my apology?"

“No, but it’s a step in the right direction, I guess,” you said with a wry smile as you accepted the flowers. 

“Which one do you like more?” 

“Hmmm. The daisy. It’s simple and lovely, just as it is. Plus, it doesn’t have a scent, which is perfect because I’m allergic to pollen.” Just then, an itch made you sneeze. 

He frowned. “What about jasmine?” 

“No way, the smell will make me sneeze even more,” you grimaced in response. 

Marcus was taken aback; this was different—she had loved jasmine. What was it that made you so uniquely distinct, yet somehow mirrored her in so many ways?

As the days went by, that day finally arrived; the radiant full moon loomed ever closer on the horizon. You and Marcus had agreed to head to the temple that evening together, so you found yourself anxiously waiting for him all day. But he never arrived; in fact, Julius was nowhere to be seen either. You ventured down to the courtyard and glanced around. Balbina and Lydia were in their usual spot, chatting with some other women. Ah, those curious ladies again—the type who scrutinize you with interest and pepper you with questions about your family, homeland.

Luckily, they didn’t notice you slipping away.

On your way out, you spotted one of the slaves and told him you were headed out to meet Marcus. It wasn't a lie; he would have suspected you were at the temple anyway. You could no longer bear staying cooped up, especially with your phone out of battery and only two anxiety pills left.

The soldiers at the gate hesitated to let you leave alone, insisting one of them accompany you to the temple. You had no choice but to accept their escort; the general had given strict orders not to let you wander off unaccompanied.

Minutes felt like hours as you arrived at the temple, and yet, no one awaited you there. The soldier lingered on the stairs, while you gazed into the stillness of the temple. Suddenly, you heard the familiar sound of a horse's neigh, and Julius arrived. He instructed the other soldier to return and approached you with a serious expression. “Rosa, it would be better for you to leave right now.”

“What do you mean?” you replied, confusion twisting in your gut. “Marcus said we were to meet here.”

“Emperor Severus has been poisoned. Prince Geta and Caracalla are preparing to seize the throne.”

“What?”

“We’re keeping all soldiers on high alert,” he continued, glancing around as if the shadows held unseen threats. “We’re prepared for an uprising at any moment.”

“Julius, I need to go back. The full moon is up there; it'll be even more prominent at midnight. This time, I know it’ll work.”

Julius sighed, troubled. “Marcus is gathering a force to counter the praetorians' threat. However, If he promised to arrive, he will. My orders are to control the city’s entrances. Stay hidden. I’ll try to return shortly.”

“Okay. Just be careful, Julius.”

He smiled reassuringly and hurried down the stairs. You settled into the quiet of the temple, waiting, but no one came. The silence felt suffocating. You couldn’t go back to the villa; your patience had worn thin.

Just then, you heard the quick gallop of horses outside. You instinctively hid, unsure who rode by. Another minute passed; this time, footsteps echoed on the stairs. You glanced up to see not Marcus, but a young boy who gazed at you with curiosity. "Lady Acacius?"

You tensed but nodded.

“The general is wounded and sent me to deliver a message. He said 'if I don’t make it in time, you should leave without waiting for me.'”

The boy glanced over his shoulder before dashing down the stairs. You wanted to ask how he was hurt, but he was gone in an instant, swallowed by the shadows.

What was happening?

Why was he wounded?

You pulled out the parchment, reading the words just to try, shock washing over you.

It had worked.

Your mouth fell open as a wave of joy surged through your body. Instinctively, you took a step toward the rift of bright light, but then stopped. The last time you saw Marcus was that morning, and now he was hurt, maybe close to death.

Panic tightened your chest.

How could you abandon him like this?

What if something happened to him?

No, you couldn’t let that happen. The rift would have to wait. You couldn’t leave without seeing him safe and sound. Determined, you knelt by one of the temple pillars and prayed—both to your god and to all the Roman gods.

Fear crept into your heart. For perhaps the first time, you found yourself crying for him.

If it was before weeks ago, you wouldn't care about his well-being and would jump at the chance to leave here.

But now...

Now you couldn't leave without seeing him.

Had you truly fallen in love with him?

You pushed the questions aside, focusing only on your desire to see him safe.

A little later, you peeked over the pillar as hoofbeats approached. When you saw him, you quickly stood up.

“Rosa!”

You scrambled down the stairs to meet him, your heart fluttering. “Marcus!” you wailed, throwing yourself into his arms. He caught you, his warmth enveloping you, but the moment was cut short as he pulled back to gaze intensely into your eyes. “You were awaiting?” His eyes widened in disbelief as he noticed the pulsating rift shimmering within the temple. "You managed..."

“Forget that. Where are you hurt?” You noticed the rag wrapped around his calf, which was stained red with blood.

“It’s nothing—”

Suddenly, an arrow flew from nowhere, piercing the air, striking him in the shoulder. He stumbled toward you, and you cried out in shock, “Marcus!”

“Acacius is here!” someone shouted, followed by the clamor of more horses approaching.

He shielded you behind him and drew his sword. “Run into the temple! Leave now, while you can!”

“No!”

Struggling but determined, he grabbed your hand and urged you into the temple. “Rosa! I said leave! I can’t let anything happen to you!”

“I won’t leave you in the middle of this chaos! Come with me. That wound looks serious; you need modern treatment!”

Just then, several soldiers arrived, clashing with the guards as the sounds of swords echoed around you. “Leave now! I can’t abandon my men!” Marcus yelled.

“No, I can't leave you like this!”

Suddenly, another arrow flew through his stomach. Then, another one, from behind, all from behind, dastardly, cruelly.

Another arrow plunged into his chest. Marcus spat blood from his mouth yet forcing himself to stand. You froze, shuddering with terror.

“NO! Marcus!” you screamed.

You forced your brain to think.

As soon as Marcus sank to his knees, struggling to catch his breath, you slipped under his arms and hoisted him up with every ounce of strength you could muster, ignoring the sting in your muscles, ignoring your dress covering in blood, his blood. You focused entirely on saving him. "Come on, Marcus, don't die, please! You promised me! Don't die!“ You cried out as you pulled Marcus toward the rift. "Please, God! Don't let him die! Help me! Marcus, I can save you. Please don’t die; the doctors can help you. You have no idea what they are capable of. Please, just stay with me!"

“Amo te, Rhea,” he murmured, his voice barely escaping his lips as he surrendered to the darkness, closing his eyes. You heard that name for the first time, but you didn't care. Panic surged through your veins. "Marcus, open your eyes, damn it! Don’t you dare slip away from me!”

You dragged him into the light, leaving his blood painting everywhere, and then something happened.

A blink.

A blinding light, intensely bright.

An unusual wind, chilling and invasive, seemed to seep into every cell.

And then, once more.

A blink of the eye.

And darkness.

But not just any darkness—the deep, enveloping darkness of the night. Rain poured down, heavy yet warm. You stood up in shock, taking in your surroundings.

Tall buildings loomed over you, street lamps flickered, the car horns filled the air alongside the tangles of wires on electric poles.

You were back.

Tears of joy streamed down your face, blending with the rain. Then you came to your senses, you had just been crying—for him.

For Marcus.

You turned around, frantically scanning the area, searching the ground. The shadows from the trees cloaked everything in darkness.

But there he was.

Marcus lay there, motionless.

You rushed to him, heart pounding.

"Marcus! What the fuck-"

There was no blood on him, just a few scattered drops. You ran your trembling fingers over his armor. The holes in his armor were visible, but the arrows had vanished along with the wounds they caused. Placing your head on Marcus's chest, you listened intently. His heart was beating.

His face was wet from the fall of rain. As you gently brushed your fingers against his cheek, you felt warmth.

Not dead.

He was alive.

It was absurd, impossible—even miraculous—but he was alive.

Your jaw dropped, then a grin spread across your face.

And then he opened his eyes, blinking as raindrops fell on his eyelashes. Relief washed over him as he saw you, yet confusion clouded his gaze as if he couldn’t believe it was happening again.

You smiled at him, “Marcus, I know this sounds crazy, but you’re not dead. We’re back. Together.”

hope you enjoyed the chapter babies, thanks for reading ❤️

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[gothcsz]

The Heat of the Thermae | Marcus Acacius x Black F!Reader | ~4.2k wc | Explicit. Minors DNI.

Summary: You’re not alone tonight at your favorite bathhouse.

Tags: smut, kat can’t not dress the scene, unprotected p in v, creampie kink is not explicitly stated but he does finish inside sooo, marcus is strong enough to fuck you standing up, lil bit of dirty talk, spanking, tit slapping, marcus loves tits, some latin terms of endearment, praise praise praise, probably not historically accurate we're just vibing here, no use of y/n, reader is afab and able-bodied, reader is a woman of color yet everyone is encouraged to read, reader is described to have a curvy figure, barely beta’d, sorry for any stray typos/grammatical mistakes, if i missed any other tags pls let me know okay, thanks!

A/N: hi, i was not expecting to write something for the general again so soon but @ovaryacted is the queen of feeding into my delusions so this one is for you, primita 🖤 shoutout to @mandaloriankait for holding me accountable and cheering me on to finish this lol. as always let me know what you think and thanks for reading! 🖤

You slip through the quiet streets of the city, the woven handle of your basket looped gently over your arm. A soft hum escapes your lips, a tune only the night seems to know. The stones beneath your sandals are warm from the day’s heat, still radiating the sun’s memory as the hush of night begins to settle. Crickets and cicadas sing from dark corners, their chorus delicate, like lace threaded through the silence.

Rome is quieter at this hour. Not silent, never truly, but quieter. As if the mighty heart of the empire has finally begun to slow, to exhale.

You reach the thermae just before the moon crests its highest point. The structure stands like a temple in the dark, torchlight flickering along carved pillars and smooth marble that glows golden. Steam curls up from within the stone walls, thick and inviting, drifting like silk into the air. You slip through the arched threshold, and the warm, mineral-scented breath of the springs embraces you.

It’s nearly silent. Just the soft bubbling of water, the occasional drip of condensation down stone, the rustle of a breeze stirring one of the hanging silken banners overhead. This thermae has always been your favorite— nestled against a quiet hill on the edge of the city, tucked away behind a grove of flowering laurel and cypress. Fewer people frequent it. Too far, they say. But for you, it’s perfect.

You step onto the cool, patterned floor, marveling, as you always do, at the opulence. Intricate mosaics of Apollo and Venus glimmer beneath your feet, their mythic beauty frozen in tile. Wreaths of fragrant flowers wind up around the sculpted columns, fresh and damp with dew. The stone arches above are carved so finely that your eyes often lose themselves in the details: curling vines, the faces of nymphs, the wings of eagles, all staring down in solemn witness.

The water beckons beyond, a mirror of mist and light. Before you slip into it, you settle onto one of the marbled benches. It’s cool against your thighs, smooth beneath your fingers. You untie your sandals slowly, enjoying the rhythm of the ritual. The city feels so far away here. Its roar, its politics, its bloodstained spectacles —all of it muffled by marble, steam, and solitude.

You breathe in deeply. The air is rich with heat and something sweeter — honeysuckle, perhaps, or the lingering smoke of sandalwood incense still clinging to the stones. Your fingers drift to the lip of your basket. Oils, cloth, a small jar of fig balm. Enough to make the next hour utterly yours.

You do not hear him at first. Just the shift of shadows behind one of the larger columns across the way. A footfall, soft yet heavy.

And it is not until he steps into the light: scarred, sharp-eyed, leonine in profile, that your breath catches in your throat.

General Acacius.

You turn away before your gazes can meet. The water between you becomes a kind of sanctuary, veiling you in ripples and warmth, a safe expanse separating your solitude from his gravity. He remains on the opposite end of the thermae, partially obscured by a column and the rising curtain of steam—but even half-hidden, he draws the eye. This is the first time you’ve ever seen the general alone.

Usually, he is trailed by a flock of senators and sycophants, his path cleared by his loyal soldiers. Or he’s perched high above the chaos of the colosseum, cast in gold and shadow as blood paints the sand below.

Up close, in silence, without armor or ceremony, he is something else entirely.

The rumors are true. He is devastatingly handsome. A mix of the delicate beauty of poetry or painted heroes and the kind carved into marble— stark, masculine, impossible to ignore but made to admire. His frame is massive, the breadth of his shoulders a thing that demands reverence, the curve of his jaw like it was drawn with a honeyed blade. Even now, without the bronze of war adorning him, he carries himself with an authority that stirs something in you.

It is no wonder women speak of him with flushed cheeks and eager lips. Nor is it a wonder he remains unattached. No woman, no man, no lover could compete with the hunger in his eyes for conquest. War has claimed him, become his mistress. And yet… you find yourself wondering, perhaps foolishly, what it might be like to be taken with that same possession.

You keep your gaze averted as you reach into your basket, fingers finding the familiar pieces of your nightly ritual. You remove your jewelry then slowly peel the fabric from your body, exposing skin to the open air, to the eyes of gods and men alike.

You try not to think of whether he’s watching. You try.

Your foot touches the water first, heat curling up your calf, then your thigh, until you are swallowed by it. A soft, involuntary sound escapes your lips, a breathy moan that seems to echo louder than you intended in the stillness of the summer night.

You glide further in, deeper, until the water kisses just below your collarbones. You find your place, easing against the stone, eyes fluttering shut—but not for long. Curiosity, wicked and warm, coaxes them open again. And this time, you let them wander.

He is still turned away, his broad back like something from a myth, all sculpted muscle and roughened skin. The light of the moon and torches play against him, catching on every ridge, every scar, every flex and pull as he shifts to undress. Sweat clings to him, glistening down his spine, mixing with the dirt of training or battle, a sheen that only makes him more savage, more real, more desirable.

He bends slightly to unfasten his remaining garment, and when the cloth falls, your tongue twitches in your mouth.

His ass is nothing short of divine. Round, tight, perfect in its symmetry, in the way it moves as he steps out of the tunic. Your teeth find your lower lip and stay there, pressing hard. 

He turns and suddenly, the air shifts. Heat blooms low in your stomach, tender, slow.

Hazelnut eyes lock with yours—not passive, not startled, but piercing. Like he’s known all along you were there, and now he’s choosing to look. Choosing to see you. The connection is immediate, tangible, a pull so intense you feel it in your pussy, in the tips of your fingers beneath the water. His gaze does not waver. It devours.

Then, languidly, his eyes drag down your form. Over your bare shoulders, your collarbone, your breasts rising from beneath the water with each breath. He lingers there. Long enough for your nipples to harden. You can’t help the way your chest arches forward, as if offering him more of your full tits.

He notices. You see it in the slight lift of his brow, the shadow of something dangerous and amused that curls his lip.

You match his look without thinking, lips parting just enough to draw in breath as your gaze drops between his legs. And gods—there he is. Thick even while soft, his cock hangs heavy between his thighs, nestled in a thatch of dark curls that look fucking edible. Your thighs press together instantly, your cunt clenching around nothing as heat flashes in your gut like it’s trying to eat you alive.

It shouldn’t look that good. Not at rest. But it does. Your mouth waters, lips buzzing, and your fingers twitch at your sides like they don’t know why they aren’t already wrapped around him.

You don’t even realize how long you’ve been staring until he moves.

No words. Just that quiet, lethal stillness breaking as he steps into the water with the weight of a predator deciding when to strike. You don’t know if he’s doing it for you or simply because that’s just how he moves, but when his body sinks into the pool, muscles flexing, steam licking up his sides, it feels like something carnal crackles in the space between your bodies, more ancient than language, more honest than names.

He disappears beneath the surface, the water rippling out toward you like the heat radiating off your skin, and the soft splash of it yanks you back to yourself. Barely.

You sit up straighter, hand reaching for your cloth and small vial of oil, your pulse beating wild behind your ribs. Your fingers tremble, though you pretend otherwise, smoothing the perfumed mixture over your skin in slow circles. Sensual. Like you’re bathing for an audience… because you are.

When he rises again, your eyes snap to him like they’ve been chained there since the moment he arrived.

His hair is plastered back, dripping. Water runs down his face, clings to his thick lashes, trails over the angles of his jaw and beautiful nose. He’s fucking gorgeous—soaked and gleaming and massive. Your eyes drag lower, over his chest, watching the droplets race across his pecs and down his stomach. The line of hair that starts beneath his sternum and leads right down into the water makes your whole body ache to see more. To touch. To taste.

“Are you here often?” He asks, voice low and rough like gravel worn smooth by time.

You blink at him, a little slow, and answer as best you can with a dry throat. “Almost every night.”

Acacius hums. A sound that seems to rumble from his chest rather than his throat. He reaches for his own items and begins to tend to himself with a practiced efficiency that only deepens your curiosity. He has no servant with him, no one waiting nearby with fresh linens or scented oils. For a man of his station, that’s rare.

His big hands slide over his own scarred chest like he’s used to being looked at. Used to being wanted.

And fuck, do you want him.

He’s here. Naked, alone, reciprocating this unspoken lust in your favorite bathhouse. With you. It feels impossible. Like a gift from the gods. Or maybe a test.

You don’t care which.

The silence that follows is far from empty. It brims with energy, charged and volatile. You bathe yourself in the same slow rhythm, cloth gliding across slick skin, never breaking eye contact for long. You keep looking. So does he. And every time your eyes meet, it’s like a match is struck right at your core.

There’s no way he doesn’t feel it.

The space between you shortens with every breath. Neither of you says a word about it. You just move. Drawn. Like animals circling closer. The scent of oil and flowers in the steam is thick as incense—sticky sweet, dizzying. Your nipples are hard, peaked above the surface, aching for attention, and his gaze drops there more than once.

There is desire. There is certainty. And you will not waste this night.

Your fingers brush under the water, barely, but the jolt of contact sends a spark straight to your pussy.

He doesn’t pull away.

Instead, his hand turns, clasping around your wrist and tugging you towards him, just enough to let you know what he wants.

What you want. You meet him halfway.

The water barely muffles the slap of your bodies meeting, chest to chest. You’re not shy about it. There’s no point pretending. You want all of him. When he reaches down and cups your jaw with one large, dripping hand, the roughness of his touch makes your pussy clench tight.

Acacius doesn’t ask permission. He doesn’t need to.

He kisses you like it’s owed. Like it’s overdue. His mouth slants over yours, fervent, lips parted before they even meet. It’s filthy and deep. His tongue slides past your lips, tasting you. Your fingers fist in his hair, still damp from the bath, nails scraping his scalp as you pull him closer, desperate to keep your mouth sealed to his.

His hands roam with no restraint. One grabs your ass, squeezing and savoring the plumpness in his grasp, while the other palms your tit, big fingers curling around the soft flesh, thumb flicking over your nipple as you curve into him.

You clutch at his broad shoulders, his back, the muscles shifting beneath your hands like carved stone come alive. He’s so solid, every inch of him hard and smoldering and built for war. You do a little jump then wrap your legs around his waist without even thinking, gyrating your hips against him in a silent, burning plea for friction.

His hand immediately go to cup the back of your thighs, strong enough to keep you sturdy against him as his dick slips between your slippery folds.

“Fuck…” you gasp when he breaks the kiss, head tipping back as your mouth falls open with a desperate whine, his lips dragging wetly down your throat. “Please do not stop…”

“Was not planning to,” he growls, teeth grazing your skin, biting and sucking, leaving a trail of heat that makes your pussy throb. You can feel his shaft thickening beneath you, half-submerged in the water, heavy and hard right between your legs. You grind down on it without thinking, your clit brushing along his length, desperate for more.

“You’re soft,” he murmurs against your neck, voice wrecked, “and sweet. Gods…”

Your only answer is a shuddered moan as his mouth trails lower, nipping your collarbone, dragging his tongue along the curve of your breast before he captures your nipple between his full lips. He groans like he’s been starving for it, like your taste is better than any wine in Rome. He nips at the sensitive bud—just enough to make you twitch—and then his tongue soothes, circles, sucks.

Your fingers dig into his shoulders. Your legs tighten around his waist as you continue to grind against him. The water sloshes and ripples between you, the scent of oil and sweat and arousal heavy in the steam.

You’ve never felt so thoroughly handled—his big, calloused hands roaming every inch of you, gripping, groping, pulling you apart and putting you back together. His body is a weapon, and right now it’s being wielded for you, on you.

“Please, Acacius… fuck me.”

Your voice breaks on the plea, the words melting into a high, desperate whine as he sinks his teeth into your nipple. The sharp bite makes your back arch with a moan, the sting blooming at your chest just as he pulls off with a lewd pop.

He licks up your neck, tongue moving slow and shameless over your pulse. “Marcus,” he sneers against your mouth, his breath warm, the edge of a grin playing at his lips. “That is what I want you to cry while I am splitting this tight little cunt open on my cock.”

You barely manage a gasp before he seals your mouth with his again, tongue plunging past your lips with a hearty groan.

Then his hand moves—leaves your ass to wrap thick fingers around the base of his cock. And gods, you feel it, the weight of him pressing against your slick, aching entrance. Hot as sin.

You barely have time to breathe as he pushes in deep.

You let out a ragged sob, mouth falling open as your walls stretch around his fat shaft, the burn sharp and sweet all at once. Your nails claw into the hard, oiled up muscle of his shoulders while your pussy tries to take him. Inch by inch, he feeds himself to you until he’s buried balls deep inside your clenching sex.

“F-fuck—oh Marcus—”

His intimate name rips out of your throat in a needy wail as your head tips back, spine bowing, offering him everything.

He snarls, low and brutal, muttering curses in his native tongue under his breath. You barely have time to recover before he shifts, hoists you higher and hooks the backs of your knees over the bends of his elbows.

He fucks into you savagely, like he’s meant to be deep inside you every night until the gods have to intervene and pull him from you. The power in his body is insane, thrusting into you while standing, while holding your curvy and heavier figure, every stroke punching up into your guts with obscene, wet sounds that echo off the marble.

The water thrashes around you, splashing wildly with every slam of his hips. Your tits bounce, nipples raw and exposed, while your ass claps against his thighs with every impassioned thrust. His cock is merciless, thick veins dragging against your fluttering walls, the fat head hammering that spongy spot deep inside you until you’re choking on every moan.

“Fucking… tight…” he spits between grunts, “had I known a praecantrix with a body like this was here every night aching for cock,” he pants, “I would have abandoned my duties and been buried in this sweet cunt instead.”

You clench hard at his words and he feels it, groaning through gritted teeth while your fingers twist in his damp greying curls as you tug his mouth back to yours.

You kiss him filthy, open-mouthed, tongues tangled, spit dripping between you. It feels so good knowing you’ve got one of the strongest men in Rome between your thighs. His beard scrapes your chin, making your skin curl in the best way, and you moan into his mouth when he sucks your tongue like he wants to devour it.

Your orgasm is coming fast. Titillating and climbing and climbing and climbing—

“Harder,” you gasp against his lips, nails sinking into his scalp. “Marcus, please.”

The salacious symphony of your fucking is beautiful, and Marcus gives you what you asked for, plowing into you with a force that knocks every breath out of your lungs and thought out of your head. 

You don’t even notice when he begins to move, strong arms locking beneath your thighs as he shifts, never once pulling out. He carries you backward, step by careful step, until he lowers himself onto one of the submerged stone steps, the heat of the water sloshing around your waist. You’re now straddling him, perched in his lap, knees spread wide on the slick surface. His cock stays buried to the root, making you keen.

You can feel everything. Every vein, every ridge, every throb. He leans back slightly, giving you space, giving you control—and gods, he looks bewitching. Half-lidded eyes drink you in, crooked scars slicing across his cheek and nose, only enhancing his brutal allure. Steam helixes around the angles of his face, water dripping down the hard lines of his chest, down his stomach, disappearing between your bodies where you’re still joined.

His hands find your breasts again, greedy and reverent all at once. Your skin is slick with water and oil, and he groans at the way your tits spill into his palms, nipples pebbling against his calloused fingers.

You start to move, slow at first, grinding down into him with insatiable want. Your clit presses into the coarse hair at the base of his cock, every drag sending white-hot sparks all over. The stretch of him inside you is overwhelming, the ache delicious. With every swivel at your waist, your slick spreads between you, smearing over his thighs.

Acacius watches you with worship and gluttony in equal measure, hands never leaving your skin, guiding your rhythm with subtle tilt of his hips.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice hoarse, the reverence in it making your thighs tremble harder. “So divine like this.” He studies you, head cocked with a fascination and you can’t help but perform for him, willing your body to imprint on his memory as surely as he’s etched on your soul.

“That’s it,” he growls, large palm smacking against your ass, making it ripple and sting as your thighs tremble from the force. You scream out his name, hands finding purchase on his shoulders again. “Ride it. Use me, carissime.”

The term of endearment does it for you, spurring you to fuck him like he’s never been fucked before, grinding harder, rolling your hips, chasing the rising wave of release that corkscrews at the base of your spine. The slap of your bodies grows louder as you bounce in his lap. Your tits jiggle with every thrust and he’s mesmerized, the repeated crack of his palm smacking your chest making your toes curl and your cunt pulsate around his meaty cock.

You bury your fingers in his curls as you clutch him close, your mouths meeting in a kiss that’s all teeth and passion. His tongue tangles with yours, and when you moan into him, he groans deep and animalistic, like he can feel it in his bones.

“What a perfect cunt,” he mutters against your lips. “Taking it all. Men go to and die in war for pussy like this.”

His praise sends another shock of bliss through you, and your pace falters as your legs begin to shake. Yet he doesn’t let up. His hands grip your ass, helping you move, pulling you down harder, deeper, each thrust sending his cock punching up into that devastating spot inside you. You cry out, clinging to him.

“Are you going to come for me?” he taunts raggedly against your throat. “Soak my cock like the desperate thing you are?”

“Yes—yes, Marcus—fuck, yes!” The words spill from you in a delirious rush, your pitch climbing higher as you ride him with reckless desire. Every drag of your soaked cunt around his thick shaft sends another jolt up your spine. You know you’ll feel this for days; every step, every shift in your body will echo with the memory of his ruin. The sheer power of straddling a man like him and breaking apart on his cock.

Then his mouth is on your breast, downright ravenous. He devours you with ardent, open-mouthed kisses, lips sealing tight around your nipple as he sucks hard, his tongue flicking rapidly before his teeth sink in just enough to make you mewl out in gratification. His attention shifts from one bouncing mound to the other, spit-slick and gleaming in the moonlight, the sting of his teeth making your walls clamp down around him.

“Marcus!” You come apart with his name tearing from your throat. Your climax hits like lightning, sharp and blinding. Your vision splinters, black spots dancing at the edges as ecstasy rips through body locking down, muscles seizing as your pussy quivers around his cock, dragging a primal sound from his chest. Every part of you is slick—sweat, oil, steam, and arousal mingling on your skin as your orgasm wrings you out.

The tight squeeze of your pussy has him snarling, losing the last thread of control. He wrenches his mouth from your tits and sinks his teeth into your neck, spitting curses as he fucks up into you with brutal, punishing thrusts. His fingers dig into your ass, holding you down as he drives into your spent cunt.

“Fucking take it,” he grits. “All of it.”

You feel the heat of him flooding you, dick twitching deep inside as he spills into you with a low, lecherous moan, biting down harder as he rides it out, making you wince. He doesn’t pull out, doesn’t move, just holds you flush against him, chest to chest, your body trembling as his seed fills you.

There’s no pause for breath, only the ragged, desperate sound of two bodies ruined by pleasure, locked together in the heat of the bath, gods watching from marble pedestals as if in envy.

Acacius still holds you, his strong arms wrapped tight around your waist, anchoring you to him like he never wants to let go. His cock remains buried deep inside you, softening slowly, the warmth of his release cradled within.

He presses a kiss to your temple, and then another to the hollow of your throat, working his way down with lazy affection. His hands roam your body, no longer rough and demanding, but tender and adoring. Fingertips graze the curve of your back, the dip of your waist, the fullness of your thighs; learning every inch of you like a man starved for closeness.

Your heart hammers against your ribcage, and you nuzzle into the crook of his neck, catching the scent of warm skin, salt, and the faint hint of sandalwood oil still clinging to him. You lean in, lips brushing his, and he meets you with a kiss so slow you feel like you’re floating.

When you pull back, you pause to look at him—really look at him. His dark curls cling damply to his forehead, drops of water trailing down his neck. His eyes, deep and glistening brown, are locked onto yours, hungry still, but softened by something far more dangerous than lust. Something like longing.

“Marcus,” you whisper, your voice barely more than a breath.

His lips pull, slow and knowing. “Say it again.”

You smile, fucked out entirely. “Marcus.”

His arms tighten around you, and the two of you sit there in the warmth of the water, wrapped around each other. The steam coils around your bodies, carrying with it the heady scent of oils and sex. Neither of you rushes to speak again. There’s no need.

This night will linger in more than just muscle memory. It will haunt your thoughts. It will live in his hands.

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[thetriumphantpanda]

be my Venus of the stars | general marcus acacius

Summary | He's been visiting you for months, fresh off the battlefield, to be cleaned and reborn, but this time, something is different, this time, he might finally touch you back.

Pairing | General Marcus Acacius x F!Reader

Word Count | 2.8K

Warnings | Set in a bath-house, it is suggested that reader is a sex worker, The General™️ is dirty and needs a bath, as historically accurate as I could make it, use of Latin terms of endearment, explicit smut, handjob, fingering, oral sex (f), unprotected PiV, creampie, marking during sex, mention of ancient roman methods of.... not getting pregnant, no use of y/n, reader is a blank slate but does wear a dress.

Authors Note | Listen, I know we know literally nothing about this man, but what I do know is that he looks like a needs a bath and a nice lady to help him destress... so here we are. Leave it to the archaeologist to fall head over heels for the roman general, right? Whilst my ancient archaeological interest has always been Greece, you best believe this is right up my street. We won't talk about the amount of academic papers I read to make this as historically accurate as possible. I hope you love this, and if you do, please consider reblogging, commenting and screaming with me in my ask box!

Main Masterlist | Ko-Fi

Divider by the ever wonderful @saradika

He’s weary, his body drooped from the weight of his armour, but you suspect there are other things that are weighing him down too.

He’s been gone a while, sent away to some far-fought battle, never knowing if the view of his back when he leaves will be the last you ever see of him or not.

As he always does, he drops a coin purse onto the table, sliding it across to the bathhouse owner, before he turns, eyes scanning the room until they land on you. Always you, only you, he’s never paid attention to anyone else in this damned place and he never will. His face is covered in dust, dirt and grime, his clothes in no better shape - you know you have your work cut out for you, but you find that when it’s him, you don’t mind at all.

It’s a familiar dance, how he follows a few steps behind you, the clinking of armour filling the hallway as you lead him to the private bath. You do as you always do, and open the door, letting him move inside as you let the door click shut behind you.

The hour is late, candles the only source of light, the sounds from the street below filling the silence as you ready the water for him. Warmed already, you drop a few rose petals into the water and pick out the oil you know he likes. It strikes you then that he’s not undressing, something he normally does himself. Instead, he stands at the window, staring out into the darkness.

“It is ready, sir.” You speak softly, motioning your hand to the bath when he turns around.

“Come,” he all but whispers, “Help me.”

You step closer, following his lead as he starts to undo whatever straps keep his heavy armour in place, dropping his hands when he knows you’ve got the hang of it. You take it off, piece by piece, setting it gently on the ground until he’s just in the under layers he wears.

Night is falling, and the candles in the room and the orange light from outside bathe him in gold as he motions for you to do the rest. Your hands, trailing up his body, lifting the tunic he’s wearing under his armour, over his head. There’s a hiss of pain as he lifts his arm, then a sigh of relief his tunic is gone, and it’s at this moment, that you realise he hasn’t stopped looking at you.

This man, born and bred for the fight, with brown eyes softer than you’ve ever seen staring down at you as you undress him.

“You can touch me.” You offer.

You look at him, eyes through eyelashes, as his roam across your body, draped in cotton and pinned in just the right place to accentuate every inch of you - it was a gift from a wealthy customer many years ago, a traveller who had taken to you, promised to take you with him but left you with nothing but a nice dress.

He goes to reach out, but stops short of touching the material, “It is such a pretty dress,” he muses, stepping back from you to let the final garment he’s wearing drop to the floor, “I must bathe first.’

You aren’t shy in the way you look at him, you’ve seen him without clothes more times than you care to admit, you’ve touched him, made him sigh, made him cum more than once, but he’s never once reached out to you. But there’s something different tonight, something charged, and as he walks towards the bath, muscles in his back rippling as he does, you wonder if tonight might be the night you finally know what it is to be touched by him.

He lowers himself into the warm water, groaning as he settles his back against the metal, warm from the water and from the fire lit to keep it that way.

You do as always and kneel beside it, picking up the small bowl on the table next to you. You scoop some water into it and let it drain across his curls, his head tipped back because he knows this dance. Fingers run through his wet hair, freeing his locks from the weeks of dirt and sand and blood and fight, until the water runs clear.

Then, you move onto his body. It’s arguably your favourite part, letting your hands run across his skin. He rests his arms on the lip of the bath, a well-rehearsed dance now, and lets your pour the scented oil onto his skin. You massage it in, thumbs digging in where his armour has left marks, easing weeks of tension with firm presses. You use the strigel to scrape the oil and the dirt off until his skin is clean.

Only once you have used your hands to rinse him off do you consider moving lower. You always do, run oil soaked hands up and down his legs under the water, feel his muscles tighten when you drag them higher, which is how it always ends up with your firm hand wrapped around his cock. Your fingers dip below the water but his strong fingers grip at your wrist as they go to drift lower to his legs.

You let him guide your hand, your eyes meeting his own chocolate-brown orbs, which are blown wide and dark, as he shows you what he really wants. No preamble this time, as your fingers meet the skin of his semi-hard length.

“I haven’t finished.” You purr at him, letting your fingers close around him anyway.

“I find I don’t care,” He speaks back, tone low, “I have been gone for weeks, this is all I want.”

You watch as his head tips back and his body lowers into the water when you start the languid pumps of your hand up and down his cock, gripping tighter when you reach the tip, loosening when you move down. You’ve seen him for years, you know how he likes it, slow to start with, faster to bring him over the edge.

There’s something different this time though, of all the years he’s seen you, he’s never once touched you, only ever a tight grip on your arm as he comes, or a drag of his thumb across your cheek when he leaves. His grip tightens around your wrist enough to still your movements, then, he’s dragging your hand away. You wonder for a moment if you’ve done something wrong, until he shifts and stands.

You’ve seen him without his clothes enough times to know every dip of his body, ever mark and scar that he’s accumulated, but as he stands now, water dripping from his skin, cock hard and heavy in front of you, he looks nothing short of God-like. All the statues in all of Rome could never compare to this man in front of you.

Standing from your place on your knees, you watch as he steps from the bath, water pooling on the floor as he walks towards you. He lets a hand drape across your waist, palm flat against your back as he pulls your body to his own, wet skin against dry garments, head dipped so his mouth is a whisper away from your own.

“Tell me I can,” He asks, “I want to kiss you.”

You let your hands entwine at the back of his neck, wet curls locked between fingers, so you can drag him closer to you. When his lips finally meet yours, all the years of wondering what it was like prove worth it. They’re chapped, dry from whatever battlefield he’s been within, but it’s perfect, as they slant across yours and he pulls your body tighter to his own. He’s gentle, unlike other men, his tongue is tentative as it drags across your bottom lip, mouth opening against your own as his tongue melds with yours behind your teeth.

There is movement that you only register at the last moment, when the backs of your knees hit the bed in the corner of your room. You tumble down upon it, lying and watching as he watches you, fist tight around his own cock as you start to undrape your dress from your skin. His eyes rove across your body when you finally reveal yourself to him, spreading your legs for him, letting your hands cup your breasts.

“You do this for everyone?” He asks quietly, settling himself between your open legs, his cock resting against your mound.

“Maybe,” You respond, “But you’re the only person I want to do this for.”

“Do they treat you well?” He murmurs, laying his body across your own, the weight on him on top of you making your cunt pulse.

“Some do, some don’t.” You shrug, cupping his face with your hands.

“Any of them make you come?”

You shake your head against the bed, “They come here for their own pleasure, sir.”

“My pleasure is your pleasure,” He whispers against your ear, “Tell me, has anyone ever kissed you here?”

One of his hands drags down your body, his hips lifted enough to let his hand cover your cunt.

“N-no,” You choke, the heat of his hand stifling against you, “They h-haven’t.”

“Would you let me?”

You nod, words failing you, as he lets his mouth drag down the naked skin of your body until his broad shoulders are settled between your thighs, pushing them apart, spreading you obscenely wide for himself.

His mouth is hot as it kisses the skin of your pussy, soft feather-light touches to every inch of skin. His thumbs pull your folds apart, baring every intimate inch of you to him, and then it’s all ecstasy as that wonderful mouth clasps around the bundle of nerves that you know so intimately of yourself, but others seem to forget.

It makes you buck your hips into his mouth, pressing further into the feeling of absolute bliss as the tip of his tongue flicks fast and then slow across it in undeterminable patterns. One of his hands splays across your stomach to keep you still, as he switches from the tip of his tongue to the flat. You can hear the slurping from between your legs, can feel your slick leaking from your cunt at his ministrations, the moans he lets out when his tongue dips lower to taste you - he’s enjoying this just as much as you are, a man committed to making you feel good before anything else.

There a knots twisting in your stomach, a fire that you know only from your own hand spreading across your lower body, you’re close, and you think he knows it too.

He brings his mouth back to your clit, lips enveloping it whole as he sucks it into his mouth, rolling his tongue across it as you feel two of his fingers slip inside your wet cunt, curling upwards almost immediately.

“Gods,” you breathe out, letting fingers tangle in his quickly drying hair, “I’m- oh fuck - so close.”

He continues just as he is as your body starts to convulse. Your eyes clamped shut, sweat pooling in crevices you didn’t know you had, until his tongue flicks just right and you’re snapping, coming undone. Body arched into his mouth as your cunt clamps tight around his fingers, as pleasure bursts across every inch of your skin. His tongue doesn’t let up until you whimper quietly that it’s too much, chest heaving and vision blurry.

His body clambers atop yours once more, hot skin against hot skin, his lips at your neck as he fumbles between your bodies, hand guiding his heavy, hard cock to nudge at your leaking centre.

“Tell me it’s okay,” he breathes against your skin, “Tell me I can have you like this.”

You moan, hips moving upwards into his own, heavy arms wrapping around his neck, “I’ve wanted this for so long,” you whine, feeling the tip of his cock right where you want it, “Please,” you beg, “Please, put me out of my misery.”

One of his hands grips your chin, turns your face to his. He’s so close, his eyes burning with lust you’ve never seen before, his forehead pressed to yours.

“Look at me,” he begs, shaking your head a little when you close your eyes at the feeling of him starting to push inside, “I want to see you when I do this.”

So you do, eyes open and boring into his own as he slips his cock into you. He’s big, bigger than you think you’ve had before, your mouth drops open as he slowly feeds every inch of himself into your cunt, stilling and sucking in his breath when he can go no further.

“I have dreamt of this,” he speaks softly as he drags himself out of you, “Wondered what you would feel like,” then he pushes back in, all at once this time, “It is nothing like I imagined.”

His face is buried in the crook of your neck now, his hips pulling back only to push back in again, tip of his cock brushing against that spot inside you that makes you keen, fingernails digging into his arms as you hold on.

“Is it better, General?” You ask in his ear, “Am I all your dreams come true?”

He answers with a hard thrust of his cock, causing a shrill shriek from your throat as the tip bruises at the very depths of you.

“It is everything I wanted and more, carrisima.”

He pushes himself back from you, cock still buried deep, and gathers your legs, hooking them over his arms before he presses forward again, bending your body in a way you know will make you ache tomorrow.

His hips pull back, before the slam back into you, his heavy balls slapping against your ass, as he sets a pace that you’re not even sure the God’s could keep up with. The room filled with nothing but the sounds of his skin slapping against yours, the wet squelch of your cunt sucking him in on every thrust, and the hot pants and moans from the two of you.

You let your arms reach around, palms against the toned muscles of his ass. You squeeze and dig fingernails into skin on each bruising thrust, head thrown back to let him press forward enough to suck at your neck, teeth nipping and tongue soothing. No-one but him would get away with marking you.

“I’m close,” he manages to choke out, “Tell me I can fill you.”

You’ve waited too long to feel him like this to deny him. You would go to the healer in the morning for a cyreniac balm, but all you wanted right now was to feel him claim you, to make you his in every possible sense.

“Fill me, General,” you moan, “Let me feel you, please.”

It does take long, his hips faltering, stilling into your on one final thrust. He growls into the night air, his cock throbbing within you, the feeling of his seed painting your walls makes you hungry for more. He collapses on top of you, softening cock still deep inside you, as you wrap your arms around him, run comforting fingers through his hair as he recovers his breath.

Finally, he slips himself from your heat and rolls onto his back, dragging you with him to drape across his chest, one hand on your lower back, the other placed atop yours on his chest.

“I go back to war soon,” he speaks quietly, mouth pressed to your forehead, “I-“ he stutters for a moment, “I’m not sure I will make it back this time.”

You lean up and press a soft kiss to his jaw, “You are lucky, Sir,” you speak, “I think the Gods look upon you.”

“I feel a premonition,” he explains, “I couldn’t go back without knowing what it was to have you.”

You move the hand you have on his chest to entwine your fingers with his own, “You must come back, I cannot live without you now I know you like this.”

He smiles a little, shifts the two of you so you are both led on your sides looking at each other. His big palm traces down your side, resting at your hip.

“I will try, mea columba,” he whispers, kissing the tip of your nose, “But for now,” he rolls you gently to your back, fingers trailing back through your folds, slipping inside you, gathering his come and your slick on his fingers, dragging it up to circle your clit softly, “We must make the most of the time we have left together.”

[romana-after-dark]

Thank you so much wow wow wow!!!!!!

Sacrificial Lamb

Darkish!Marcus Acacius x Virgin!fem!Reader

Masterlist

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

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

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

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

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

4.5k words

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The General’s hands held your chin firm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“General Aca-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

But your wishes were short lived.

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

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

Him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But first, your maidenhood.

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

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

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

“I am ready, my lord.”

“It seems you are.”

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing in this world felt better than blood on blood. 

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

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

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

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

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

And he is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A beat of silence.

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

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

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

It wasn’t even a question for a moment.

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

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

A note, I decided to add a tip option with Buy Me a Coffee and Ko-fi. PLEASE DONT FEEL OBLIGATED A ALL!!! I do this for fun and enjoyment not to get paid. It's just there <3

I know the fandom seems messy right now, but you are all special <3

I dont have a taglist anymore, but follow @romana-updates to keep up!

Tagging those who expressed interest

@mangoslushcrush @yeet268 @littlekate @lunar-ghoulie @admiralackbarssugarbaby @jackie923 @fan-fiction-floozy @spidey-3 @princessanglophile @ladyofmidlo72 @fandxmslxt69

[pascalispretty]

each man's mad desire

General Marcus Acacius x F!Reader

Rating: Explicit

Summary: Marcus Acacius is a conqueror. You invite him to conquer you.

Word Count: 3.8k

Tags: marcus fucks a nymph, predator/prey, knifeplay, blood, thigh riding, rough sex, sorta consensual-non-consent? Reader very explicitly wants him and invites him to hunt her down. Marcus has an unfashionably huge dick.

A/N: I swore I wasn't going to write for another character from an unreleased film, yet here we are. I loved studying Classics, so there are easter eggs within for those familiar with mythology. "Nymph" is more Greek than Roman, but it's also the better-known version of the word. Barcinus is a completely made-up cognomen for him (from the Latin name for Barcelona). Ichor is a Greek concept, but too delicious not to borrow here. Big dicks really were considered unattractive - it was a sign of barbarism to have a big penis. Title from Book IX of The Aeneid. Painting is 'The Charmer' by John William Waterhouse. (ao3)

The battle is won, the men are settled, and General Marcus Acacius is restless. He wears the efforts of the day in the blood and grime and sand coating his skin, the ache in his muscles. The city is retaken. The barbarians have been slaughtered or captured. He knows he should rest.

And yet, he wanders.

The camp is close by the beach. As he walks, the sound of the army behind him fades away, drowned out by the sound of the sea. The inviting aroma of the campfires and roasting meat is replaced by the smell of salt. There are sentries out here, somewhere in the night. He pays them no mind; he wishes to be alone. Grass turns to sand underfoot and still Acacius walks on. At the edge of the sea, he pauses briefly.

Across the Great Sea, to the east, stands Rome. It’s veiled by darkness and distance, but he turns to look for it anyway. He misses it the way a loyal son misses a beloved father. Word of a great victory will travel before him, the whispers moving faster than any army can.

When he returns home, he hopes he will be warmly welcomed. Those seeking to ride his skirts into Imperial favour will doubtless fall over themselves to praise him, at least. They will preen and flatter, and he will nod humbly and thank them.

“The Gods were with me.” It is always his answer, when asked of his victories. It is a clean answer. Men praise him for his piety; they do not imagine the lives he has sacrificed, the atrocities he has committed, the horrors of sacking a city. The Gods were with him; he does not have to speak of loosing his men like feral dogs upon innocents, of slaughtering barbarian sons so they cannot grow up to seek their vengeance on Rome.

Acacius turns and walks down the beach, leaving the camp behind him. The silvery light of the stars and moon light his path along the coast. He simply enjoys being away from all others, the crash of the waves and his own footsteps the only noise he can hear. The ground to his right begins to rise, soft grass yielding to rock. He has no sense of how long he has walked for when the beach before him suddenly ends. The shoreline curves sharply inward, creating a rocky inlet.

He has no desire to turn back now. Perhaps the path reemerges on the other side. He follows the curve of the stone inward. Ahead, he can see the path sloping down towards the waterline, leading towards the dark mouth of a cave. The tide is coming in; the water at the entrance to the grotto must be at least knee-deep.

Acacius is turning to leave when he notices her.

The inlet in the rock forms a pool at the entrance to the cave. Even in the silvery moonlight, the water looks beautiful and clear. It should not surprise him that a maiden might come to bathe there, away from prying eyes.

For it is a maiden that stops him in his tracks, fixes his boots to the stone. Her back is turned to him; she is perched atop a rock, her bare feet dangling in the saltwater of the pool. Now that he is aware of her, he thinks he hears her singing over the sounds of the waves, a melody he does not recognise.

An honourable man would depart. Acacius can only see her back, but she must be noble. Her dress is so white it is almost blinding, even in the starlight. Her feet are bare, but he spies a pair of finely-wrought sandals on the rocks beside her. Certainly a noble lady then.

His mind is made up to leave.

And at that very moment, she turns.

***

You had not expected to be discovered. Perhaps you might have toyed with him if you had. You could have disguised yourself as a maiden in need of assistance, a princess cast ashore by a shipwreck. There are endless amusements to be found among the mortals.

Yet he has stumbled upon your grotto quite by accident, and from your first glimpse, he intrigues you.

Marcus Acacius Barcinus.

Something whispers his name to you; you know it as soon as you see him, just as you know he has dark hair threaded with grey. You allow a smile to play on your lips.

To his credit, this man does not move. Confronted with something so nakedly celestial, other men have lost their minds. What is it for a man to look upon the face of the divine? They do not always survive it. This one seems strong. He may yet survive you.

“Hail, noble General,” you start, turning in your seat on the rock so you may face him more directly. He is a handsome one. His lovely dark eyes drink you in from head to toe.

“You know me?” He manages after a moment. Not mad then, not yet anyway. You laugh, and he seems startled by the sound.

“I do.” Sliding off the rock you step into the water, your stola clinging to your skin. “General Marcus Acacius Barcinus, son of Gaius Acacius. Your piety is known.” He is always attentive with his sacrifices. You can smell the burning flesh and spilled wine dedicated to the heavens from here, in honour of his latest victory.

You take a few steps towards him. He’s still atop the rocky crest, almost looking down on you. You near the base of the slope, your skirts drying the moment they leave the water, and halt again. The mouth of the grotto is to your back; you can hear the lap of the waves echoing against the rocky walls.

“And which noble goddess do I have the honour of addressing?” He asks. You have many names, too many to sift through. A mortal wrote you into a poem once; you give him the name the poet gave you.

“I had not thought ever to look upon a nymph before.” There is something in the way he says it; a tone of disbelief colouring his voice. It’s as though he expects to wake up in his tent at any moment. In the dark violet light of twilight, the blood on his skin looks brown and rusty. You can almost taste the iron on the air.

“Are you content merely to look?” You ask him, a sly smile on your lips. You already know he is not. This man is a conqueror, and he is looking at you with all the intensity and desire of a man set upon conquest. He does not speak for a long moment. Perhaps he is afraid of offending you, of saying the wrong thing and finding himself transformed into a pig or sea foam.

You walk a little closer to him, emerging from the water. Closer now, the smell of him drowning out the salt of the sea. He reeks of man, of blood and sweat and such pure vitality you nearly stagger. He’s so breathtakingly alive. If all mortal men are thus, you understand why your sisters seek them out and take them to bed, even bear their children.

“I admire a man who knows how to take what he desires. A conqueror in all things,” you continue, feeling the warmth of his gaze as he watches the sway of your hips. Once you are an arm’s length away from him, you reach out. You cannot help it. He’s such a marvellous specimen of manhood, the kind that ought to be honoured with a kingdom or a divine son or his form traced in the stars.

He does not stop you when you rest your palm against the leather of his cuirass. It’s warm to the touch, whether from the heat of his body or a day of the sun beating down upon it. The black leather has a gilded woman’s face across the front; Minerva perhaps. It gives you pause. If he values Minerva and her strategies above Mars and his frenzy, he may not enjoy your games.

Nevertheless, you will not let the tastes of mortal men unnerve you. He watches you as you undo the knot at one shoulder, and wordlessly reaches to help you. Together, the two of you free him from his heavy armour. As he sets it down gently against the rock, you nearly choke on him. You can hear the thrum of his heart, smell the salt of his sweat, the iron in his blood.

You have never starved. Yet this conqueror of men is like being blessed with a feast and realising for the first time that you have been dying of hunger all your life. Freed from his heavy leathers, you step so closely to him that your glimmering white dress brushes against his filthy red tunic. You reach out to cup his jaw, enjoying the way his skin feels to your touch.

He swallows thickly, his lovely eyes searching your face.

“I want you.” He says it simply, though you know it must have taken courage. Men have died for such insults before. You let a smile curl around your lips.  

“Mars himself had my maidenhead. I do not submit easily to the advances of men.” Standing on tiptoe, you lean in until your lips nearly touch the shell of his ear. “If you want me, you will have to take me.”

It’s all the prompting you give him before you turn and run.

You run down the beach, back the way he came. You have more powerful kin who could outrun him with ease, if they chose. Minerva could be a continent away in moments, if she chose. You do not have their same powers; you might be fleeter of foot than a mortal woman, but you cannot transform yourself into a swan and fly back to the heavens.

Behind you, you hear Acacius’ feet pounding against the sand. The noise blurs with the roar of his heartbeat, thumping harder as he chases you. You run faster, pulling your skirts up with one hand so they cannot tangle around your legs. It has been far too long since you felt this exhilarated. Off in the distance, you can see the lights of his camp, the torches and bonfires burning brightly in the twilight.

You lose yourself to the chase, paying the distance no mind as you race down the beach. Sand flies up beneath your bare feet, gritty under your toes as you run. Something in you wants to turn around, to see if the handsome general is still close behind you. You can hear him well enough to know he is behind you, but not well enough to gauge the distance.

You don’t look. You only run.

Even though you had invited the hunt, desperately hoping to be caught, the hand that catches your waist surprises you. He seizes you by the waist and tackles you into the sand, pinning you beneath his muscular bulk. The feeling of being trapped sends a perverse thrill racing through you, something warm stirring in your belly.

Though he has caught you, you do not give in so easily.

You thrash underneath him, trying to throw him off you. Acacius is unyielding. His large hands grip your arms; his knees squeeze at your sides. You get one arm free and bring it up. You’re not sure what you intend to do; you don’t want to break him. Scratch him, perhaps? You never get the chance to find out.

Before you see him move, he seizes your arm and pins your wrist beneath his foot. One hand flies to your throat; the other draws a dagger from its sheath and holds the point against the swell of your breast.

For a long moment, you cannot breathe. The large hand at your throat squeezes just enough to threaten a loss of air. The foot on your wrist makes the delicate bones there grind together on just the right side of pleasure-pain. And oh, the blade at your heart. The tip pierces your skin and you don’t know whether to scream or cry or vomit from the shock.

You have never been so still in your life.

When has anything mortal ever pierced your skin? When has anything mortal managed to cut through the skin of your kith and kin? You have vague memories; bandaging Mars’ side after the great spearman Diomedes struck him outside Ilium. You watch in horror and awe as a bead of ichor seeps from the pinprick wound. Mars has made you bleed before, but you never thought a mortal might draw your glittering, golden blood.

You look up at him, your conqueror. He is panting hard, but his face shows no exhaustion; only determination. His eyes are nearly black with desire, and his lovely black and grey curls are damp with sweat. Gods, you want him. You want him to hunt you down as he would a deer, to throw you down and take you like some common mortal whore.

Watching you closely, Acacius eases his grip on your throat. A man used to gauging the weakness of his enemies has seen right through you in turn. He knows you do not need air to breathe. He knows he has done something astounding in the knife at your breast. He holds it steady as he reaches beneath the skirts of his tunic, pulling at the strings of his underthings. He pulls it free with a grunt and discards it beside you in the sand.

Free from its confinement, his manhood pushes against the skirt of his tunic. Something low in your belly twists in anticipation, slick coating the insides of your thighs. Your blood feels as though it’s boiling beneath your skin as Acacius grips the fine cloth of your stola in one filthy hand.

“You are the most beautiful thing I have ever laid eyes upon,” he tells you, in all sincerity. You tremble underneath him as he pushes your skirts up around your waist, another bead of ichor welling up around the tip of the blade.

You gasp as the metal shifts, and his eyes flick to your face. Almost lovingly, his hand wraps around your throat again.

“Do you yield?” When no reply is immediately forthcoming, he presses his advantage. The hand at your throat and foot at your wrist push harder; more glittering blood beads at your breast. The surface tension finally breaks, sending the blood dripping down towards your neck.

“I yield.” In an instant, he relaxes his hold. The foot on your wrist disappears, as does the blade. The hand on your throat remains, tipping your head up so he can kiss you. He kisses like his master, Mars; hard and demanding. You return the kiss with bruising intensity, nipping at his lower lip. It seems only fair that you make him bleed a little, in turn.

His beard prickles against your skin, and you answer it by sliding your hand into his curls and pulling roughly. Acacius groans against your mouth, crushing himself closer to you and forcing your legs apart with his knee. His muscular thigh presses against your bare cunt, the pressure sending liquid fire dancing through your body. You rut up against his thigh eagerly, your slick smearing against his skin.

Acacius notices your movements, breaking off the kiss to stare at you. The raw lust in his eyes makes you keep going, rocking your hips desperately against him. His thigh flexes between your legs, and you groan loudly. Without taking his eyes off you, his hand drifts to cup your breast, tantalisingly close to the tiny wound on your unblemished skin.

“Are you going to stab me again, slayer of men?” You ask him, tauntingly. You wouldn’t mind if he did.

“No, dear mistress. I’ll watch you debase yourself on my thigh.” Oh, you want to keep him. Your sisters have kept mortals before; you remember well the fuss around sweet Hylas, cunning Ulysses. Your conqueror finds your nipple through the fine material of your dress, the flesh stiffening beneath his fingers as he toys with you.

Your hips roll easier, faster as you sink deeper into your pleasure. Every glide becomes slicker as you soak his skin. It’s been some time since you’ve so blatantly sought your own pleasure, and you welcome it back eagerly. That familiar tension is coiling tightly in your belly and sends you spiralling higher with every movement.

Acacius watches you with fascination. His own pleasure is forgotten for the moment, though you suppose he is enjoying this. Something divine rubbing against him like a cat in heat; no man alive would believe him if he told them. Your breath comes in short, sharp gasps and you clutch at Acacius’ wrist to ground yourself. He’s so solid and warm to your touch; his vitality is unlike any aphrodisiac you have ever known.

It’s not long before you come with a cry, your nails digging into Acacius’ skin as you shudder against him. The fire in your belly burns through you, the heat of it radiating out to your fingertips. It leaves you boneless beneath your conqueror. He seizes the advantage, pulling your legs wider apart to slot his other leg between them.

You struggle. Why not? It amuses you to make him manhandle you into place. He pulls your legs wider with one hand. With the thumb of the hand at your breast, he presses just below the cut. The burst of pain makes you hiss. Cowed, you let him pull your legs apart, his eyes feasting on your cunt. You must look a mess, swollen and soaked.

Acacius lets go of your leg and pulls up the hem of his tunic. He’s big, unfashionably so for his countrymen. Beads of fluid leak from the reddened tip, and he swipes them away with his thumb. He settles himself between your thighs, and you gasp when he notches the blunt head of his cock against your entrance. Without warning or reprieve, he forces his cock inside you.

You throw your head back against the sand, stars exploding against your closed eyelids as you dance along the knife edge of pleasure and pain. A deep groan rumbles out of Acacius’ throat as he presses deeper, working against your tight muscles to seat himself within you. He’s unrelenting, his length thick and twitching as it fills you.

There’s no other word for it; you wail up at the star-strewn sky, pleasure flooding through you. Your body feels too small to contain the fire being stoked inside you, deep in your core. You pull at Acacius, nails clawing, dragging him down to kiss you. His lips meet yours in a messy crash, all tongues and teeth as he finally seats himself fully within you.

He barely allows you a moment to adjust. He retreats almost fully, his cock nearly leaving you completely, before sliding back in with one fluid stroke of his hips. You’re shaken by how willingly your body accepts him, colouring any pain with so much pleasure you barely notice the discomfort. His hand finds your throat again, squeezing just enough to make you feel lightheaded.

Acacius’ incursions become sharper, harder, as he finds his rhythm. Your hands slide under the hem of his tunic to clutch at his back, your nails leaving behind tiny red crescents in his skin. Every breath you take is shared by him, your mouths so close together you can taste the wine lingering on his tongue. The two of you move together, your moans melting into one another as you fuck like animals in the sand.

It doesn’t take him long to send you over the edge again. Bliss wipes all words from your mind; you can only lie there and let your release crash over you. The ichor in your veins feels like it’s singing. Acacius looks down on you in awe, and it only drives you higher. You want to keep him. The Heroic Age is too far past; the world is lacking for heroes. Perhaps you and Acacius can make a few; handsome, strong boys, half-god children who reflect their father’s divine favour.

“Would you give me sons, Acacius?” You ask, breathless at his onslaught. Your foreheads are pressed together still; you cannot see the look on his face. He groans sharply, his hands clutch tighter at you. Is that a yes? What greater blessing to a pious man than a son born to a goddess.

He certainly shows no signs of stopping. He fucks you with the same vigour he fights with. You feel like you’re floating, high above your own body, lost completely to pleasure. Jupiter himself could command you to stop, and you’d be unable to obey. You grow restless beneath him. His hand has slackened around your throat, so you lean down to lick a line across his neck. The taste of salt and iron explodes across your tongue, so delicious that you have to force yourself not to sink your teeth in.

Acacius grunts above you, forcing you back down against the sand. His hips are stuttering; a sign that he’s close to his own release. You want to cry, want to prolong this as much as possible, but you know he has limits. Your sisters have pushed mortal men too far before; you will not make the same mistake, not with so delicious a playmate.

Instead you spur him on. Your nails dig harder into his back, making him groan sharply. His short, desperate thrusts make your eyes roll back into your skull as he touches something deep and private within you, unknown to anyone else.

“I- I must-” He starts, words failing him as he chases his release. You pepper his face with kisses, nip at his kiss-swollen lips.

“You must,” you agree. “I want you to fill me up.” You’re both breathless, barely any air between your bodies to breathe. One of your hands slides into his curls, pulling at them. You guide his head down until your lips are at his ear again.

“I could give you a son,” you whisper. “But only if you finish inside me. Claim me; mark me as yours. Conquer me.”

He tips over the edge with a loud groan, his hips stuttering as he comes. You can feel his cock twitch inside you as he does, filling you with his seed. Perhaps something might catch; he seems virile enough. You cradle his head against the crook of your neck as he catches his breath, his body heavy as he relaxes on top of you.

“Noble Acacius,” you murmur fondly, stroking his curls. “Marcus. What do you make of your new conquest?” He is quiet for a long moment. The crash of the waves fills the silence, the tide drawing closer. Soon, the two of you will have to move.

“I shall never know another victory like it.”

Taglist:

Tagging some people who might be interested: @iamasaddie (per their request for Acacius filth) @avengersfan25 @misscharlielulu @apenny4thots @its-nebuleuse

[pedgito]

𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐃𝐎𝐕𝐄 | Marcus Acacius x reader

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summary | once your dad's greatest friend, now his greatest enemy. you cannot shake the desire and care you feel for the fallen general, even as he heads toward death.

author's note | LISTEN, none of this is going to be accurate. and frankly idc, i'm horny i needed to write this do not come at me. no source material? idc i'm still writing it. anyways, enjoy the p*rn. (if you're reading this prior to the movie coming out, none of this is canon. this is just an idea that i wanted to write and felt like posting, if you do not like the idea of writing without source material, please do not engage or send me asks to be combative, they will be deleted. i won't be continuing this specific fic and will not be writing for him again until the movie comes out.)

content warning | 18+ smut, this is dbf for the gladiator girlies (gn), sneaking around, descriptions of smut, oral (f receiving), fingering, unprotected piv, creampies, breeding kink, age gap (reader is early 20s, marcus is late 40s/early 50s), alcohol tw, innocence kink

word count —2k

You knew he would be here soon, he must. 

You curled into the dark corners of the arena hall, having been here since dawn with your own father, a high military commander who struck down Marcus as punishment for such things even he wouldn’t tell you about. You knew nothing, heard nothing—you weren’t allowed such privilege. 

It has been days since you last saw him—Marcus. General Acacius to many, another esteemed leader amongst the masses, and a once great friend to your father. Though, that was no longer.

You often called him sir, finding that General Acacius was quite the mouthful. Or often just General, but his endearment toward you was blatant and he insists, almost pleading that you drop the formality when alone. Which was easier, as your fondness of him grew.

It started at a celebration, one of the many grand parties thrown in celebration of fight won or any reason for the men to drink, but Marcus liked to linger. Often tucked away in a corner watching the madness unfold, you were too curious to stay locked up in your room.

The first night he caught your eye, it was a smile around the edge of his silver goblet drowning in red wine, a hand crossed over his chest as he watched you slip away in fear that he may say something to your father.

But, he never did.

For weeks after, it progresses. From a smile, to a lingering gaze, eventually he finds himself inching closer to you, week by week. Until one night he finally finds the courage in himself to be waiting by the corner you often sneak around, watching curiously.

“You are pushing it, dove.” He speaks softly, his eyes downturned to look at you from the step he was on above you, slowly inching down until he was level, “if he catches you—”

“He hasn’t,” You tell him in a clipped, hushed tone, “and you haven’t said anything. You won’t….will you?”

He bypasses the question, “Why do you come here?” Marcus curiously asks, “These men, they are—animals, if they see you dressed like that, they would not hesitate to—”

You had on a pale nightgown, thin and barely enough to cover your modesty but it was enough. The sticky, summer heat prickled your skin, formed a line of sweat across your brow and you huffed out at his words, “My father would murder them. Besides, you are not like them. So, why do you linger here?”

He was much more than a friend, closer and akin to family. 

But, he had his own troubles. Stepson, a wife, he should be away caring for them. Yet, he was there with a disgruntled scowl and eyes only set on you.

“Why not?” He shrugs, “It is…quite entertaining. Isn’t that why you sneak around here to watch?”

You mimic his shrug, shying away slightly as you pull away to leave, but his hand catches your wrist, his cup placed in the gap of pillars separating you both. His facial expressions show an internal battle of thought, like he’s fighting against the bad and hoping the good would win out.

Unfortunately, the bad prevails.

“Let us walk,” He tells you, nodding toward the exit a few feet away, “if you would accompany me?”

You nod eagerly, switching the grip on your wrist to curl around his bicep, muscular and hard from years of fight training. He flexes slightly at the touch, covering his free hand over yours in a comforting gesture. 

He made you feel safe. And that was all that mattered to you.

—

The walk was the first mistake.

It wasn’t more than a few minutes before you found yourself tucked away by a nearby tent, unbuckling and unfastening Marcus out of his gear hastily before he fucked you under your nightgown—gentle but firm. He was the first man, the first ever to have you in such a way. You’d told him so as your hands shook under the weight of his gaze, the taste of bitter wine on his lips. He’d kissed you as he pushed his cock inside of you and didn’t stop until you were tipping over the edge.

Over time, you grow bolder. Sneaking him back into your home was easy, knowing the guards weren’t as watchful in the late, late hours of the night. It was dangerous, reckless, but as you tug him down into the cellar and sink to your knees, it all fades away quickly.

His little dove, he often calls you. Sweet dove, so pure and innocent. His hand caresses your chin as you swallow him down, eyes locked on his half-lidded gaze before he comes down your throat, nose scrunching up slightly and his brow furrowing, biting at the back of his other hand to muffle the groan that escapes him.

It was always like this—hurried and quick fucks that didn’t diminish the feeling, but reminded you how easily you could both be caught. It continues for months…and months, until suddenly he stops coming around.

No parties, no visits—Marcus had become a ghost.

But, enough digging had led you here, tucked away in the shadows again—but watching as he fought for his life. The other man was much older, weaker, and Marcus struck him down within a matter of minutes, blood splattering across his face as he stuck again and again, bashing the poor man’s skull in until it was nothing, teeth gritting as his body surged with adrenaline.

Gladiator fighting wasn’t a new thing—and you knew he wasn’t the only one, but why?

He’s making his way down the arena toward the pillar you are tucked behind unknowingly, alone and battered as the guards run off to dispose of the body. You aren’t sure where Marcus is going now or when you would see him again, but you take the chance when you know no one is watching, grabbing him by the armor plate on his chest and pulling him away and into a dusty closet, knocking into a stack of buckets in the process.

You gasp as his hand wraps around your neck, fist cocked back in preparation of an attack.

But, then his eyes land on you.

“Dove, what are you—”

You shush him quickly, hands molding against his face and the dried blood, his breathing quick and short as you attempt to calm him.

“I had to see you—I thought…I thought you had—”

“I might as well be,” Marcus replies somberly, “we cannot meet like this. We cannot meet at all.”

“It’s fine, It’s fine–” You assure him, reaching forward to press your lips against his.

Marcus pulls away hesitantly, grabbing your face roughly until you look at him, eyes widening.

“They will kill you. I cannot see you again. I should not even be here with you.”

Your eyes well with tears, forcing yourself forward again to capture his lips and this time he allows it, opening his mouth slightly as your tongue dips inside, working silently at the buckles to his chest plate.

“No talking. Let us…enjoy this. If it is the last time.”

You were both well aware—he would fight for his life or die, that was it. And he would fight until that point came. He was no longer a General, completely stripped of his power. But, he was still Marcus. And you would hold onto that for as long as you could.

He’s shaking, the adrenaline raking his body and making him restless as you kissed him, tongue dipping into his mouth again as his hands roamed, squeezed, caressed. 

“I will not break,” You whisper into his mouth, “take what you need, Marcus.”

It was all he needed to hear, turning you around swiftly and forcing your down with a hand against your back, arms pressing into the shelf in front of you as he pushed up the silk, carefully woven and intricate fabric of your dress—so pristine and perfect. He wanted to rip it off you, be he refrains, squeezing at your hips while he kneels behind you.

“Marcus, you need not—”

“Quiet, little dove. Let me have this,” He licks against your cunt hungrily, noisy slurps as he lapped you up, squeezing less than gentle at the inside of your thighs as they shook, his tongue swiping over your clit, a broken moan slipping past your lips, “beautiful—let me hear you.”

“Marcus,” You plea, his fingers joining his tongue as they breached you and drag against the soft, but incredibly sensitive spot inside of you, your hand reaching for his wrist tucked between your legs as you whined out his name once more, twice, until your legs gave out, feelings his strong, broad shoulders flexing as he used his brute strength to keep you upright, licking up the gush of fluids that leak out of you, rising with haste and untucking himself from his garments, wrapping a gentle hand around the back of your neck before he’s pulling you upright harshly.

“Want to leave you something,” He whispers against the shell of your ear, “something to remember me, if I shall never leave here. Something of me for you to carry on. Alright, sweet dove?”

You nod knowingly, as Marcus had always been careful to pull himself out before breaching that point. He was always careful, hesitant—but being on the brink of death, he found himself careless and desperate. He couldn’t let you go.

He slips inside of you with a hand tucked around your throat, pulling your back to his chest as he snapped his hips into you firmly, groaning lewdly into the side of your neck as he bit down, squeezing at your throat with every soft sound you made and you want it just as bad, forcing your hips back into every push of his cock—you were positive this pain would last you into next week, but you needed that reminder. His fingers dip into your skin, hard and uncaring and sure to leave marks, but that was what you wanted.

And his groans quickly turn needy, more high-pitched than you’ve ever heard them

He’s holding back, restraining himself. You turn your head, catching his heated gaze as he pants, your thumb tracing over his lip. His hand drags over your stomach, rests, curious of how beautiful you would look swollen and carrying his child. 

It is a hopeful and distant dream, one that he will never foresee.

“Give it to me, Marcus,” You beg him, “I want it.”

It so easily undoes him, “Take it, my dove,” He growls, coming deep inside of you with a shaky thrust of his hips, squeezing you tight against him, “I think of you, always. You must know—know that.” 

It pulls at your heart, tugs in a way that makes your entire body ache. He pulls out with a low grunt, silently tucking himself away as you adjust your dress.

“And I love you,” You admit, watching as his gaze pulls up quickly, “even if you cannot say it back. I know. I know you do.”

Marcus breathes harshly through his nose, crowding you once more but it is soothed by a gentle kiss, “You need to leave—do not come back here.”

“Marcus,” You counter, sadness lacing your tone.

“If, by some miracle, I make it out of here,” He drags his thumb along your jawline, pausing on his words as he looks you over, memorizes you, “I will find you.”

You nod jerkily, eyes never breaking from his, “Just like you always have.”

divider creds: @/cafekitsune

thanks to @chaotic-mystery & @pr0ximamidnight for being the absolute best friends ever and beta'ing this for me on a moments notice, ily both.

[jobean12-blog]

Punishment

Pairing: General Marcus Acacius x female reader

Word Count: 1.4K

Summary: You disobey the General's orders and he doesn't like it, not one bit.

Author's Note: My lovely friend @tripletstephaniescp sent my an insta reel that helped to inspire this! The General was pissed that you didn't do as he asked hehe so I figured we should be punished in the best way possible! Thank you so much my love! Thank you all so much for reading! Much love always! ❤️❤️❤️Divider by @firefly-graphics thank you Daisy, you rock! 🥰

Warnings: he's always soft and sweet under it all, today he's pissed and dominant also, bondage, oral (f and m rec), smut

Marcus Acacius Masterlist

You’re already back in your shared bedroom when he finds you, his broad shoulders filling out the space in the doorway and his face shadowed in the low lighting.

You pause before turning to face him, your lips parting to speak but quickly clamping shut when you see the look on his face.

His expression is tight, jaw clenched, and he closes his eyes to let out a deep exhale.

“You blatantly ignored my command.”

You start to interrupt but he steps inside the room and shuts the door, moving forward and holding a hand up to stop you.

“I told you not to come. I told you it would be dangerous.”

Even with his angry tone his eyes are pleading, watery with unshed emotion.

You go to speak again but promptly shut your mouth when he shakes his head and sighs. Silence fills the room for a long, painful minute.

With tentative steps you close the distance between you. Your hands slide up his chest and over his shoulders to wrap around his neck.

You press a soft kiss to his frowning mouth.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper with another kiss. “It’s just…”

You search for the right words, for a way to explain away his worry, but instead press more kisses to his cheeks and down his neck.

The kisses are short and soft, and he only gives you a teasing brush of his tongue. His hands slide down the curve of your spine and he pulls you closer.

One hand glides up to grip the back of your neck and he gives you exactly what you want: the deep, demanding kisses of a man who’s about to make you pay for your disobedience.

His cock presses into your stomach and it’s a presence you can’t ignore. Kissing down his neck you start to undo the garment at his shoulders, making your way lower until your nails are running down the thick muscles of his thighs.

You lift the leather panels of his skirt and slowly free him from the confines of his undergarment. His eyes are steady with heavy lids as he watches you draw your tongue up his length from base to tip.

“My love,” he growls, tensing when you take the entirety of him in your mouth.

With gritted teeth he reaches down and wraps his large hand around your wrist, dragging you up his body until he can look you directly in the eyes.

The moment feels like whiplash, the warmth and shape of him still coating your tongue.

His expression turns dark, and you feel unsteady on your feet. Without words he urges you back toward the bed, slowly pulling the wrapped cloth from your body. His hands slide over your curves, fingers spread wide and digging into your skin as he rids you of the last piece of clothing.

You push up into his touch and he murmurs sweet praise against your skin. His voice warms your blood, and he watches your every move. Watches your lips part with your increasingly heavy breaths, watches your eyelashes brush your cheeks with every sweep of his fingertips.

He sits up and stares at you while he slowly unwraps the linen at his throat. It’s still slightly sweaty and muddled with dust and he’s still wearing most of his armor, only now removing his belt and leather skirt.

You let out a whimper when he gathers your wrists in his large hand and ever so carefully binds them together, positioning them up and away from your body.

The way he looks at you…

You feel like the queen you are.

He presses his hand to your chest, each finger splayed so that you register just how big his hands are. You shiver, the anticipation snaking down your spine with each passing second.

“You’ll never disobey me again,” he grits out.

It’s not a question. It’s a statement. A fact. One you answer with a vigorous nod and wide eyes.

“You want me just a little rough?” he asks, his harsh swallow straining the muscles of his neck. “Or do you want me wild for you?”

You squirm beneath him, unintentionally tightening the binds at your wrist.

“Wild.”

He exhales, his nostrils flared, and teeth gritted.

With practiced ease he removes the rest of his armor, watching your face, your breasts, gauging your reaction as he undresses.

He leans over you, reverently brushing his palms along your skin, his eyes softening with the silent question.

You give him a reassuring nod and he lowers his mouth, kissing and sucking on his way down between your legs.

With a moan, his tongue tastes you and you’re already shaking. Just the whispered press of his mouth, his warm breath and the roughness of his beard has you teetering on the edge.

You can’t grip the sheets, you can’t touch him, and you give into it, letting go, begging for more and more. Your back curls as you cry out and do everything you can to get closer. He presses his hands to the inside of your thighs and spreads you wider, drawing out every last drop of pleasure until you’re begging him to let you breathe.

His murmured praises go unnoticed until he slides up your body and whispers against the shell of your ear.

“Do you want me to fuck you now?”

Letting out a shaky breath you somehow manage, “yes, please, General. Now.”

He grunts out a curse at the use of his title and you’re gasping, trying to focus on one thing, but it’s impossible. He’s gorgeous, his chest and shoulders broad, every muscle tense and his golden skin slick with sweat.

His kisses are soft when he trails his lips over your breasts, gently pulling your nipple between his teeth and then soothing it with his tongue. He takes his time, and you’ve never felt so desperate.

You’re bound and he’s so big, he could do anything he wants but he’s so focused and gentle right now and laced into every kiss is something so deep it makes your chest ache.

“Please,” you whisper.

He steadies you with a hand on your hip, holding his cock with other, and whispering sweet things softly against your ear.

Slowly he starts to push inside, and it takes forever to fully feel the length of him. You pull at the binds on your wrist, the effort pointless, but the need to touch him overwhelming.

He pushes so deep and groans, rocking his hips just the slightest bit.

“Shhh, my love,” he whispers into your skin. “Don’t make any sounds.”

You whimper and he stills, nipping at your pulse point before he says, “your little sounds will make me come before I’m ready.”

You have to bite your lip to stay quiet, and he praises your effort with a kiss. He angles your hips higher and then starts a fast, relentless rhythm.

His eyes are on your face, his expression so intense, obsessed, tender, and adoring, that you can’t look away.

You try to remain quiet but your orgasm rushes down your spine and through every nerve ending in your body, your cries slipping past parted lips as you pull against the binding.

Marcus growls, thrusting into you hard and fast before he comes so forcefully you feel him pulse low in your belly.

He slows then stills, taking you in his arms and grunting into your neck with every quiet exhale.

His mouth moves over your shoulder, and he begins to slowly massage your thighs, lifting you carefully to reach behind you and loosen the cloth at your wrists.

He collects you against his chest, wrapping you up in him like a gift, running a gentle calloused fingertip along every groove the cloth left behind in your skin.

The skin on his hands is rough but his touch is tender when he takes your chin between his fingers and brings your face to his.

“I need to hear that you’re okay,” he rasps. “I didn’t hurt you?”

“I’m okay.”

He kisses you neck, your cheek, the corner of your mouth and finally, your lips.

“I love you,” he whispers, his eyes closing as he pulls you closer and holds you tighter.

[milla-frenchy]

Home

3k7 | Marcus Acacius x fem reader | ao3 | masterlist

Summary: Acacius returns from Numidia several months after his departure, and comes back to his wife

Warnings: 18+ mdni. fluff, smut, established relationship, Acacius and reader are married and deeply in love, Acacius is devoted to his wife (he’s soft, protective, caring and slightly possessive), oral (m/f), oil massages, size kink, piv, creampie. No age specified

a/n:  this fic is just soft and sweet and I hope it will bring comfort to those who need it. This is my love letter to Acacius, basically, after watching Gladiator 2 (no spoilers towards the movie). I love this character so much. I did some research but I'm not an expert on ancient Rome at all.

Thank you @aurorawritestoescape for always holding my hand and for beta-ing, @joelmillerisapunk for cheering me up, @iamasaddie for being a sunshine- 🫶💓 dividers @saradika-graphics 🙏

You felt his presence before he even spoke. 

You knew he was here, because all your worries, all the tension in your body, dissipated instantly. All the weight accumulated during those last months was removed from your shoulders, allowing your body to relax and open up.

"My lady..," you heard. 

You stood up and faced him, turning away from the fish pond. You murmured his name then hurried towards him to snuggle against his broad, protective chest, where nothing bad could reach you. His arms surrounded you, as his lips kissed your forehead and your hands slid along his waist to his back. The warmth radiated from him, warming your entire being, body and soul.

"You are here, my love," you whispered, feeling tears well up in your eyes. You had been holding them back for so long. Too long. Because you didn't want to seem weak, and because you didn't want to let your brain swallow you up in its darkness.

But now Acacius was here, and you could allow your fragility to consume you for a moment,  to be your true self, letting your emotions overwhelm you. Because you knew that he would want to absorb them for you, to protect you. To be your man.

"I'm finally here. I missed you, you have no idea. You were always in my thoughts, my beloved.”

You hugged each other tighter, and you buried your face in his chest, rubbing against him, like a cat that marks its territory with its scent. 

"I missed you too, Acacius," you replied, finally raising your face to his, staring into those soft brown eyes that you missed so much. The eyes of your husband who had returned from Numidia. Returned victorious, as always, but the worry never left you when he was gone. The intrusive thoughts that made you fear that he wouldn’t come back to you, that he had perished. Or worse, taken prisoner. The highest representative of the Roman Empire on the battlefield, the general of Rome, gods only knew what they would do to him.

Caressing his cheek with your thumb, you chased away those dark thoughts to let yourself enjoy the present. Your husband, your love was there. You brushed his wrinkles, as you took the time to admire his slightly grayer curls, before running your fingers through them.

"You are even more beautiful than when I left," he said in a low, calm voice. You smiled when you heard him, moved by his love for you that was radiating from him. Love that had never wavered during your marriage. He always came back to you, as soon as he had dealt with the burdens placed upon him by the emperors he hated.

"Let me feed you, my love," you said. "And bathe you."

You walked toward the caldarium, his arm around your shoulder, yours around his waist, your body pressed against his. You were holding each other close as you were walking, it had been so long since he left for Africa nova.

“I cleaned myself before I went to the coliseum. You don’t have to, you know?”

“I know. But I love to do it, even if it’s only symbolic.”

He smiled warmly and saw you melt under his stare, then pressed a kiss on your temple to forget the fast beating of his own heart.

You undressed him slowly, layer by layer. Taking the time to place your hands on his chest before you would remove the last fabric, to feel his torso rise under your fingers. To process the fact that he was really back with you. He watched you roam his chest, shoulders, arms along his body, face lowered towards you. Smiling, patient. Soothed. 

Once you managed to stop staring at his skin, his muscles, the way his body reacted to your touch, you tilted your head up to meet his eyes. You both smiled, happy and relieved to finally find each other again. You always marveled at his softness, that side of him only you knew. 

Your fingers ran along his skin, and you frowned at each new wound you felt under your digits.

“You have so many new scars,” you said with a trembling voice. “I thank the gods for bringing you back to me.” 

“Thank the soldiers, my love, they kept me alive,” he replied, brushing your cheek with his thumb. He had great respect for his men, treated them well, and had their complete trust. Tears appeared in your eyes again, and he gently took your chin between his fingers to lift your face up to him.

“I’m here now,” he said, his voice still low and calm. He knew you needed to be reassured, that meeting again always made his next departures more difficult, for both of you. He knew you were already anticipating them.

“I know,” you stammered. “I know. I just missed you a lot.” You tried to push aside the worries that were already trying to infiltrate your mind.

“I know, and I’m sorry about that, I wish I never had to leave. But I have great news: I won't have to go for now. I told the emperors that I wanted to rest and spend time with my wife. Darius will lead the next battle, he's ready.”

“This is such great news, Acacius!” you said, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, and nestling your face in his neck. “I'm so relieved.”

He held you against him, before cupping your cheeks in his hands and resting his forehead against yours.

You moved slightly aside to pull off the last layer of clothing, freeing his half-hard cock. You thought about it so often when he was away as your fingers were buried inside you.

You covered him in oil and massaged his shoulders to relieve his physical tension. Then his chest, arms, palms and belly, taking your time. Gently, your fingers worked his skin, finding their favorite spots and his. Lingering there.

Finally, you faced him and took his shaft in hand, before jerking him off gently under the pretext of applying the oil, but you both felt the need grow.

You then asked him to sit in the warm water, and got undressed. The expression in his eyes changed from softness to eagerness and desire while he was watching you. 

Fully hard, he stood up when you approached the bath, holding out his hand to accompany you down the steps.

“Sit on me,” he murmured in your ear, his beard brushing your skin. You straddled him, placing your hands on his cheeks before playing with his curls. You leaned down and finally kissed him, tasting his warm, soft, luscious lips. You both moaned and it made you smile, as you felt yourself mesmerized by him being finally there, with you. 

He caressed your lips with his tongue, then slid it between them. Your tongues found each other, for the first time in months, and you felt dizzy, savoring him again. His hands roamed your back, squeezed your skin sometimes, while your kiss was only growing more feral and needy. Unable to wait any longer, you grabbed his cock and nestled it at your entrance, making him growl from the depth of his chest.

“Slowly,” he stammered. “No foreplay… don’t hurt yourself.”

“Can’t promise it,” you smiled. It was almost a lie, both of you knew it, you couldn’t take him slowly, your need to feel him being too strong. You sank onto his shaft with your arms resting on his broad shoulders, and you had to bite him slightly when the fat head of his cock began spreading you wide open, until you welcomed him fully, leaving both of you breathless for a second.

“That wasn’t exactly slow,” he laughed once he caught his breath, his hand against the back of your neck as you peppered his collarbone with kisses, your cunt full of him.

“Couldn’t wait,” you breathed and kept kissing him, slowly moving up and down his shaft, mixing your moans with his, your forehead against his. Your breaths mingled, similar in their urgency.

“I missed you. I missed you,” you repeated, while one of his hands was caressing your back, the other resting on your hip to accompany your movements, but sometimes pushing you slightly more down his cock.

“Me too, my love. Finally feeling you like that, wrapped around my cock, is almost unreal after all that time. But I won’t last, I’m sorry,” he said in a breathless voice. “It’s been too long since I felt the warmth of your cunt. Only my hand could give me a release when thoughts about you invaded my mind.”

“Now I’m here. Use me. Come,” you added, rubbing yourself against his lower stomach, knowing you would come soon too.

He held you tight in his arms, setting his pace, fast, powerful, to the point that the water overflowed from the bath with every move. He chased his orgasm, growling in your ear, his body surrounding yours, and you let him use you willingly until his grunts turned into moans and he froze, coming inside you. You pulsed on his shaft just after, milking his cock, feeling him shudder inside you.

You let him catch his breath and his wits before facing him, your hands on his cheeks, and covered his lips, cheeks, forehead with kisses. Already thinking about the moment you would go to your bedroom, and finally take the time to rediscover each other.

Washed, you had dinner, and you told him what happened during his absence. Life in Rome, the dream of Marcus Aurelius long forgotten. The emperors were hated by the subjects, and the cruel games were still allowed.

His worry was growing as he was listening to you. Each time he left, he was afraid a revolt would take place and he wouldn’t be there to protect you. 

He asked you the question that had been burning his lips since his return, but that he was holding back, afraid of your answer.

“Did… did anyone hurt you while I was away?” he asked, eyes lowered to the ground, your hands in his. Then finally forcing himself to look at you and hear your answer.

“No, Acacius,” you answered quickly, eager to remove that weight from his shoulders and his heart. “Nothing happened to me, don’t worry.” You knew that he would lose his mind if someone hurt you, just like those who had hurt you would lose their heads. 

He kissed your hands when he heard you, keeping them between his, brushing them with his thumbs.

“I couldn't stand it if that happened,” he added, voice shaking.

“I know, my love. But the guards protect me. The ones you chose, and trust completely. I am safe.”

He nodded, even though both of you knew he would never be calm during his absences.

Once fed, he told you about the new conquests. You felt the weariness on his shoulders and in his eyes. His anger. The emperors were making him lose patience, every day a little more.

“Enough about this,” he said finally. “I don't want my return to be full of sadness and bitterness. I saw how tense your body is, I will help you relax with some oil, like you did to me.”

“Acacius… you need to rest after these last few months. Not to take care of me,” you replied softly.

“I am your husband,” he said gently but firmly, moving closer to you until he took your hand in his and kissed it. “Your man. There’s nothing else that I want to do more.” You looked at him and smiled.

Once in the bedroom, he asked you to undress and lie down naked on your stomach. He poured some oil in his hands, and rubbed them together. He didn't take his eyes off you until you were on the bed. "You're so beautiful," he said. “I’m gonna take care of you. I missed it.”

He started by massaging your neck, with perfect pressure. Hands flat, he pressed his thumbs against each tense spot, helping to release the tension step by step. You felt your muscles relax at his touch, from your neck to your shoulders. Once satisfied with the way your body responded to his movements, he coated his hands with oil again, then he took care of your lower back. Your pelvis had been stuck for weeks, and you knew that he would do wonders, as always. That the next day, when you woke up, it would be free of its tensions.

“Do you feel better?” he asked, kissing your shoulder, his moustache brushing your skin.

“Better than ever. Thank you, my love.”

“Perfect. Turn around now, please." You rolled onto your back, and you saw his eyes linger on your breasts for a few seconds, nipples hard after his hands on you.

“Well, General?” you chuckled.

“Mmm. I was staring, wasn’t I? I missed them too,” he confessed, blushing slightly, which was cute, coming from him.

He massaged your arms then your thighs, one by one, down to your ankles and feet, careful not to touch your breasts or even look at them, as if that would end the session prematurely. You didn't take your eyes off him, watching his eyebrows furrowed in concentration, his tongue brushing his lip, his teeth nibbling on it.

Finally, you saw his gaze fixed on your pussy, something he had also avoided until then. The candlelight certainly didn’t allow him to see, but he probably knew you were flowing down to the bed. His hand slid from your ankle to your thigh, then brushed your folds before slipping between them, making you whine, as you heard the grunt of approval when his finger got lost in your wetness.

He took a deep breath and said “I’m too eager to taste you, now. But tomorrow I will touch, lick, worship your whole body. I want to kiss you, from your forehead to your toes. Take back what’s mine.”

“I’m yours, always, Acacius. Whether you are here or not.”

“I know, my sweet girl, I know. As I’m yours. Ad vitam aeternam. (forever)”

He got undressed and you loved that he took his time doing it, with a soft smile on his lips. You loved knowing that he would be there with you for several weeks. Every day and every night. 

You were never tired of looking at him. His body was a gift from the gods. His strong neck, with veins bulging every time he thrust into you. His broad shoulders, his belly slightly softer as the years passed. His large hands, next to which yours seemed tiny. 

His cock.

So massive that on your wedding night you had been so afraid that you had thought of running away. But he had assured you that he would be gentle and go slowly, that he would take care of you. After another hesitation you had chosen to trust him, his tone, his gaze, and two nights later it had seemed that you had been physically made for each other.

But more than his body, his personality, his loyalty, the way he cared about you, made him a loving, reliable, protective husband. You thanked the gods every day for making him yours.

Once naked, he knelt on the bed between your thighs, gently spreading them, finally revealing your pussy. Again, he took a deep breath. His thumb ran over your wet folds.

“You’re drooling for me.”

He lay down, bringing his face closer to your pussy and breathing it in. “Gods, I missed it.”

His tongue traced a stripe between your folds, up to your clit, making you whine. He looked up at you, adding “now, you’re gonna feed me.”

He dove between your thighs, eyes closed, your folds spread by his thumbs, burying his tongue in your core. Feasting, like he did each time he came back, but not only. From the wedding night, and all the others that followed, he had shown you how much he loved eating you out, pulling orgasm after orgasm, sometimes two in a row because he didn’t want to or couldn't stop.

“Acacius,” you whimpered while his nose was rubbing perfectly against your clit. As he had learned during all those years the way your body responded to him.

Back arched, hands lost in his curls, you moved in harmony with his mouth and his tongue, reaching for him, rolling your hips towards him. He pulled back for a few seconds to look at you, and smiled when you cried for his loss. His beard and mustache glistened with your slick and his pupils were dilated as if he had consumed opium to heal a wound. He leaned towards you again, pushing one thick finger between your folds and then sucking your clit. He quickly added a second digit when he heard your needy moans, and licked at your clit. Your hands moved from his curls to your breasts, then to the sheets, your fists clenching on them.

“I’m gonna come, I’m gonna come,” you whimpered, pelvis tilted towards him as far as possible, as if he wasn't already so close to you. The pleasure that was growing in your core finally exploded, hands and thighs holding his head against your cunt, not wanting him to stop. Docile, he kept licking and pumping you with his fingers, until you stopped clenching on them and released him.

He straightened up, crawling between your thighs, taking one nipple in his mouth, sucking on it like his life depended on it before moving on to the other, leaving them glistening with his saliva. Finally, lying between your thighs, he kissed you, his mouth and lips tasting like you.

“I want to taste you too, please,” you begged.

“Of course, my sweet girl. You don’t have to ask. I’m all yours.”

You kissed him before he rolled onto his back, and you straddled him. Covering his cheeks, lips, neck with kisses, then moving down to his torso, hands roaming over his skin. You took one of his nipples in your mouth, sucking, nibbling, licking, then the other, without taking your eyes off him. Admiring his beautiful face. You continued to move down, kissing his belly and hips, your breasts brushing his hard, oozing cock. You took his shaft in hand, and licked his balls, eyes still fixed on him, to see him drop his head back on the bed. “Gods..,” you heard him breathe. 

You smiled and left his balls to suck on his tip, lingering on it, giving you some time to get used to its width, to savor him in your mouth again. His precum flowed in your throat. He had been gone for so long that you were afraid you had forgotten the taste, but it was so familiar again now. Your head bobbing on his shaft, you wanted to make him feel good, wetness dripping from your cunt, moaning on his shaft, and you closed your eyes until you heard him growl louder. Then opened them to see his head raised towards you. One of his hands was placed on the back of your neck.

“You like it, General?” you asked playfully, then licked his shaft tongue flat.

“It’s divine.”

You crawled towards him, arousal dripping from your core after sucking him, you kissed his body again and then his lips, before murmuring “take me.”

His eyes darkened and in one movement he laid you down on the bed, under him. Pressing his cock to your entrance, this time he didn't wait, hands tight on your hips, he pushed his whole lenght into your cunt. His massive cock, so hard that you lost your breath. He never took his eyes off you, dark gaze lowered towards you, soft eyes forgotten in favor of a feral stare. He was possessive, claiming your body as he claimed cities during battles, like his body and mind needed it. Like you needed it too.

You tried to keep your eyes open, to look at him, leaning towards you, eyebrows furrowed, veins throbbing. But the relentless rhythm of his shaft spreading your walls made you forget where you were, leaving you moaning and repeating his name. You clung to his shoulders, telling him how much you loved to feel him again, how much you needed it. 

“Always taking me so well”, he growled, and you hummed with approval.

He slid his hand to the back of your neck, holding you close, his nose against your ear. He breathed you in, focused on your moans, eager to have all his senses filled with you, after months of being surrounded by dirt, screams and blood. 

He was home now, you were his home.

“Acacius,” you whined, his crotch rubbing perfectly where you needed it. 

“Come for me. Soak me.”

“Oh gods… Acacius… Acacius,” you whimpered, your orgasm rushing over you, making you pulse on his shaft, your clit throbbing against his skin.

“Just like that, squeezing me so hard… you were made for me,” he murmured, his breathing now ragged as his own pleasure rose.

“I’m… oh gods,” he said, just before cumming inside you, long spurts of cum painting your walls in white. You held him tighter against you, as he moaned in your ear. Your general of Rome, now the most vulnerable man in your arms.

His jolts finally stopped and he straightened up slightly, careful not to crush you under his weight. He covered your skin with kisses, from your neck to your lips, before rolling onto his side and welcoming you against his chest, arms wrapped around your bare body. Both of you waited for your breathings to calm down.

“I cherish it, you know,” you said, curled up against his chest.

“What do you cherish?” he asked, caressing your skin with his large, loving hands.

“Having you like this, in these moments. It always seems unreal to me, your softness and protectiveness towards me, knowing that you lead battles for Rome. Everyone who fought near you evokes your cold blood.”

He hugged you closer and kissed your forehead, brushing it for a moment with his moustache.

“I love you. I’m only myself when I’m home, with you.”

Thank you for reading 🙏

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[letstalkaboutshtufff]

A Love that Burns

Marcus Acacius x f!reader

A/n: You don’t understand the chokehold this man has on me ughhhhh. Anyway I hope you guys enjoy, I wrote this very fast!

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x wife character (I usually do x reader but I really like the name Aurelia so I used that!)

Warnings: fluff, angst, arranged marriage, Curse words, mention of fire, minor injuries, burns. A bit of suicidal ideation. Allusion to smut hehe. 18+ to be safe please. No minors!!

Summary: General Marcus Acacius’s new bride is troublesome, he doesn’t seem to mind though. After an incident occurs she pulls away from him and he can’t figure out why.

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

“He’s going to be furious…”

“Such a shame…do you think he’ll throw her out?”

“He might… we always knew she was trouble but this time she’s gone too far…”

“Poor dear, I doubt even her father will take her back…”

The roaring flames had long since died down, leaving now only crackling embers and dark clouds of smoke. How much time had passed you didn’t know. You hadn’t moved from the ground, knees planted on the hard stone, eyes glued to the scene before you.

What was once a grand structure, beautifully carved and molded for someone equally as impressive was now nothing more than a pile on the ground and it was completely your fault.

How had wanting to get a book out of your husband’s study and lighting a candle to see had gone so wrong?

You should’ve listened to your conscious, it told you that you shouldn’t go into your husbands private building but you knew he had an extensive selection and while you were newly married, barely even a few months he was your husband and you didn’t really think he would mind.

In the short time you were married the general had been accommodating and civil, more than civil actually, he had been doing his best to make you feel comfortable. That being said you did barely see him at times due to his duties and when you did it seemed all you did was cause him trouble.

Like that time you accidentally visited the animals one early morning when you were bored and didn’t shut the door behind you. Acacius had been abruptly woken up by the clucking of chickens ascending the staircase and running around the halls like it was a party. You had been redder than a pomegranate when you realized your mistake.

Or that time you lost your wedding necklace and spent hours wading in the lake where the laundry was washed thinking it fell there. You’d never forget the feeling when Acacius strode through the gates in tow with fellow commanders for a meeting but everyone froze seeing the comical sight of you, a highborn lady dress pulled up and soaking wet. That time made you want to drown yourself right then and there.

Oh and how could you forget the time you wanted to show your appreciation by baking his favorite dessert according to the maids and thought adding some cinnamon you’d bought in town was a good idea. Not even bothering to wonder why the kitchens didn’t have cinnamon in the first place… turns out the reason was a good one, the general had an allergy.

This time it was his face that was redder than yours… you didn’t face him for days after that..

There were so many moments like that but somehow each time he didn’t get angry like you expected. He didn’t yell or scold you.

When you bit your fingers nervously watching the servants try to catch the chickens he slowly walked out, surveyed the scene in what you could guess was mild disbelief and perhaps a bit of amusement, looked at you then turned back to go back to sleep.

When you were soaked in the lake he quickly regained the men’s attention, led them inside then a few minutes later reappeared with some haste. You didn’t get a chance to protest when he stepped in and pulled you out by your arm. Still he didn’t yell, he did start to scold a bit though because you were shivering, but when you suddenly yelped and squirmed reaching in your dress and pulled revealing a flopping fish with your necklace around it he lost all his words. You celebrated while he just started in disbelief.

And when you literally poisoned him you sobbed beside him as the healer frantically gave him several mixtures and an injection of some sort. You apologized over and over like a parrot. When he could finally breathe again, he closed his eyes exhausted but said, “Don’t cry, it tasted great..”

All those times he was so kind, unlike any other man you’d met before. To think you had been so afraid of the arranged marriage and now all you could think was how he deserved someone so much better.

He was older and saw you as a child you were sure of it. You wished you could act like the other wives, but you just couldn’t.

Your eyes glazed watched the flickers before you as if in a trance.

You’d burned his favorite place in the villa. A building constructed years ago that served as his study, his place of comfort, his safe space. He’d showed it to you when you first got married. You’d been amazed at how beautiful it was on the inside.

You could see on his face how this place made him relaxed compared to the rest of the villa.

And now it was gone..

The whispers of the servants were muffled around you but you caught them all the same.

You couldn’t find the strength to move, maybe you should have at least moved back, away from the falling ash and debris but you couldn’t.

You ruined everything, just like always…

There was some more muffling amongst the crackling, some sounds you didn’t register, couldn’t register… then a sharp yell. A tone you didn’t recognize.

“Why is she-!”

There was pressure on your shoulders but still you couldn’t look away.

All gone… all your fault…

You think you heard something loud but couldn’t understand it.

The pressure increased… so did the shouting but still you couldn’t look away.

It wasn’t until you saw the burnt pile get smaller that you realized you were being pulled- no carried away.

You felt so disoriented, everything in your vision jerking and you realized whoever was moving you was running.

The scene was still in view but further away, your eyes not daring to look away. You did however register that you abruptly stopped moving and were sat on something upright. The pressure returned to your head then arms then body.

Yelling, someone was yelling in your ear but it wasn’t until the pressure reached your face and you were forced to look away from the scene.

Eyes, wide and frantic, searched yours. Lips opened and shouted something you still could not understand. But the face you knew all too well. The one you wronged, the one you did a horrible misdeed to. Acacius.

You inhaled loudly, more of a gasp then coughed. Suddenly you felt everything crash into you at once, from when you were numb a moment ago now you burned in pain, lungs on fire, skin itchy and stinging, eyes feeling like the sun itself were upon them. You coughed and sputtered uncontrollably, breathing a foreign concept to you.

His strong hands at your back and arm. Almost cradling you was a strong contrast to his shouts that you could now hear louder than ever.

“Breathe, easy, easy- Dammit why did no one move her! Call the healer now!” He barked behind him.

Angry he was angry. Of course he was, even gentle and kind men like him had limits, limits that you’d crossed by battlefields.

Hot tears came, still you coughed, you wondered how long you could continue like that before losing consciousness, there were already spots in your vision. The sobbing now made it worse.

“Shh shh breathe it’s alright, just breathe for me wife, all is well, shh look I’m here, you’re safe” he pulled you into his lap holding you firmly in the hopes you’d calm down. He kept whispering to you, pleading and eventually the coughing stopped. You wondered how much more smoke it would’ve taken to kill you…

“That’s it, you’re safe, shh just breathe, I’m here” more tears emerged as you registered his words for the first time. How horrible you felt to have this angel of a man cradling you and comforting you when you just burned down his sanctuary.

It would have been easier on your heart had he yelled and thrown you aside.

“The healer is here!” Someone called out, your eyes were closed on his chest but you heard everything around you.

Swiftly you were lifted in his arms and carried to his chambers. The healer immediately got to work peeling back the fabric you only now noticed was dark as ash and singed in many places. Acacius stood behind her as close as he could without getting in her way. You watched as his eyes scanned your form, concern etched as he took in all the burns and scrapes. Your heart couldn’t handle it, he deserved a woman 100times better than you. You shut your eyes of the heartache ignoring the healer telling you to stay awake, moments later you were unconscious.

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

Stinging pain roused you, you wanted to cry out because your body was screaming at you. You were alone in the room, but by the moonlight shining through and how exausted you felt you didn’t think you had been unconscious long. Fresh tears escaped and you didn’t bother to wipe them.

You sat up in raw agony realizing just how many injures you sustained. Your skin was covered in loose bandages and shiny from salve. Sitting so close at the time you didn’t feel anything but clearly you were affected.

Shouting from below had your head whipping to the window.

With great effort and pain you stood on shaky legs and approached the opening peeking your head outside, you squinted and saw figured in the yard.

You choked out a sob when you realized what was happening. Acacius was yelling… yelling at the servants and guards for not moving you. Yes they put out most of the fire but didn’t bother with you. You hardly blamed them, you were a burden, an embarrassment of a lady to the great house hold. Perhaps they wanted you to die, actually it would have been easier if you did.

You couldn’t bare to listen to it anymore, guilt eating you alive. For some reason you had to see it again. To confirm what you had done…

You ignored all the pain and like a ghost descended the staircase.

When you reached the bottom you sucked in a breathe before walking forward where the smell of smoke was still heavy and thick.

And there it was, like a brand on your heart the scene of your crime. There were no more embers, just wood and ash. You walked closer until you stepped on something.

You moved your sandal revealing a silver medal covered in soot. You remembered how proudly it hung on one of the walls. And now it was beneath rubble and dirt.

Two hands found your mouth as you let out a cry.

“Heavens What have I done?” The strangled voice sounded stranger to you.

“What have I done, what have I done” you whispered achingly.

“Aurelia!”

You choked again hearing his voice, you couldn’t bring your self to look just yet.

“Aurelia what are you doing!? Why are you up!?” He rounded you hands finding your shoulders.

Acacius waited for your answer but you had none, only fresh tears. He barely hesitated before reaching down and scooping you up.

“I can walk-“ you tried to say but it was unintelligible through your tears, you didn’t want to burden this man ever again, not for anything.

He glanced at you for a moment but continued his quick pace to the bedroom. He laid you gently on the bed, his concern growing at the endless tears.

“Are you in pain? Let me call the healer back-“ he was already halfway out again.

“No-! no I’m fine I’m fine don’t call I’m fine!” You cried out but tried to collect yourself to not worry him more. The truth is your body was on fire but you would never burden this man again.

He hesitated but listened and approached you again, “Then what is it? Are you afraid? Everything’s alright now, your safe”.

You bit your lip to keep in the cry. How could he be so kind?

“Aurelia? Tell me please, what is it?” He kneeled beside you a helpless expression on his face.

“I-I I’m so- im so sorry, I’m sorry- I don’t know how- I was in there for a b-book and lit some candles I don’t even know how it h-happened I-I-“

Your breathing was becoming erratic again but once you started apologizing you couldn’t stop

“I’m so s-sorry Acacius I’m so sorry” you buried your face in your hands.

“Aurelia shh it’s alright, don’t cry, it’s nothing that can’t be replaced, don’t apologize, you need to breathe alright?”

You barely heard him, but you needed him to know how sorry you were, even if you didn’t deserve forgiveness.

“I’m so sorry, I’m sorry” you continued.

“Aurelia-“

“I’m s-sorry”

“Aurelia stop you’ll hurt yourself more!” He kneeled on the bed pulling you closer to him, worried that if you didn’t calm down you would go into another coughing fit.

“Shh it’s alright, I’m not angry, all that matters is you’re safe. Please calm down, can you breathe slowly for me? Look, follow my breathe…”

“That’s it, breathe in and out just like that, good girl…” he held you close and you felt your eyes begin to droop, exhaustion taking its toll. He sighed when your last words were a whispered apology.

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

The next day you were miserable, the burns although mostly shallow still caused great pain. Mentally you were a wreck, replaying the events over and over.

The healer told you you needed to rest for several days so that’s what Acacius made sure you did. He visited often but you couldn’t bring yourself to speak hardly a thing out of shame. Most times you just pretended you were asleep.

A week passed and you were allowed to get up as normal just to take it easy. Acacius had gone out for some business luckily because you didn’t think you had the strength to face him.

As you descended the stairs you tried to ignore the whispers of the servants. They all thought the same thing you were repeating in your mind.

Burden

Shameful

Useless

You sighed shakily nearing the now cleaned land where the structure once stood. His kindness made you feel horrible. You wish he would yell and scream at you, for you deserved all the bad words

You spent the day aimlessly wandering and thinking until you tired yourself out and retired to your chambers.

A jar of salve was left by your bed from the healer for the pain but you didn’t open it. You deserved every single sting and ache.

The next day you hardly felt like getting up so you didn’t. Food was brought, you didn’t bother eating it, instead you gave it to the birds outside the window.

In your solitude you came to a resolve. You would resist every urge, every inkling of your old reckless self. Acacius deserved someone who was 100 times the woman you were but since you were bound all you could do was at least not give him any more trouble. Another week passed, Acacius had been gone for some military business and it was easier that way.

It had been a whole nother week when Acacius finally arrived back to the villa. He dismounted his horse with a sigh. He did not want to be gone so long but he could hardly deny the emperors requests.

Tiredly he walked through the gates, scanning for signs of you. It was unusual to not see you flitting about.

A servant approached and helped him remove his cape.

“The Lady, how is she?”

The servant frowned a bit, “My Lady has been… resting these past weeks. We’ve not seen much of her.”

He frowned at that. Her wounds were not so terrible to have her bedridden so long. So what was wrong with his wife?

He nodded to the servant and made way directly to her chambers.

He knocked on the door listening for her voice.

“Come in” you called expecting a servant with food.

You were sat on the bench by the window staring out.

“My Lady..” he said almost hesitant.

Your head whipped to the side, eyes widened seeing your husband.

“A-Acacius… I didn’t know you were back…”

He walked inside and shut the door behind him.

“Are you well? The servants tell me you haven’t left the room much..” he stepped closer taking you in. Your sunken face, the way your eyes weren’t lit up with that sparkle he loved.

“I’m alright, thank you..” he frowned, not quite satisfied with the answer.

“Your wounds are healed?”

You nodded quickly.

He nodded then cleared his throat in the awkward silence that followed, “Then why haven’t you been out?”

You thought of what to say for a moment, “I… no reason, just resting I suppose”

Another answer that didn’t satisfy him but he decided not to pry. If you didn’t want to speak he wouldn’t make you uncomfortable.

“Well I’ll be in my chambers should you need anything…”

“Thank you..” and with that he left shutting the door behind him. You bit your lip forcing the tears not to come. How dare you cry when he’s the one who should be upset. Get it together.

Several more days pass and Acacius was growing frustrated. You barely left the room, choosing to take your meals inside even when he was home. He only caught glimpses of you here or there on the occasional walk around the garden but even that was becoming rare. Where was his wife who was always flitting around singing something off tune or getting into trouble. He recalled the time he awoke to clucking outside his door, and the time he found you skirts tied comically splashing in the lake, then of course when you so happily baked for him flour marks on your face. He smiled fondly at the memories, then frowned.

Why had you suddenly changed so much? Had he done something? He knew the fire shook you up but perhaps he said something unintentional? Did you overhear him yelling at the staff and resented him for it? He was going mad.

It took another few days before his patience finally ran out and he all but burst into your room.

“A-Acacius?! What-“ you startled dropping the book in your hands.

“Tell me what it is” he demanded a bit out of breathe.

“W-what?”

“Tell me what’s wrong or what I’ve done to upset you into seclusion”

“Acacius you’ve done nothing wrong I swear…”

“Then what is it? Why have you been avoiding me? What has upset you so much that you’ve locked yourself away?”

You didn’t expect this, so you really didn’t know what to say.

“I… I think it’s better this way…”

His eyebrows furrowed a bit trying to make sense of what you just said. “I don’t understand, what’s better?”

You fiddled with your hands and had a hard time making eye contact so you chose a lovely spot on the floor instead.

“It’s better that I don’t…. cause problems..” heavens was that a lot harder to say out loud than you thought.

This definitely took him aback.

“What?”

Oh no was he upset now? He surely looked it.. maybe you should have explained better.

“I-I mean… I’m always causing you trouble and getting into situations that I shouldn’t… I figured it would be better if I spent more time here….”

He was quiet for a while, his face undeniably confused and upset.

“And you decided this all on your own?” He said in a tone that you were a bit nervous about. Calm but hidden anger.

“I-I… yes..”

“So your plan is to live out the rest of your days between these four walls?” He couldn’t hold back a scoff. His annoyance seeping through his usually calm demeanor with you.

“….It’s better-”

He clicked his tongue in annoyance “Better? Better for who exactly?”

“Acacius all I do is cause you trouble! I’ve been embarrassing you since we wed, the entire household thinks I’m a burden and they’re right, I cannot-I will not burden you anymore especially after-…” you couldn’t bring yourself to mention the fire. With a shakey breath you gathered yourself and continued.

“I just don’t want to upset you anymore…” you confessed.

The silence was deafening, your heart squeezing so much you were afraid it was going to burst.

“You know out of everything that’s happened between us I think this is the only time I’ve been truly upset.”

You eyed him swallowing dryly taking in his clenched jaw and crossed arms.

“Acacius…”

“You don’t get to decide this all on your own, and you especially don’t get to decide how I feel.”

“…”

“Have I ever been cross with you? Made you feel as if you’ve shamed me?”

“Well no but-“

“Then why?” In two strides he was upon you looking down.

“Why did you suddenly decide that I would like it more if you hid yourself away?”

“Because if I’m here not causing you problems then wouldn’t it be easier for you…?” You wrung your hands together, anxiety heightening with every moment.

“Fuck that”

You jumped a bit startled that those words came out of his mouth.

“W-what?”

“Cause me problems”

“Acacius-“

“Break things, scream shout, bring the whole villa down if you wish it but you will not lock yourself up like a prisoner. You’re my wife, I’d like to actually have you around.”

“You… you’re just saying that because you’re too kind Acacius… but my heart can’t take it anymore. I did something so awful and I know you must be upset…”

“Is this about the fire then?”

“…”

“Things can be replaced, nothing that burned cannot be bought again or rebuilt.”

“B-but you loved that place. It was your sanctuary”

“I did love it, but it’s gone now and I hardly think about it, it’ll be rebuilt soon enough not that it really matters. What matters is that you’re safe and sound.”

“How can you be so kind? So patient so-so perfect” he scoffed at the last one in mild amusement.

“Acacius it’s true! I’ve never met someone so gentle and sweet”

“Gentle and sweet..I’ll be sure to add that to my title right after general or Rome”

“You joke but it’s the truth…” you look down at your sandals.

He sighed before lifting your chin up with his warm fingers then caressing your face, wiping away your tears with his thumb.

“Tell me something wife, have you seen me act that way with anyone else?”

“Well…” you thought about it. He was civil with everyone.. stern a lot, with servants and his men and well everyone else…

“And why do you think that is hm?”

“Well… I assume it’s because you see me more as a child…”

“A child.” He repeated.

You nodded.

“Aurelia you are never allowed to assume anything ever again”

“What?”

“You truly think that’s how I see you? That I treat you kindly because I pity you?”

“Well…then why?” You asked genuinely confused.

“Why treat my wife with care? Why worry for her? Why speak gentle words? Why shower her with gifts? Tell me Aurelia why does a man do those things for a woman?”

“I… I assumed-um well I believed that you were just..”

“Just what? Doing that out of duty? Is it so impossible to imagine that I love my wife and want her to be happy?”

“….” Your eyes widened larger than the sun. You hardly believed the words. So you asked him in a whisper.

“W-what did you s-say?”

Instead of answering he leaned forward closing the distance with a soft kiss.

“Does that answer your question?” He breathed in the few inches between your lips.

You shook your head no and leaned in. You felt the smirk against his lips. After several moments you pulled back to regard him.

“I never imagined you’d feel the same way…I still don’t think I believe it…”

“Like I said, you’re forbidden to assume things from now on wife”

“I… I’m sorry…” his hands settled at your waist, his smell flooding your senses.

“Make it up to me…”

You felt the heat rise in your cheeks but didn’t want to disappoint. You wrapped your arms around him pulling him into a deeper kiss full of emotion.

“Never allow such thoughts in your mind again, and you’re wrong, you’re not a burden. Yes I’ll admit you have a habit of getting into unique situations but I don’t mind, in fact I look forward to what surprises await me each day.”

“Do you really mean it? Even if I do awful things…? “

“Yes I mean it.. although I will draw the line at one thing, never do anything to put yourself in danger. When I saw you by the flames I-“ he paused sucking in a breathe.

And that moment you heart finally caught up with your head because no man could fake the emotions on his face like that.

You hugged him whispering an apology into his shoulder.

“You’ve apologized enough for a lifetime, come, dine with me, you’ve lost weight…” you nod letting him pull you by the hand out the door.

You heard some voices and frowned, anxiety creeping up again.

Ever the perfect man he caught on immediately.

“What is it?”

“The servants… it’s been hard to be around them… you might accept me for who I am but they haven’t…”

“I wouldn’t worry about it”

You cocked your head a bit at his amused tone, “why?”

“Because I fired them all”.

“Acacius!”

“Don’t protest, it’s done. I blame myself for not realizing what heartless people resided in my home. Besides I think you’ll like the new staff a lot better..”

You descended the staircase still confused why he seemed so smug until you heard voices you hadn’t heard in months.

“My Lady!”

“My Lady we’re here!”

“Oh how we’ve missed you!”

You couldn’t contain the loud gasp when your eyes landed on the familiar faces below. The staff that practically raised you was beaming up at you with joy.

“Oh my- Marika! Cicero! Diana! Felix! Ahh you’re all here!” You practically jumped from the staircase onto the group of your favorite people in the world.

Acacius couldn’t help but chuckle as the group enveloped you pulling you in, hugging and kissing you. Hardly the kind of servants he was used to but now he understood why you were so saddened to leave them behind. After your embraces you pulled back.

“What are you doing here? Is Father here?”

“You mean you don’t know?” The words would have worried you had everyone not been smiling ear to ear.

“Know what?” The general has employed us all here.

“W-what?!” You snapped your head to your grinning husband.

“B-but how did you- father must’ve been- h-how!?”

He laughed and descended the last couple steps, “I can be very persuasive if I need to be dear wife.”

“Oh- oh I don’t believe this!” you couldn’t contain your joy and parted from the group to jump on your husband who stumbled a bit but caught you of course. You kissed him then and there not caring who was watching- well in fact you didn’t care because everyone in the room were people you loved and felt safe with.

He was a bit surprised but when you pulled back his face was quickly morphed into fondness and satisfaction that the gleam in your eye was back.

“There she is..” you sighed happily hugging him once more then ran back to the awaiting group.

Well actually you made it halfway before pausing, turning around with an unsure look, and walking slowly back to him.

He tilted his head curious, “Acacius… will you… will you allow me to properly thank you… tonight? If that’s- if that’s something you’d like… or-“ your face that lovely shade of red he’d come to admire.

“Something I’d like?” He scoffed and for a moment you were afraid until you saw the expression in his eyes.

“Well I didn’t want to assume… you’ve forbidden it remember.” He smirked leaning down by your ear so only you could hear him.

“Listen well wife. This is the only exception you may always assume...” You shivered feeling his breathe caress your ear.

Gentle and sweet and now you had a new word to add, although you couldn’t quite find the right one just yet. But oh were you ever so eager to find out…

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

Is it getting hot in here guys?? No? Just me? Anywayyyy hope you enjoyed. I threw this up in one sitting so forgive all the mistakes. I finally saw the movie and wow, who knew they could fit so many hot men on one screen.

Also can anyone think of a better title lol😅

[stylesispunk]

"Eternal whispers of you"

marcus acacius x f!reader

Summary: In a time of ancient empires, the forbidden love between a powerful general, Marcus Acacius, and the emperor's sister was met with tragedy. Their affair was discovered, and the emperor cursed his sister to live an eternal life, forced to witness Marcus die in every lifetime without the chance to love him fully again. After a thousand lives, would they meet again?

w.c: 13k (this was supposed to be 8k.)

warnings: angst, power imbalance, loss, separation, mentions of curse, some historical mistakes, the story also takes place in the modern day (I'm telling you) not proofreading. paragraphs in cursive indicate flashbacks.

a/n: This idea was better in my head, but the last Gladiator 2 trailer made me feel things and inspired me to write this. You will also notice inspiration from "The Age of Adeline" in this story. I hope you like it cuz it took me three days to write it. You will notice some inaccurate facts but it was for the sake of the story and my imagination, don't judge me, please. Happy reading and PLEASE share your thoughts with me. Reblogs and comments are always appreciated. 💌

Dividers by @/saradika-graphics

********"

You were cursed to a life without an ending. Lonely and loveless, every day of your life or any love you could find wouldn't reciprocate and you were going to be condemned to see them grow old and die, and you would continue to live a life in an endless cycle of tragedy.

You were condemned to just tell stories about the man of your life, the one who had been murdered and punished to die without honor for your brother's poisoned mouth.

You became a traitor for the empire. But not cries out of shame or the dirty words of people hurt as much as the day you hold Marcus’s hand for the last time as his eyes closed in a forever eternity that you were going to live without him.

Not even death could put you both together in the same path. You were cursed to remember his love, and you were cursed to never see him again and to live a never-ending life without the love who made your life a field of dreams.

The night after your love affair with Marcus was discovered. The emperor, your brother, furious with your betrayal, condemned both of you. You were summoned to the imperial court, where your brother delivered the punishment. His words sting like venom, cursing Marcus to die dishonorably in front of your eyes.

That night still haunted you.

The imperial court was dimly lit by the flickering flames of torches, casting shadows across the towering marble columns. You stood at the center, your heart pounding like war drums in your chest. Your brother, sat upon his gilded throne, his eyes dark with fury. You could barely hear the words that escaped his lips, but their venom poisoned the air between you.

“Traitor,” he spat, his voice echoing through the chamber. “You have betrayed not only your empire but your blood.”

Your eyes flicked to Marcus, kneeling beside you, bound and bruised. The strong, unyielding general was barely recognizable under the weight of chains and despair. His gaze, however, remained fixed on you, calm, resolute, and filled with love that no curse could shatter.

Your brother’s face twisted with rage as he stood, his robes sweeping the floor like the wings of a vulture. “You,” he snarled, his finger pointing at Marcus, “will die with dishonor, like a common criminal for taking advantage of my sister. And you,” he turned to you, his eyes burning with hatred, “You will be cursed to an eternal life, loveless and alone. You will remember this betrayal every waking moment for the rest of your existence, and you will never know peace again.”

Tears pricked your eyes, but you did not flinch. The emperor’s voice rose like a storm. “You will watch him die, over and over, in your memory. And with every death you witness, you will be reminded that this is your doing. You will live forever, but you will die inside every day.”

With a gesture of his hand, the guards dragged Marcus away. His eyes never left yours, filled with an unspoken promise of love that neither time nor curse could take from you. You reached for him, your fingers grazing his as they pulled him further from you, his touch slipping away like sand between your fingers.

You screamed his name, but your voice was swallowed by the cold, empty hall. The weight of your brother’s words crashed down on you like a wave, and you fell to your knees. The curse had already begun.

The day of Marcus’s execution came far too soon.

They paraded him through the streets like a criminal, his once-glorious armor stripped from him, replaced with the rags of the condemned. The crowd jeered and spat, but you saw none of it. All you saw was Marcus, broken, yet still impossibly strong.

You stood at the front of the crowd, the place of honor reserved for the emperor’s family, forced to witness the final blow. As they prepared to end his life, your heart pounded in your chest, each beat screaming for you to do something, to save him.

But you were powerless.

Marcus turned his head toward you one last time, his eyes soft, filled with a love that had transcended the horror of the moment. His lips moved, forming words meant only for you.

“I will find you again.”

With that, the sword fell.

The world shattered around you. You dropped to your knees as the crowd roared with approval, but the noise was drowned out by the sound of your heart breaking. You clutched your chest, feeling the jagged pieces of your soul tearing at you, but the pain wasn’t enough to free you from the curse. You couldn’t escape. The curse wouldn’t let you.

You watched as Marcus’s body was dragged away, knowing you would never hold him again.

++

After Marcus’ death, you begin to experience your immortality firsthand. You don’t age, but the world around you does. At first, the pain is too great, and you isolate yourself, haunted by the memory of his final moments. You visit his grave every day, talking to him as if he were still alive.

There’s a sense of numbness, a hollow ache where his presence used to be. You realize the gravity of your curse the first time you notice gray hairs on the friends and people around you, but none on yourself. While others grow old and die, you remain the same, a constant in a world of change.

You slowly started to see the empire fall, and with it the death caught your family, one by one. Geta was the first, the middle of a family you now considered cursed. The, your mother and father met the same fate, and finally, Caracalla met death too, murdered by a soldier. He died without honor and he would be remembered as the cruelest imperator, you would make sure of it.

You were the only left from the fallen family, you could have saved the empire from breaking into pieces, but you weren’t going to sacrifice any second from your eternal life on it, so you erased yourself from Rome and from the history of it.

You left Rome behind, watching the city fall to ruin, its power crumbling with each passing year. The empire you had once known, that had been ruled by your family, was now a memory, a fading echo in the vastness of time. You no longer belonged there, and you had no desire to preserve what had been lost. The weight of your curse consumed you, drowning out any loyalty you might have once felt.

Instead, you wandered, drifting across continents and centuries. At first, you tried to hide, retreating to the furthest corners of the earth, away from people, away from the pain of watching those around you wither and die. Each new connection, each fleeting friendship, was a reminder of the man you could never forget, of Marcus's warm touch and his promise to find you again, unfulfilled.

But the world was relentless, and no matter how much you tried to isolate yourself, it continued to grow, to change. Civilizations rose and fell, each one leaving its mark on history, yet you remained untouched by time. You began to realize the truth of your brother’s curse, not just the eternity of your life, but the eternal loneliness that accompanied it.

The worst part wasn’t just the loss of your family or Marcus’s death; it was the fact that no matter where you went or how much time passed, you could never escape the memory of him. The grief was always there, lingering just beneath the surface, a shadow following you wherever you went. You carried the weight of his death, not just as a memory, but as an unending, crushing reality that haunted your dreams and your waking moments.

In the centuries that followed, you watched as kingdoms rose from the ashes of the Roman Empire. You saw the birth of new religions, new governments, new ways of thinking, but you remained on the outside, forever watching, forever unchanged. While others lived their lives, you were a ghost, slipping through the cracks of history, unnoticed and unseen.

But you could never forget Marcus. No matter how hard you tried to distance yourself from the pain, he was always there in your thoughts. His memory became your only companion, the one thing that time could never take from you. You told stories of him, of his strength, his courage, his love, but never revealed the truth. They were just tales to those who listened, history that no one could verify, but for you, they were the only way to keep his memory alive.

You returned to his grave as often as you could, though as the centuries passed, even that became more difficult. The world changed around you, the landscapes shifted, cities were built and destroyed, and the places you had once known became unfamiliar. His grave, once a sacred place for you, was lost to time. It was one of the last connections you had to him, and when it was gone, it felt as though a piece of you had been taken too.

There were moments when you tried to end your existence, hoping to find Marcus in the afterlife. You throw yourself into battles, attempt poison, even seek out dark magic, but nothing works. The curse prevented any harm from lasting.

The curse ensures that you never forget Marcus, his face, his touch, the sound of his voice. You find yourself returning to places that remind you of him, like the old battlefield where you first met, or the quiet corners of the palace where you shared stolen moments.

You often found yourself returning to places that held memories of Marcus. The battlefield where you first met, where he had caught your eye in the midst of the chaos, remained sacred to you. You would stand there, recalling the way your heart raced when he first spoke to you. The palace too, though long gone, remained vivid in your mind. You could still hear the echo of your laughter as you shared secret moments in the quiet corners, moments stolen from the prying eyes of the court.

But none of these memories could fill the void that had been left behind. You were a shell of who you had once been, and your existence was now defined by the absence of Marcus.

You became a witness, watching people fall in love, create families, grow old, and die. It was a cycle you had been denied, and it filled you with both longing and bitterness. The worst part of your immortality wasn't the endless life itself, it was the endless isolation, the inability to ever truly connect with anyone again.

In the present day, the weight of centuries finally began to take its toll. You had lived through empires, witnessed the birth of new nations, and seen countless lives come and go. Yet, no matter where you went or how much time passed, you remained haunted by Marcus’s memory. He was always there, a specter in your mind, the only constant in your immortal existence.

After wandering aimlessly for decades, you found yourself drawn to history once again, not just as a passive observer, but with a deep desire to preserve the past.

You were in a quiet bookstore, surrounded by shelves of dusty books. Your hands ran over the spines of history texts as you stopped at a volume about Ancient Rome. The familiar symbols, the names, even the dates of battles were etched in your mind like scars. You paused on a chapter dedicated to General Marcus Acacius, your Marcus. He was remembered as a hero, a man of honor, but the truth of his death, the betrayal, has been lost to history. You smiled at the thought that even Caracalla’s venom words, didn’t tinted Marcus’s name on history.

The memories fled back in an instant, the first time you saw Marcus commanding his troops, his fierce yet kind eyes, the way he smiled when no one else was looking. It was a painful nostalgia, one that made your chest tighten. You’ve avoided facing the truth about the Roman Empire for so long, unable to face the weight of those memories. But you realized now that telling Marcus’ story was the only way to keep him alive.

You left the bookstore, a decision already made in your heart. You would become a history teacher, and through your lessons, you would keep Marcus alive in a way that no curse could take from you.

At the first day in the classroom. The desks were arranged neatly, sunlight streaming through the windows, and your students were filing in. You stood at the front of the room; your hands rested on the chalkboard. It was strange, being back on an important role where you were meant to pass on knowledge. But for you, this was more than just education, it was a form of remembrance.

You felt a mixture of nerves. This was a chance to talk about Marcus again, to give him the honor he was stripped of in life. You weren’t sure if you were becoming crazy through this endless circle, and you didn’t know if you still were twisting the knife of endless memories you had of him, but you know that this was the closest you had been to him. As you students settled in, you introduce yourself, with a new of the thousand names you had had during your long life. You dove into your lecture about the Roman Empire. When you mentioned Marcus, your voice faltered just slightly, but you pressed on, determined to honor him in the only way left to you.

As you stood before your students, your mind wandered back to the times when you were with Marcus, the memories flooding in, unbidden but unstoppable. The classroom around you faded, and the vivid images of the Roman Empire took over. You were no longer in the present, but back in the heart of ancient Rome, standing beside him, your love, your general.

It was a warm summer evening in Rome. The sun had just dipped below the horizon, leaving the sky awash in shades of deep orange and purple. You and Marcus were hidden away in a secluded corner of the palace, stealing a moment of peace amid the constant threat of discovery. His armor had been discarded, instead he was wearing his cloak as if it could erase the responsibility off his shoulders. In that moment, he was not a general, he was just Marcus, yours, the man you loved.

His hand brushed against yours, sending a shiver up your spine. You had to be careful, even here. The walls had ears, and the court was always watching. But with him, you found yourself willing to take the risk. The world outside your bubble of stolen moments didn't matter. Not the empire, not your brother, not the looming consequences. Just Marcus.

"You should go," he whispered, his voice low and rough. "It's too dangerous."

But you shook your head, stepping closer, feeling the warmth of his body against yours. "I don't care," you whispered back, your heart racing. "Let them find out. Let the whole world know. I love you, Marcus."

He looked down at you, his dark eyes softening as they always did when he gazed at you. He placed a gentle hand on your cheek, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. "I love you too," he said, his voice filled with the same intensity you had come to depend on, but laced with sorrow. "But your family will not be kind to us.”

You knew he was right. You both did. The affair was treason, a betrayal to the honor of your family, to your brother. But the pull between you was too strong, too undeniable. It had started innocently enough, during the long strategy meetings Marcus held with your brother. You had caught glimpses of him, and over time, those stolen glances had become longer, lingering. Before you knew it, you were sneaking away from the palace, meeting him in secret, hiding your love from the watchful eyes of Rome.

In that moment, though, none of it mattered. He leaned down and kissed you, softly at first, as if testing the boundaries of your defiance, then more passionately, as if the whole world could burn for all he cared. You melted into his embrace, letting yourself get lost in the heat of the moment, your mind clouded by desire and the need to be close to him.

You snapped back to the present, your heart still racing as if you had just been pulled from Marcus’s arms. The students stared at you, waiting. You realized you had paused in the middle of your lecture, lost in the memory. Quickly, you cleared your throat, steadying your voice before continuing.

"General Marcus Acacius was one of the finest commanders Rome ever produced. He led with strength and honor, but..." you hesitated, a lump forming in your throat. "But history doesn’t always remember those who deserve it most. He died in dishonor, stripped of his title and his legacy.”

Your students watched you, unaware of the deep, personal meaning those words held for you. They were listening to a lesson, but you were recounting the loss of your greatest love.

And that’s how week after week, your lectures became more detailed. The students were captivated by your knowledge of the Roman Empire, unaware that you were telling them stories of your own life. When you spoke of the campaigns Marcus led, your tone softened, and the students sense the reverence in your words. They asked questions about him, and you answer with more care than you do for any other figure in Roman history.

Speaking about Marcus became a bittersweet ritual. You felt the same pain as you did centuries ago, but there was a strange comfort in saying his name aloud. With every story you tell, you feel like you were giving him a second life, bringing him back into the world if only for a moment. The students didn’t know it, but they were learning about a man who shaped you in ways that any book could never explain.

After class, you often sat alone in your office, a single lamp casting a dim glow. Old books of the Roman Empire were spread out before you, but your mind drifted away. You thought about the moments you shared with Marcus, the way he used to hold you after long days of battle, the whispered promises of a future that was stolen from you both.

The loneliness that had followed you for centuries still lingered, but teaching about him helped ease it, if only slightly. It was as though every time you speak his name, you were defying the curse, keeping his memory alive despite the gods’ punishment. But there were nights when the pain was too much, and you felt the weight of eternity pressing down on you. You wonder if Marcus could hear you, if somewhere, in some distant place, he knows you were still fighting to keep his honor intact.

It was late, the room lit only by the flicker of a single oil lamp. You were lying beside Marcus, the cool night seeping through the cracks of the window shutters. The war outside had raged on for weeks, but in this quiet moment, there was only the two of you, wrapped in the warmth of each other's presence.

His arm was draped across your waist, his fingers tracing delicate patterns over the back of your hand. His touch was gentle, a contrast to the hardened general the world saw. Here, with you, he allowed himself to be vulnerable. You shifted slightly, laying your head on his chest, feeling the slow, steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath you.

"You know we can't keep this up forever," he whispered, his voice thick with weariness and something more. Fear, perhaps. Or resignation.

You didn’t reply right away. You knew the truth of his words there was always the looming threat of discovery, of punishment. But in this moment, you wanted to pretend, just for a little longer, that the world outside didn’t exist. That this wasn’t forbidden. That you weren’t living on borrowed time.

He caressed your hand, the roughness of his calloused fingers a stark reminder of the battles he fought, the sacrifices he made. "I would give it all up, you know," he continued, his voice soft, barely audible. "The empire, the glory, everything. Just to stay here with you."

Your heart twisted painfully at his words. You knew he meant them, and you wanted to believe in a future where such sacrifices could lead to a peaceful life together. But you both knew better. The weight of duty and the ever-watchful eyes of the emperor, your brother, were never far from your thoughts.

"You don't have to give up anything, Marcus," you whispered, bringing your hand to his cheek, guiding his gaze to yours. "I love you as you are. And for as long as we have, that will be enough for me."

But even as you said the words, a sinking feeling settled in your chest. You had always known that the empire was a ruthless machine, and it would not allow your love to exist without a price. Still, you closed your eyes, pressing your lips to his, letting the kiss linger as though you could keep time at bay, as though you could stop the inevitable.

When you pulled away, Marcus smiled faintly, his thumb brushing your lower lip. "If only we could stay like this forever," he murmured.

You leaned back in your chair, the weight of eternity pressing down once again. Could Marcus hear you now? Could he feel your longing across the vast time? You didn’t know. But you hoped, no, you believed that somehow, somewhere, he still held you in his heart, just as you held him in yours.

One day, a student stayed behind after class, intrigued by the depth of your knowledge about Marcus Acacius. “It’s like you knew him,” she said, half-joking. “How do you know so much about his life? There’s not much written about him in the sources we have.”

For a moment, you’re taken aback. You’ve been careful to keep your personal connection to Marcus hidden, but the student’s words strike a chord. You felt the urge to tell her the truth, that you did know him, that you loved him, that you were cursed to live on without him. But instead, you smile softly and say, “I’ve studied him for a very long time. Some stories just stay with you.”

The student nodded, satisfied with your answer, but as she left, you felt a pang of longing. You wished, just once, you could tell someone the truth. But you know the world wasn’t ready for your story. It’s a secret you’ll carry alone.

As the years passed, teaching became your refuge. You taught more than just facts and dates, you taught the human side of history, the emotions and relationships that shaped the past. Through your stories, Marcus lived on in the minds of your students, and that gave you a small sense of peace.

The curse still lingered, and the pain of losing Marcus never would fade completely. But through your lectures, you’ve found a way to keep his memory alive. You couldn’t bring him back, but you could ensure that he was remembered, not as the man who was unjustly killed, but as the honorable general who loved you. In that way, you fought against the curse, turning your suffering into something meaningful.

One afternoon, as your students filled out of the classroom, you noticed one student lingering behind, gathering his things slowly. You've been watching him for a few weeks now, and it hasn’t escaped your attention that he always sat alone, quiet and withdrawn. His name was David, and though he never caused any disruptions, he seemed distant from the rest of the class, lost in thought, barely engaging with the lessons.

You decide it was time to reach out.

After the classroom emptied, you approached David as he slanged his backpack over one shoulder. His eyes remained downcast, and you sensed a heaviness about him, something familiar in the way he seemed to carry the world on his shoulders.

“David,” you said gently, “can I speak to you for a moment?”

He glanced up, surprised, but nodded. You gestured toward the front of the room, and he hesitantly followed you. The two of you sat across from each other, the quietness of the empty classroom made the moment more intimate.

You saw something familiar on him, soft brown eyes

You looked at David and felt a strange sense of recognition. His soft brown eyes held a weight that was all too familiar, reminding you of someone you had long ago lost. The resemblance was subtle, but it struck a chord deep within you, like an echo from a past you had tried to forget.

"Is everything alright?" you asked gently, hoping to break through the wall he had built around himself.

David shrugged, staring down at the desk in front of him. “I’m fine,” he mumbled, but you could tell from his tone that he wasn’t.

You leaned forward, trying to catch his gaze. “It’s okay if you're not. You don’t have to pretend with me.”

He glanced up briefly, then away again, the silence between you heavy with unspoken thoughts. There was something more than just teenage angst weighing on him. Something deeper.

“Do you live with your parents?” you asked, thinking you could reach out to them, perhaps offer a meeting to better understand what was troubling him.

David shook his head slowly. “No, it’s just me and my dad.”

His words were like a key, unlocking a door that had remained sealed for centuries. The moment he mentioned his father, a strange chill ran down your spine. You couldn’t explain it, but something inside you shifted, as if the ground beneath your feet had suddenly become unstable.

Before you could ask another question, David continued. “He…he works a lot, doesn’t talk much about stuff. But he cares. I know he does.”

You nodded, sensing a familiar loneliness in his words, one that mirrored your own. “I’d like to meet him,” you said, though the idea stirred something unsettling within you. “Maybe we could have a talk, see if we can help you feel more connected here.”

David shrugged again but didn’t resist. “I guess. I’ll let him know.”

A few days later, you arranged for a meeting with David’s father. As the time approached, you couldn’t shake the unease that had settled into your bones since the conversation with David. There was something about him, about his eyes, his manners, that reminded you of Marcus in a way that felt impossible. But centuries had taught you that the impossible often had a way of finding you.

The classroom door creaked open, and you looked up from your desk. David walked in first, looking a bit anxious, followed by his father. The moment you saw him, your breath caught in your throat.

It was Marcus.

He stood there, lingering by the door, his eyes locking with yours. Though time had passed, and he appeared as someone entirely new, the essence of him, his presence, his soul, was unmistakable. He looked at you with a furrowed brow, as if trying to place you, the same soft brown eyes that had haunted your dreams staring back at you in the flesh.

He stepped in slowly, a tall man with broad shoulders, dark eyes, and a calm yet commanding presence. He looked almost exactly the same as he did all those centuries ago, his hair was streaked with gray, and there was a tiredness around his eyes, but the face, the face was unmistakable.

It was Marcus.

Your heart pounded violently in your chest, and for a split second, you felt dizzy, as if the ground had shifted beneath your feet. Memories fled back, so overwhelming it was as if you were living them all over again: his voice, his touch, the way he smiled at you in those quiet moments when no one else was around. Your throat tightened, your hands trembled, and you could barely breathe. You waited for centuries, living in the shadow of his absence, knowing he would never return to you. And yet, here he is.

You’re stared at a man who didn’t remember the life you shared. A man who looked like Marcus but had no idea of the love, the pain, the eternity you’ve endured without him.

He didn’t recognize you, of course. How could he? You’ve lived for centuries, unchanged, while he, he’d been given a new life, one free from the curse that bound you. He cleared his throat, clearly waiting for you to speak, and it was only then that you realize you’d been standing there, staring.

“Uh… I’m David’s father,” he says, extending a hand. His voice was deeper now, worn by time, but the tone. It was Marcus. It was him.

You forced yourself to take his hand, and the moment your fingers touched, the air in the room seemed to thin. The connection was immediate, electric, and your mind spun with the impossibility of what’s happening. You shook his hand, trying to steady yourself, trying to keep from falling apart.

“I’m… I’m David’s teacher,” you managed to say, your voice shaky. You gave him your name, though you were almost certain the sound of it, the familiarity of it, would spark something in him. But nothing. He was just a man, living an ordinary life, unaware of the past you shared.

He sat down across from you, unaware that this is the most surreal moment of your long, cursed life.

“David’s mentioned he’s been struggling,” he began, looking down at his son, and there was concern in his voice. “I’ve been worried about him. I thought maybe it had to do with his schoolwork.”

You forced yourself to focus, trying to push down the whirlwind of emotions swirling within you. How could Marcus be here, sitting in front of you, unchanged yet completely different? He didn’t recognize you, he couldn’t. He had lived and died, while you had remained frozen in time. This man, David’s father, had no knowledge of the centuries of pain you had carried or the love you had lost.

“Yes, David has been a little distant,” you managed to say, your voice barely steady. You glanced at David, who sat quietly next to his father, unaware of the storm brewing inside you. “He’s a bright student, but I’ve noticed he’s been… struggling to engage.”

Marcus—no, not Marcus, David’s father—nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, we’ve had a rough few months,” he admitted, his voice heavy with exhaustion. “I’ve been working a lot, and it’s been just the two of us since his mother left. I think it’s been harder on him than I realized.”

The way he spoke, the cadence of his words, the soft concern in his voice, it was Marcus. Your heart ached with the familiarity of it, but the reality crashed down on you just as quickly. He didn’t know who you were. He didn’t remember anything about the life you had shared, about the love you had lost. To him, you were just another teacher, another stranger.

“I understand,” you replied, trying to keep your voice level. “Maybe we can work together to help him feel more connected. Sometimes, just having a consistent presence can make all the difference.”

As you spoke, your eyes couldn’t help but drift back to him, trying to reconcile the man sitting in front of you with the one who had held you centuries ago. He was so close and yet so impossibly far away. He had no memory of you, no recollection of the love that had once bound you together. It was both a blessing and a curse—he was free from the torment that had plagued you for centuries, but you were left alone in your knowledge of what you had once shared.

“I’ll do whatever I can,” he said, glancing at David with a softness that made your chest tighten. “I want to make sure he’s okay. It’s been tough on both of us.”

You nodded, feeling the weight of the moment pressing down on you. This was your Marcus, but not your Marcus. He was a father now, concerned about his son, living a life you had never been a part of.

The meeting wrapped up quickly after that. You offered some advice, discussed possible ways to help David, but all the while, your thoughts were consumed by the impossibility of the situation. As they both left the room, Marcus lingered for a moment by the door, his eyes meeting yours once again.

“I appreciate you taking the time,” he said quietly. “I know it’s not easy, but… it means a lot.”

You nodded, unable to trust your voice. “Of course.”

He gave you a small, almost hesitant smile before he turned and left, his footsteps echoing in the hallway. And then you were alone, the weight of your endless existence pressing down on you once more.

As you sat there, staring at the door through which he had just walked, you realized the cruel twist of fate you now faced. Marcus had been given another chance at life—a chance to live without the burden of the past, without the curse that had chained you to eternity. But you, you remained the same, trapped in an endless cycle of love and loss.

As you sat there in the quiet, the memories of Marcus flooded your mind—his voice, his touch, the way he looked at you all those centuries ago. You were lost in the whirlwind of it when you suddenly heard footsteps approaching. Your heart quickened, and before you could even turn, you knew who it was.

David’s father-Marcus- stood in the doorway again, hesitating for a moment. His brow furrowed in thought, as though something was tugging at the edges of his consciousness, something familiar that he couldn’t quite place. He cleared his throat, and when you finally met his eyes, your heart nearly stopped.

“I know this might sound strange,” he begins, his voice softer now, uncertain. “But… have we met before?”

The question hit you like a punch to the gut. For centuries, you had dreamed of hearing those words, of him somehow remembering you, but now that it was happening, you didn’t know how to respond. How could you explain what was beyond comprehension? That you had loved him deeply, that you had lived lifetimes while he had been reborn, oblivious to the pain you still carried?

You forced a smile, trying to hide the turmoil inside you. “I… I don’t think so,” you said, though your voice wavered slightly.

He looked at you closely, his eyes searching your face, as if trying to pull a long-forgotten memory to the surface. For a fleeting moment, you wondered if maybe—just maybe—the curse wasn’t as strong as you thought. Maybe some part of him did remember.

“There’s just something familiar about you,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, a gesture you remembered all too well. “It’s strange… like I’ve seen you before. Or… I don’t know.” He gave a sheepish laugh. “Maybe I’m just overthinking it.”

You felt your breath catch. It would be so easy to tell him the truth, to give in to the temptation of finally revealing who you really were. But what good would that do? He was living a new life, and you had no place in it.

“Maybe we’ve crossed paths somewhere before,” you replied, your voice steadying even as your heart ached. “The world can be small like that.”

He nodded, but you could see the doubt lingering in his eyes. “Yeah, maybe.” He looked down at the ground for a moment, then back up at you. “Thanks again for everything. I really appreciate it.”

You nodded, offering him a smile that felt like a lie. “Of course. Take care.”

With that, he gave you one last look—one that made your chest tighten—and turned to leave. As his footsteps echoed down the hallway, you couldn’t help but wonder if you had made the right choice in keeping the truth hidden.

For the first time in centuries, you weren’t sure what your future held. All you knew was that Marcus was out there again, living a life you could never be a part of. And once again, you were left with the memories, the only thing that time and the curse had not been able to take from you.

Alone in your office, the weight of eternity pressed down on you more heavily than ever before.

A few days passed, but the encounter with David’s father lingered in your mind like a ghost. You went through your routine, teaching classes, grading papers, keeping up the mask you had worn for centuries. But beneath the surface, the storm raged on. You could still feel the weight of his gaze, the unspoken recognition that had passed between you. He didn’t know the truth, but something inside him remembered.

Meanwhile, across the city, Marcus found himself wrestling with a strange, unshakable feeling. It had been there ever since he met you at the school, a persistent pull that gnawed at him in quiet moments. He tried to push it aside, rationalize it as nothing more than stress, but no matter what he did, he couldn’t stop thinking about you.

At first, it was just small flashes—your face as you had looked at him, the way your voice had trembled ever so slightly when you spoke. There was something familiar about you, something that stirred a sense of déjà vu he couldn’t explain. And then, the dreams began.

They started out hazy at first, fragments of images that disappeared as soon as he woke. A battlefield, the clash of swords, and always…you. Standing there in the distance, watching him. He couldn’t make sense of it, and every morning he woke with the same unsettled feeling gnawing at him.

It got worse with each passing day. He found himself driving by the school on his way to work, glancing at the building as if he might see you standing there. He caught himself wondering what you were doing, if you remembered him in some strange way too. It didn’t make sense, but the pull was real, undeniable.

One night, after tossing and turning in bed, Marcus sat up, running a hand through his hair in frustration. The dreams had returned again, this time more vivid than ever. In them, you had been lying beside him, your fingers intertwined with his as he whispered something he couldn’t quite remember. The sensation was so real, so intense, that he had woken with his heart racing, the image of your face burned into his mind.

He couldn’t keep ignoring it.

The next day, after dropping David off at school, Marcus found himself walking back to the classroom where he had first met you. He didn’t have a clear plan, only a need to see you again, to understand why this strange connection existed between the two of you.

When he arrived, he stood outside the door, hesitating for a moment. What would he even say? He didn’t know if he was ready for whatever this was, or if you would even feel the same pull. But the need to know, to see you, overpowered the doubts.

Taking a deep breath, he knocked softly on the door and waited.

Inside the classroom, you had been in the middle of organizing papers when the knock startled you. You weren’t expecting anyone, and your heart leapt in your chest at the possibility that it could be him. You took a deep breath before opening the door, bracing yourself for whatever was to come.

When you saw Marcus standing there, his familiar brown eyes looking at you with that same confusion and intensity, you knew this moment had been coming. His presence was overwhelming, and for a brief moment, it was as if centuries fell away and you were back in that palace with him, before the curse, before the loss.

“I’m sorry for dropping by like this,” he said, his voice softer than you remembered, though the same cadence was there. “I just… I’ve been thinking about our meeting the other day. I can’t shake this feeling that there’s something—”

He trailed off, searching for the right words, clearly struggling to articulate the pull he was feeling.

You stood there, your heart pounding, knowing that this conversation was teetering on the edge of something dangerous, something you couldn’t fully control.

“Something familiar?” you finished for him, your voice almost a whisper.

His eyes widened slightly, and he nodded. “Yeah. Exactly that.” He ran a hand through his hair, looking almost embarrassed. “I know it sounds crazy, but since I met you, it’s like I can’t stop thinking about it. About you. I keep having these…dreams, and it doesn’t make any sense, but it feels like I’ve known you before.”

Your heart pounded at his words, the weight of centuries crashing down on you all at once. His admission felt like a thread connecting the past to the present, something fragile and dangerous. You had never expected this—Marcus remembering, even if only in fragmented dreams. You could see the struggle in his eyes, the confusion he was trying so hard to make sense of.

You tried to steady your breath, knowing you couldn’t tell him the truth, not yet. It would unravel everything. But his presence, the way he looked at you as if he had known you for lifetimes, made it impossible to keep your emotions in check.

“I’m sure it’s just… coincidence,” you said softly, your voice betraying the turmoil inside you. “People get those feelings sometimes, don’t they? Like they’ve met someone before.”

He studied you for a moment, his brow furrowing. “Maybe.” But he didn’t sound convinced. He took a step closer, his gaze never leaving yours. “It’s not just that. It’s something more. And I don’t understand why, but I feel like… I should know you. Like I’m supposed to know you.”

Your pulse quickened. It was dangerous, this line you were walking. If he kept pushing, if he kept searching for answers, the curse could be exposed. Yet, the way his eyes searched yours made your resolve falter. It was Marcus standing before you, but not the Marcus you had known. This was a man who had been granted a new life, free from the past that had chained you both.

“I’m just a teacher,” you said, forcing a small smile. “We only met a few days ago.”

He nodded, but the crease between his brows deepened, as if he was debating with himself, wrestling with whether to leave things be or push further. He took another breath, as though on the verge of saying something else, but then stopped himself, shaking his head slightly.

“I don’t usually do this,” he said, almost to himself, his voice low, hesitant. “But… would you like to get coffee sometime? I mean, not as David’s teacher, but just as… us.”

The question hung in the air between you, and you felt the ground shift beneath your feet. You had lived through countless lives, avoided countless connections, and yet here was Marcus, in this new form, asking you to start something again. It was as if fate was daring you to test the boundaries of the curse.

You hesitated, your heart torn between the longing you had carried for centuries and the knowledge that this was a path filled with danger. If he remembered more, if the past began to bleed into the present, what would that mean for him—for both of you?

“I…” You swallowed, unsure of what to say. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

His face fell slightly, disappointment flickering in his eyes. But then he smiled, trying to mask it. “I get it. I just—there’s something about you…”

Your chest tightened at his words. He was offering you an out, a way to walk away from this, to keep the curse at bay. But deep down, the thought of letting him go again, of walking away from the man you had loved for centuries, felt unbearable.

“I’ll think about it,” you whispered, almost afraid of your own answer.

He nodded, offering you a small, understanding smile. “Take your time.” His eyes lingered on you for a moment longer, searching for something he couldn’t quite find. “I’ll see you around.”

And then, he turned to leave, the weight of his unspoken questions hanging in the air like a ghost. You watched him go, your heart aching with the knowledge that fate was once again drawing you both into its web.

The door closed behind him, and you exhaled a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. This was only the beginning, and you knew it. The past had a way of finding you, no matter how much time had passed.

A few days later, the school hosted a parent-teacher meeting. The hallways buzzed with the low hum of voices, the shuffle of papers, and the occasional sound of children darting between classrooms. You had prepared for a busy evening, but the thought of seeing Marcus again lingered in the back of your mind, an undercurrent to everything else.

You were speaking with another parent when, out of the corner of your eye, you caught a glimpse of him. He was standing near the entrance, casually scanning the room. For a moment, he looked lost in thought, his brow furrowed in that familiar way that tugged at your heart. And then, as if sensing your gaze, his eyes met yours.

The world seemed to pause.

The warmth of his smile was immediate, softening his features in a way that was both disarming and comforting. It was as though, in that brief moment, everything else in the room faded away. The connection between you, the pull that had been simmering beneath the surface since that first meeting, was undeniable. His eyes lingered on you, full of recognition that he couldn’t quite place, yet something deep inside of him understood.

As the conversation with the other parent wrapped up, you felt Marcus slowly making his way toward you, weaving through the crowded room. Your heart raced, knowing that whatever happened next, you wouldn’t be able to pretend that the past didn’t exist—not for much longer.

“Hi,” he greeted you, his voice warm and easy as he stopped in front of you.

“Hi,” you replied, your voice barely steady as you met his gaze.

He glanced around briefly before looking back at you. “Busy night?”

You nodded, the weight of the moment making it hard to find words. “Yeah. A lot of parents to talk to.”

Marcus gave a small chuckle. “I guess I’m one of them.” But the tone of his voice suggested he had more in mind than just the usual parent-teacher talk. His eyes searched yours again, that same sense of familiarity clouding his expression.

“You’ve been on my mind,” he admitted softly, leaning in just enough so that his words wouldn’t be overheard by anyone else. “I know it’s probably crazy, but I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the other day. And… about you.”

Your breath caught in your throat, your chest tightening at his words. He was so close now, and you could feel the intensity radiating off him, the same intensity that had bound you together in another life.

“I…” You hesitated, knowing the danger in getting too close, in letting yourself fall into the old patterns. But something in the way he looked at you, the softness in his expression, made it impossible to resist. “I’ve been thinking about it too.”

His smile grew, a flicker of relief crossing his face. “I’m glad it’s not just me.”

You could see the uncertainty in his eyes, the same battle he was fighting inside himself—the inexplicable connection, the way the past seemed to bleed into the present even though he couldn’t understand why.

“I know we’re at a parent-teacher meeting,” he said, his voice a bit lower now, “but maybe after this, we could grab that coffee? Well, we could make it, a dinner. I’m still trying to make sense of this, of what I’m feeling, and I’d really like to talk to you… if you’re open to it.”

Your heart ached at the question, knowing that whatever happened, this was Marcus reaching out to you again, even if he didn’t remember the lives you had shared. You felt the weight of the curse pressing down on you, but for the first time in centuries, the idea of keeping your distance felt unbearable.

“I’d like that,” you said, surprising yourself with how easily the words came out.

His eyes lit up at your response, and he smiled again, this time a bit more confidently. “Great. I’ll wait for you after the meeting.”

And with that, he gave you a nod before moving off to join the other parents, leaving you standing there, your heart pounding with anticipation, fear, and hope all at once. You knew this meeting would be the beginning of something far more complicated than either of you could imagine.

++

The rest of the parent-teacher meeting passed in a blur. You were aware of the conversations happening around you, but your mind was somewhere else—focused on what was to come. Marcus had invited you for dinner, a simple gesture that felt monumental in the context of your tangled past. Every minute felt heavier with anticipation, knowing that after so many lifetimes of loss, this was your chance to be near him again, even if he didn’t remember.

When the meeting finally ended, you gathered your things and made your way toward the entrance. You spotted Marcus waiting by the doors, hands in his pockets, eyes searching the crowd. As soon as he saw you, that familiar warmth spread across his face, and for a moment, it was like stepping back in time.

“Ready?” he asked, his voice casual but with an undercurrent of something deeper.

You nodded, offering him a soft smile. “Yeah, ready.”

Together, you made your way out to the parking lot. David was waiting by their car, playing with a small toy in his hands. When he saw you walking with his father, his brow furrowed in confusion.

“Dad?” David asked, looking between the two of you. “Why’s my teacher coming with us?”

Marcus glanced down at his son, his smile never wavering as he reached over and tousled David’s hair. “She’s joining us for dinner tonight,” he explained lightly. “I wanted to say thank you for helping out with everything.”

David’s eyes widened, and he looked at you with a mix of curiosity and surprise. “Oh… okay,” he said slowly, clearly trying to process this new development. “So, like, you’re friends with my dad?”

You exchanged a quick glance with Marcus, both of you sharing a silent understanding of how complicated the truth really was.

“Something like that,” you answered with a gentle smile. “We’re just going to have dinner and talk about how to help you in school.”

David seemed to accept this explanation for now, though his gaze lingered on you a little longer before he climbed into the car. As you slid into the passenger seat, your thoughts were swirling. You were entering Marcus’s home, a place that was both familiar and foreign to him—a life he had built without any memory of you.

The drive to their house was quiet, but the tension between you and Marcus was palpable. Every now and then, you caught him glancing at you, as if he were trying to piece something together, to understand why he felt this pull toward you.

When you arrived at their home, Marcus led you inside. It was cozy, filled with the warmth of a lived-in space—family photos, toys scattered across the living room floor, the faint smell of something cooking. It was so different from the life you had known with him centuries ago, yet the sense of care and love was the same.

“Make yourself at home,” Marcus said, gesturing to the living room. “I’ll get dinner started. David, why don’t you help me set the table?”

David nodded and followed his father into the kitchen, but not before giving you one more curious glance. You settled onto the couch, feeling out of place and yet strangely at ease. This was Marcus’s life now, a life you had never been a part of, but somehow it still felt like home.

As they busied themselves in the kitchen, you couldn’t help but think about the enormity of what was happening. You were here, in his home, sharing a moment that felt so normal and yet carried the weight of centuries. It was a bittersweet reminder of everything you had lost and everything you still longed for.

After a few minutes, Marcus emerged from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel. “Dinner’s almost ready,” he said, his voice soft. “Thanks for… well, for coming. I know it’s kind of last minute.”

You shook your head, offering him a small smile. “It’s fine. I’m happy to be here.”

He sat down across from you, leaning forward slightly, his expression thoughtful. “I meant what I said earlier. There’s something about you… something I can’t explain.” His voice was quieter now, as though he was sharing a secret. “It’s like I’ve known you forever, but I don’t know how or why.”

Your heart ached at his words, the familiar pain of your curse tugging at you. He was so close, yet so far from remembering the life you had shared. But in this moment, it was enough just to be here, to feel his presence again.

Dinner passed in a warm haze, filled with laughter and the comforting sounds of family. You enjoyed every bite, trying to savor the moment as Marcus shared stories about David's antics at school, his love for art, and the curious questions he had been asking lately. You felt a genuine connection growing, like the threads of your past weaving together with the present.

Once dinner was finished, David excused himself, yawning as he dragged his feet toward the living room. "I'm too tired to finish my project," he declared, and Marcus smiled, understanding that he was ready for bed.

“Okay, buddy, let’s get you settled,” Marcus said, ruffling his son’s hair as David headed up the stairs. After a few moments, you heard the soft sound of David’s door closing, followed by the gentle hum of a lullaby drifting down the hall.

With David tucked in, Marcus returned to the living room, a comfortable silence settling between you. He sank into the armchair across from you, and you both took a moment to collect your thoughts.

“Thanks for tonight,” he said, his eyes locking onto yours. “I didn’t expect to enjoy it so much.”

“I’m glad you did,” you replied, feeling your heart race under his gaze. “I had a great time.”

Marcus leaned back in his chair, a contemplative look crossing his face. “David has been talking about your lessons a lot lately. He’s become really obsessed with the Roman Empire.”

You couldn’t help but smile at that. “Really? That’s amazing to hear! What does he say?”

“Well,” Marcus chuckled softly, “he keeps mentioning this General Acacius as his hero. Apparently, he thinks it’s so cool that he’s a general and a fighter at the same time. I think he thinks he’s going to become a gladiator or something,” he said, rolling his eyes playfully.

Your heart skipped a beat at the mention of the name. “Marcus Acacius? He’s a fascinating figure in history. He had a complex life—fighting for honor and trying to navigate the politics of his time.”

Marcus raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “You really know your stuff, don’t you? It sounds like you’ve done quite a bit of research for your lessons.”

“I’ve always been passionate about history,” you admitted, feeling a warmth spread in your chest as you talked about your favorite subject. “Especially the stories of strong figures like him. I believe there’s so much we can learn from the past.”

“Do you think David sees himself in Acacius?” Marcus asked, leaning forward slightly, genuinely interested in your opinion.

“Perhaps,” you replied thoughtfully. “Or maybe he sees a bit of him in you” you said.

Marcus raised an eyebrow, surprise etched across his face. “In me?”

“Absolutely,” you continued, feeling the words flow more easily now. “You’re a dedicated father, and you fight for what’s best for your son, just like Acacius fought for his people. The way you support David, always encouraging his interests and nurturing his passions—that's heroic in its own right.”

He chuckled softly, a hint of embarrassment creeping into his features. “I’ve never thought of it that way. I just try to do my best for him.”

“Exactly,” you said, leaning in a little closer. “Being a hero isn’t just about great battles or glory; it’s also about the everyday moments—the sacrifices we make for the ones we love. That’s what really matters.”

Marcus’s gaze softened as he listened, and you could see him processing your words. “I guess I can see that. I want David to grow up feeling strong and capable, like he can achieve anything he sets his mind to.”

“And you’re doing just that,” you replied, your heart swelling with admiration for him. “He looks up to you, Marcus. Your presence in his life is already making a huge difference.”

The weight of his vulnerability hung in the air, and for a moment, it felt as if the world outside faded away. “You know, I never realized how much I needed this conversation until now,” he said, a genuine smile gracing his lips. “It’s refreshing to talk to someone who understands what it means to teach and inspire.”

“I’m glad,” you replied, feeling a warmth bloom in your chest.

Marcus nodded; his expression thoughtful. “Speaking of which, I actually bought a book for David the other day. It’s about Marcus Acacius—the general. I thought he might enjoy reading about a real-life hero.”

Your heart raced at the mention of the name, the connection striking a chord deep within you. “Really? I’d love to see it,” you said, your curiosity piqued.

With a spark of excitement, Marcus stood and walked toward a nearby bookshelf, scanning the titles. He pulled out a well-worn book, its cover faded but the spine intact. As he handed it to you, he said, “I thought it would be a great way to inspire him. The stories of bravery and leadership are so important, especially now.”

You opened the book and began flipping through the pages, the illustrations of ancient battles and heroic deeds instantly drawing you in. “This is wonderful, Marcus,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “David will love this.”

“I hope so,” he replied, his gaze fixed on you, watching your reaction with a mix of anticipation and pride.

As you admired the illustrations, Marcus leaned closer to look at the page you were on, his shoulder brushing against yours. You could feel the warmth radiating from him, and for a brief moment, it felt like you were back in another life, lost in a world where everything was simpler.

“This page really captures the spirit of what it means to be a hero,” you began, your voice soft yet earnest. “You know, once upon a time, a hero like Marcus Acacius fought not just for glory but for the love of those he held dear. It reminds me of the bond they shared—how love can be as powerful as any sword or shield.”

Your words hung in the air, the weight of history resonating in the silence between you. You continued, feeling emboldened by the moment. “In many ways, that love is what drove him, just as it drove someone else in a different time—someone who used to call her, mi dulce Cara’”

You glanced over at Marcus, watching as his expression shifted from curiosity to surprise. His eyes widened slightly, and he turned to face you fully. “What? How do you know that?”

The question echoed in the quiet room, and your heart raced at the realization of what you had just revealed. It was a nickname that only he had used, a term of endearment from a time long past, one that had been buried under centuries of memories and pain.

“I—” you hesitated, your mind racing as you tried to find the right words. “I guess I’ve always felt a connection to that name. It… it just came to me.”

Marcus studied you intensely, searching your eyes for answers. “But that have never been mentioned that to anyone. How could you know?”

Your heart pounded in your chest as you realized how the truth was slipping through your fingers, how deeply you yearned for him to remember. “Sometimes, memories linger in the air, even when we think they’re lost,” you said, your voice trembling slightly. “It’s like a whisper from the past.”

He looked at you, a mixture of confusion and intrigue swirling in his gaze. “A whisper?”

“Something like that,” you replied softly, feeling the weight of the moment settle between you. “Maybe it’s just… a feeling, or a part of a dream I once had. I can’t explain it, Marcus.”

The two of you sat there in silence, the air thick with unspoken words and lingering emotions. You could sense the gravity of the moment, the delicate thread that connected your past with the present, and you couldn’t help but hope that perhaps, just perhaps, this was the beginning of something that could bridge the gap between who you had been and who you were now.

Marcus leaned closer, his gaze intense and searching. “Dulce cara mia,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “I spent years looking out for you.”

Your heart skipped a beat as the familiar phrase hung in the air, a sweet reminder of the bond you once shared. It felt as if the walls between your past and present were beginning to crumble, allowing the sunlight of long-buried emotions to seep through.

“Wait… you remember that?” you asked, your voice barely a breath.

His words were a balm to your soul, igniting a flame of hope that you had thought long extinguished. “How could I forget about you, my love?” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I've lived a thousand lives trying to find you.”

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as the weight of his confession settled over you like a comforting blanket. “You really mean that?” you asked, unable to hide the tremor in your voice.

“Every word,” he replied, his thumb gently brushing against your knuckles. “Even in this life, it felt as if something was missing. A part of me always knew you were out there, waiting for me.”

You felt a rush of warmth at his admission, the love that had been lost in the ages flooding back to you. “I thought I would never find you again,” you whispered, your heart aching with the bittersweet pain of your shared history. “I thought the curse would keep us apart forever.”

Marcus shook his head, his expression fierce. “No curse can hold us back. It may take a thousand lifetimes, but we always find each other. Always.”

His gaze bore into yours, filled with a fierce intensity that made your heart race. The air around you felt charged with emotion, and you could feel the weight of the moment pressing down like the world had paused just for you two.

“Every word,” he reiterated softly, nodding as he leaned in closer. The distance between you evaporated, and your breath caught in your throat as he brushed a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingertips lingering against your skin. “I’ve missed you, cara,” he murmured, using that endearing name that sent shivers down your spine.

As he inched closer, the warmth radiating from him enveloped you like a comforting embrace. “I’ve spent so long searching for you,” he whispered, his lips hovering just inches from yours. “And now that I’ve found you again… I never want to let you go.”

Your heart swelled with emotion, and the tension in the air seemed to pulse with life. It felt as though everything around you faded into the background—the world, the past, the curse—all that mattered was this moment, this connection.

“Marcus,” you breathed, your voice barely audible as you leaned in, craving the touch of his lips against yours.

But then, just before your lips met, he pulled back slightly, searching your eyes with a mixture of longing and caution. “I won’t rush this. I want to savor every moment we have, to make it count.”

You nodded, your heart pounding as you took a deep breath, grounding yourself in the reality of this second chance. “I want that too,” you said softly, your voice steady despite the whirlwind of emotions swirling within you.

++++++

You were standing in the dimly lit corridors of the palace; the cold stone walls a stark contrast to the warmth you felt whenever Marcus was nearby. The sounds of soldiers and servants echoed faintly in the distance, but here, in this hidden alcove, the world felt small and intimate. Marcus had pulled you into the shadows, his hand firm but gentle on your arm, his eyes filled with the same intensity they held now.

“We must be careful,” you had whispered, your breath catching as he leaned in close, the smell of leather and sandalwood surrounding you. “If anyone sees us…”

But Marcus had silenced your worries with a soft kiss, his lips pressing against yours in a way that made your heart skip. “I would fight the whole empire if it meant being with you.” he murmured, his voice low and dangerous.

His words had sent a thrill through you, but you both knew the risks. You were not just any woman; you were the emperor’s sister, and Marcus was the empire’s fiercest general. Your love, while passionate and real, was forbidden—an act of treason in the eyes of those who held power over you.

Yet, none of that mattered when you were in his arms.

“I can’t stay away from you,” Marcus had whispered against your skin, his lips brushing the curve of your neck as he held you close. “Every moment I’m not with you feels like torture.”

You had smiled then, your hands tangling in his dark curls, pulling him closer, as if you could keep him with you forever. “We will find a way,” you had promised, though neither of you knew how. “We’ll be together, one day.”

For now, stolen kisses and secret embraces were all you had, and in those moments, it felt like enough. The weight of your circumstances melted away, leaving only the raw, unshakable truth of your love.

As Marcus kissed you again, more urgently this time, the world outside your alcove seemed to disappear. His hands traced the familiar lines of your body, and you clung to him, desperate to make the moment last, knowing it would be hours—maybe days—before you could find each other again.

“I love you,” he had breathed into your ear, his voice filled with the kind of vulnerability only you ever saw. “In this life and every life to come, Cara Mia.”

++++++

As the memory faded, you were pulled back into the present, Marcus still inches away, his intense gaze fixed on you. The warmth of that ancient kiss lingered between you, and the weight of the moment felt just as powerful now as it had back then.

His hand, still gently resting on your cheek, was real, solid, warm, and the centuries that had separated you seemed to dissolve in the space between your shared breath. The flicker of recognition deepened in his eyes, and you saw it, the understanding, the knowing.

“Cara,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I’ve been searching for you in every life. And now, here you are, right in front of me.”

You could hardly breathe, the intensity of his presence overwhelming. “Marcus,” you said softly, your voice trembling. “All this time… it’s been you. I knew it, I felt it.”

He nodded, his thumb brushing away a tear you hadn’t realized had fallen. “I never forgot. Even when the memories were blurry, even when I didn’t understand… something inside me always knew.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I met many women during my life, but it was always you. I was always looking for you.”

the years of searching, of waiting, finally melting away. You could feel his love, not just from this life, but from the countless lifetimes before. He leaned in, his forehead resting gently against yours, his breath mingling with your own.

“I won’t lose you again,” he whispered, his voice filled with the determination of a man who had lived a thousand lives in search of one thing, one person.

You closed your eyes, a rush of emotion flooding through you, knowing that, this time, neither of you would have to live without the other.

the reality of your curse loomed at the back of your mind, like a shadow waiting to resurface. You opened your eyes slowly, pulling back just enough to look into Marcus’s eyes. The intensity was still there, but now, mixed with something else—worry, doubt.

“But what about the curse?” you asked softly, your voice trembling with the weight of the question. “We’ve found each other again, but… what if it’s not enough? What if we’re torn apart, just like all the other times?”

“I Will break it” he said, sealing a promise.

Marcus’s words hung in the air, a declaration so filled with determination that it made your heart ache with both hope and fear. His hand tightened around yours, grounding you in the moment as he repeated, “I will break it.”

You stared at him, searching his eyes for any hint of uncertainty, but all you saw was a fierce resolve—a promise he intended to keep, no matter the cost. The weight of his vow pressed down on you, the enormity of the task, the centuries of separation, all coming to the forefront of your mind. “How?” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “How can you break something that has kept us apart for so long?”

“I don’t know,” Marcus admitted, his voice unwavering. “But I do know that I’m not the same man I was before. None of those lifetimes matter without you by my side, and I will tear down the heavens if I have to, to keep you with me.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine, the intensity of his love for you overwhelming. You could feel the fear still lurking beneath the surface, the fear that no matter how much you wanted this, how hard you fought, the curse would come between you once again. But something in the way Marcus looked at you, the absolute certainty in his gaze, made you want to believe him.

“And if we fail?” you asked, your voice barely more than a breath, the question slipping out despite yourself. “What if we can’t break it?”

Marcus shook his head, gently cupping your face in his hands. “We won’t fail,” he said softly, his thumb brushing your cheek. “Because this time, I’m not letting you go. I’m not letting anything stand between us. I’ll break the curse or die trying.”

Tears welled in your eyes as his words sank in, the promise of his love wrapping around you like a shield. For the first time in centuries, you allowed yourself to hope. Maybe, just maybe, this time could be different.

A soft chuckle escaped your lips, breaking the heavy tension that had settled between you. “People will talk again,” you said, a small smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “That hasn’t changed.”

Marcus’s eyes lit up, a playful glint dancing behind the intensity of his gaze. “Let them talk,” he said with a shrug, his voice full of warmth and mischief. “They’ve been talking about us for centuries. Let them have something real to talk about this time.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, the sound breaking through the lingering shadows of fear and doubt. It was a familiar feeling, this lightness that always seemed to come when you were with him, no matter how dire the circumstances. In a world that constantly threatened to tear you apart, these moments of shared joy felt like a rebellion, a testament to the strength of your bond.

“They’re going to say I’ve bewitched you,” you teased, leaning in a little closer, savoring the warmth of his presence. “Or that you’ve gone mad.”

Marcus grinned, his thumb still gently caressing your cheek. “Maybe I have,” he said, his voice low and full of affection. “Mad with love for you.”

You rested your forehead against his once more, your breath mingling with his as you whispered, “Let them talk, then. As long as we have this, as long as we have each other, none of it matters.”

Marcus’s arms tightened around you, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. “Forever,” he whispered back, sealing the promise between you with a tender kiss.

You kissed him as though every single one of the lifetimes you had lived without him was pouring into this one moment. The touch of his lips against yours ignited something deep within you—a longing, a love, that had spanned centuries. All the heartache, all the searching, all the endless years of waiting melted away as you gave yourself fully to the kiss.

Marcus held you like he had done a thousand times before, but this time, it was different. This time, the kiss was filled with the knowledge that you had found each other again, that no matter what came next, you were together now. His hands traced the curve of your back, pulling you closer as if he were afraid you might disappear again.

You could feel the weight of all those years, all the love that had been lost and found again, in every movement, in every breath. His kiss was not just a promise but a reminder—a reminder of all the times he had loved you, all the moments you had shared in different lives, and all the moments you had missed. And now, here, you were living them all again.

When you finally pulled back, your breath coming in shallow gasps, you stared into his eyes, searching for the same fire you knew was burning inside you. It was there—strong, unwavering, eternal. “I’ve waited lifetimes for you,” you whispered, your forehead resting against his. “And I’d wait a thousand more if it meant I could be with you like this.”

Marcus’s gaze softened, and his fingers brushed tenderly against your jawline. “You won’t have to wait anymore,” he said, his voice steady and filled with love.

After the kiss, you found yourself in front of a mirror, your fingers lightly brushing over your lips, still tingling from the touch of his. The room was quiet now, the world beyond the two of you seemed distant, as though the very air had stilled to give you space for this moment. As you gazed at your reflection, a glimmer caught your eye.

There, among the strands of your hair, was a single grey hair. You reached up, gently twisting it between your fingers, a realization dawning on you with a surge of emotion. The curse. All those lifetimes, the endless cycle of living and dying, never aging, never truly being free… It was broken.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, you had changed. The grey hair was proof—proof that time, real time, had touched you. Proof that you were no longer trapped in the endless loop of waiting, searching, and losing Marcus again and again.

Your heart swelled with emotion as you stared at the grey hair, a smile tugging at your lips. It wasn’t a sign of loss or fear, but of life—of the future you could now build together. The weight of your immortality, the curse that had kept you apart, had lifted.

Marcus’s reflection appeared behind you in the mirror, his eyes soft but filled with a quiet intensity. He gently placed his hands on your shoulders, his warmth grounding you in this new reality. “You see it too, don’t you?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded, unable to stop the tears from welling up. “It’s broken, Marcus. We’re free.”

His arms slid around you, pulling you close to his chest. You could feel the steady beat of his heart, the sound of it a reminder that you were no longer bound by the past. “I told you,” he whispered against your hair. “No curse can keep us apart.”

[pedrosyouknowwhat]

While holding you

Summary: Your second wedding night, but now under the General.

Pairing: Dark! Suitor! Marcus Acacius x Queen! Reader

warnings: noncon, abusive relationship, taunting, psychological abuse, suicidal thoughts, reader is describes as short in comparison but you can imagine Acacius as tall as you want (he's huge), unprotected sex (p in v), handjobs (f and m recieving), angst.

Series Masterlist

Acacius shut the door behind him, taking the key with himself. You were too tired, too tired to attempt anything as your eyes drifted to sleep.

You woke up from time to time, seeing the sun move behind the clouds. It was evening when you heard the door creaking again. From your position you were unable to see it, but despite smelling Lucius perfume, you knew who it was.

Clenching your eyes shut, you felt him near the bed. A cool circle fell on your stomach as he hunched over to untie you. You could smell mint, eucalyptus alike blood and dirt. Once your arms were free and you attempted to bring them close, you yelped out from the immense pain of the strain.

A hand propped you up, sitting you in the soiled sheets, and the ring fell between your legs. Seeing it brought a storm of emotions into you, a deep ache settled in your heart. A golden band with an oval shaped top and engraved with MAXIMUS inside. As your hands reached for it, Acacius undid the gag around your mouth. Your jaw ached as you closed your lips, tongue dry and throat hoarse.

“He is gone.” He told you coldly, and you didn’t reply. Too busy looking at the ring, propped in bloodied sheets. “Mourn him while you can, because tonight is our wedding night.”

The wedding. A reminder you didn’t need.

“You killed him.” You croaked, and he just gave you a blank stare.

“I didn’t,” He told you, matter of factly. “A Numidian ship comes to harbor carrying dozens of barbarians along Lucius; another one of them.”

You wanted to know more, to hear him confess; he kept his sentence short, punishing.

“He was furious; couldn’t kill him until he was captured.” He chuckled, as if telling you a funny anecdote. “Your Gladiator was a skilled fighter, but ten against one is no fair fight.”

You suppressed a sob, knowing that if it came out it wouldn’t stop. His hands were now in the sides of your chest, hoisting you to your unsteady feet. You allowed him, too weak to do anything against him, once again. As expected he guided you to the bath in your room. Perhaps the water had been prepared while you were unconscious. Servants did that all the time while you were sleeping, coming through the back door-

The back door. The one leading to the bath and then into your room.

You realized then how he had entered the room. But it was futile now. He lowered you into the bath tub at the floor of the room, and you sat down on the marble seat. Your head lulled to the side of the tub as you felt the grime of his actions unstick to you. You clutched the ring in your hand.

“Took it while I slit his throat.” He groaned, as if it brought him pleasure. “See how nice I am?”

Even while seeing you utterly destroyed he couldn’t come to he merciful to your soul. A cup was pressed against your lips and you could almost moan as the sweet, refreshing drink slid down your throat, easing your dry mouth.

Before you could down too much of the liquid he took it away from you, some dripping down your chin.

“Ah ah ah,” He tutted, using his other hand to dip into the water and clean your face. “Can’t have you drunk on our wedding night; want you to be awake.”

Your eyes clenched and a whimper attempted to escape your pursed lips, as if begging him not to. You shook your head, hands too weak to splash against the water in frustration.

“You’ll be the most beautiful wife.”

And with that he left, and you contemplated drowning yourself. It felt like the easiest way out, but what would that work for? You’d be leaving the people of Rome to his mercy.

It sped by you; your maids padding into the room, attempting to cover the bruises you wouldn’t speak about and stitching you into your dress. Soon enough you were sitting on the carriage, the veil shielding your shame from the City of Rome and the gaze of your fiancé.

You took pleasure in the improperness of the hasty wedding, the lack of a sacrifice, the absence of your father; he had been present in your first wedding. The dress you had been forced into was the same too, only with some alterations done that you assumed was Acacius’ idea. Only his sick mind would lower the neckline do much.

You spat out vows, bile rising to your throat as Acacius dangerous, canine grin stayed through out his. He was clad in white once again, as the day he had been presented the laurel wreath crown for his bravery. The color made his tan skin shine under the dipping sun; he looked as some wretched god.

The wedding party would be celebrated the next day; perhaps another hasty attempt to procure an heir. You sat down once again in the carriage, realizing through your haze it wasn’t taking you to the Palace.

“What are you doing?” You snapped at him, as he directed the golden carriage. He didn’t answer. Despite being in sight of the whole City of Rome, you didn’t falter to cause a scene. “Where are you taking me?!”

His hands tightened around the reins and his jaw ticked; what could he do in front of Rome?

Placing a broad hand in your back, he pushed you close to him.

“I am taking my wife to my Villa to fuck a heir into her.” He whispered, smile still present for show. “Think carefully of what you are doing, my Empress, think in whose hands you’ll be later.”

He hushed you, and you almost hid your face as tears streaked down. You still waved at your people, it was improper not to.

The stars had set over the night sky as you arrived to the torch lit villa; It was huge, imposing as Acacius himself. You remembered your first wedding night; June, and Lucius had chuckled when he had to pretend kidnapping you as you went so willingly. You didn’t need to pretend now.

He hoisted you from the carriage into his arms, you didn’t fight, didn’t want to please him further by carrying out the proper ritual. Your feet clanked against the door frame, and he took long strides into the Villa.

It was as you had expected; decorated strategically in bronze statues and climbing flowers that veined through the white walls; you gazed at the pool as he carried you through marble pillars.

His chambers were just like you expected; a big white bed with blankets as reds as his war cape, a thick brown closet and some paintings adorning the white walls; War, Ares and…Hades and Persephone.

He dropped you into a Lectus couch; another wedding tradition. The mattress felt soft against your sore body. He dropped too, caging you in his body, the gold embellishments scratching your skin as he dipped his nose to your neck, inhaling your scent. As you took a deep breathe, you smelled now leather and pinewood; he took the decency not to use Lucius’ perfume.

He looked at you with blown out eyes, so dark and menacing that they didn’t even look brown. You looked back at him, gaze unfaltering, and studied his features for any remorse. The scar on his cheekbone, the gray and white streaking his dark hair, the way his full lips parted beneath his thick beard. For a second he looked vulnerable, weak to his desires and ambitious. You almost felt pity, before his imposing hand reached for the top of your neckline, and the arms that had fallen to your sides submissively shot up to embrace his warm hands.

“Not the dress, please.”

Your voice was so soft and eyes so pleading he felt his cock stir in his loins, he hesitated, the thought of ripping any trace of Lucius off of you far too tempting. The ring you had placed on your thumb glinted at him, mockingly.

“If I grant you this desire of yours,” He spoke gruffly, as if testing you. “will you do as I please?”

You doubted what he meant, he can’t get worse than what he has already done, you thought. Still, the knot tightened in your throat as you nodded. Humming, he opened the arm that caged you to the room and allowed you to slip out. Carefully you undid the laces, letting the silk spill down your legs. You had turned around to do so, and couldn't muster the strength to turn around once again, couldn't face his hungry eyes.

As if knowing, he stood behind you and you felt the familiar clink as he disrobed himself; it brought tears to your eyes, as if reminding you of what had happened the night before and you found yourself wishing you hadn't spend the day sleeping, perhaps that would have made the day go by slower.

Acacius brought you out of your thoughts by pressing his chest against your back; your nape pressed against the swell of his pecs, his hardening cock resting against your lower back, and his fingers begun tracing a line from your thigh to your hip. You stifled a sob.

"Shhh," He cooed, hand delicate against you. "Come on, little girl, let me take you."

The softness in his voice made you cry harder as he pulled you back onto the couch, laying you down like you were some kind of doll, but you felt more like a corpse.

"You look divine." He muttered under his breathe as his big, thick hand rubbed away any makeup that was applied to cover the marks he had left on your neck and chest. He looked delight by his crime. "Even better."

But you just let tears fall down your temples, ignoring his words and touch. He didn't like him; it irked him, he wanted you to fight, it made things more exciting.

"Just get over with it." You mumbled.

Without another word, he dipped his hand between your thighs, expecting to find resistance but you just hoisted your thighs apart. His eyebrows furrowed, still he begun circling your soft spot. It took little until wetness spread through your lips; you clenched your eyes and thinned your lips, head turning to the side.

A fire settled in your core, traveling from your core to every nerve of your body, forcing you to ball your toes and press your nails against the fabric of the couch. A whimper escaped your lips as he pressed two thick digits into your entrance, pumping them rhythmically. His hand forced your jaw apart, allowing him to hear the sounds coming from your throat as he begun to fasten his pace. Your moans accompanied the in and out of his thick fingers, becoming shorter and breathier and ah ah ah.

You felt the knot tightening, as the night before, core probably more sensitive due to the prior abuse. It was about t snap, and your nails suddenly dug into his bare shoulder before he pulled out his fingers with a sudden wet squelch. You found yourself whining at the loss, and embarrassment rose to your cheeks.

He pried your head to look at him, at his wide open mouth grin. From his elevated position, the hand that was previously on your core wrapped around your wrist, pulling it to his semi hard cock.

"Touch me." He demanded, your knuckles grazing the heat of his manhood. He saw your eyes, the unwillingness as you pursed your lips. "I won't be so gentle if you don't do it."

That made your heart skip a beat, so you extended your fingers and grasped it. It felt heavy and smooth, thumb slipping through a vein as you attempted to reciprocate how he had pumped himself previously. His eyelids fluttered and lips made an "O" shape, and his hands planted by the sides of your head. Once again, he was vulnerable. Thoughts ran through your head, thinking how you could hurt him, pinching his skin, punching his balls, tugging too hard, but it only caused you you tightening your grip, eliciting more moans out of his mouth. To your discontent, such pleasure made him more impatient to bury himself into you, so he batted away your hand to align himself into you.

"Wait!" You cried, palms pushing against his shoulder. Brown fell over you, slightly maddened gaze, a silent threat. "Please, give it a thought."

Brows furrowed over his big eyes, confused by your plea. It was stupid, even for you, to ask such thing from him. Gripping your hip, he began coercing his length into you. You shrieked.

"A thought?" He chuckled, halfway inside. "I have given this so many thoughts; thought about it the very own night Lucius left, thought about it every time you sat your perfect ass on that throne, thought about it every night I heard you little paddling feet waltz around the room; thought about barging in and fucking you still."

He bottomed, making your palms curl against him, clenching into his skin as your cunt did the same thing around his cock. Thighs wrapped around his waist as he filled you up, member hitting a soft spongy spot inside you and balls nestling right on top of your ass. He hissed as you lowly muttered, too much too much too much.

It took a deep breath from him to start thrusting into you, now it was too slow, allowing you to feel as his cock destroyed your swollen walls. He let his weight fall on top of you, cradling your head and slipping his arm around your waist.

"Never thought, though, you'd feel this good."

He panted into your ear like a rabid dog as his pace quickened, making your body follow his thrusts and sliding up and down the couch. The stinging on your core wasn't even pleasant; you felt used.

Was this your fate? to be impregnated and made to push out a heir? if it was, why couldn't it be Lucius? Why couldn't he be the one doing this? why had he postponed this so much? You were far from undesirable...

As if realizing you were escaping away, numbing your feelings, Acacius slowed down. You were surprised when he pulled out of you.

"You are making this hard." He ruffed, a childlike complain.

"I do not wish this." You explained softly.

He lifted himself from the couch, and you felt fear. His bulging muscles tensed at his shoulder blades, and he...bent down to pick his clothes?

You stood still, scared that any movement would call his attention as he left the room.

[missadangel]

⊱ AMOR MEUS AETERNUS ⊰

(Marcus Acacius x Ofc)

I. Sol Invictus

next chapter series masterlist

Chapter Summary:  You are an assistant to a costume designer on a busy movie set, where the pressure is high and the work is exhausting. One difficult evening during a lunar eclipse, you suddenly spot a man in a Roman military outfit materializing out of nowhere. Chapter Word Count: 14k (sorry but I had to introduce characters properly :)) authors note: It's a bit of a romantic-comedy-drama stuff because Marcus doesn't know that he traveled to 2025, LMAO poor baby (and you know I'm a hopeless romantic). I'll explain in more detail in chapters why he ended up here and what led him to meet the reader, but I'm avoiding spoilers. And the reader will help him get back to his time but accidentally travel to ancient Rome because of something; i can't talk more, lol. Wait for the episodes, please thank youuuu. if you wanna be tagged lemme know! Pairing: Marcus Acacius x Ofc!Reader (Her name is Rose, and her hair is dyed) Rating: Explicit, 18+ MDNI, Smut Warnings: Harsh, cold, grumpy Marcus, and the reader is NOT innocent a little bitchy, Lucilla is mean, Lucius is a jerk(but falls in love with reader), its Septimius Severus' era but Geta and Caracalla are the prince of Rome, time travel, modern-ancient era travels, falling in love, slow burn, rough sex, smut, sex, oral sex (both f&m receiving), all sex, dirty talk, gladiators, battle, war, violence, blood, ancient time language, fluffy, injury, forced marriage, arranged marriage, sexism, haters to lovers, first love, angst, vestal virgins, vestal priestesses, age gap; reader is 25 Marcus is 42, reincarnation my masterlist

....Chapter Theme.....

**Rome, 205 AD***

"Acacius! Acacius! Acacius!" 

"Saviour of Rome!" 

"Hail to the new general of Rome!" 

"Hail Acacius!"

The streets of Rome reverberated with fervent cheers, a tidal wave of voices rising in tribute to a singular figure: Marcus Justus Acacius. 

At forty years of age, Acacius had recently ascended to the prestigious title of general, his fame forged in the fires of battle and cemented by the decree of Emperor Severus. A man of unwavering loyalty and formidable skill, he had never tasted defeat, a fact that resonated deeply with the hearts of the Roman people.

As he emerged from the shadows of the grandiose triumphal arch, bedecked in gleaming white armor that caught the sun in a dazzling display, the crowd surged forward, intoxicated by their adoration. The very air around him crackled with electricity, a palpable sense of reverence enveloping the scene. 

For the citizens, he stood as a titan, almost a god among men—a triumphant commander, a stalwart soldier, an indomitable leader whose very presence instilled terror in the hearts of enemies. Joy radiated from the crowd, their faces alive with hope and gratitude, caught in the spell of the day's celebration.

High atop the temple of Jupiter, Emperor Severus basked in the same jubilant spirit, joined by the Roman princes, Geta and Caracalla, his twin sons, all eagerly awaiting Acacius's arrival. Laughter and cheer rang out like festive bells, painting a tableau of optimism for the future.

Yet amidst the fervor and celebration, one heart was not aligned with the jubilant chorus. 

Marcus Justus Acacius wrestled with a storm of unsettling emotions. While the victory was undeniably sweet for Rome, a bitter taste lingered on his tongue. 

Inside, he simmered with frustration and discontent. Shadows clouded his thoughts; the thrill of his triumph felt hollow. He couldn’t escape the dark fantasy that had taken root in his heart—a yearning for death, an echo of despair that whispered sweetly of peace. 

He envisioned his lifeless body passing beneath the triumphal arch, believing it might convey a deeper significance than his living presence ever could.

But that notion, in this moment, felt like a cruel mirage in an unforgiving desert. What was left for him now but emptiness, a void peering back at the mask he wore for the thrumming, joyous masses?

The sword’s brutal strikes, the faint scratches from arrows, the battle scars etched upon his skin—each bruise and cut, still glistening with crimson remnants, tells a tale of relentless struggle. These visible wounds bear testament to his long, agonizing wait and evoke the depth of his longing for eternal rest.

Yet, fate has thwarted him once more. 

He found himself back in this city, a paradox of breathtaking beauty that thrived, yet concealed a well of sorrow beneath its surface. He had returned as a harbinger of victory, bringing new territories and a flicker of hope, but for himself, there was only void. He was a soldier, defined purely by duty, reduced to the relentless cycle of war and struggle.

Tomorrow would bring the same grind, as it always did. Day after day, he would rise to the call of arms, trapped in this existence until his weary soul finally departed from its mortal shell. Until that fateful moment, he walked as a living ghost, haunted and hollow. 

The pain of loss had transformed him, for it had been this way since the day he lost the one he loved most dearly, and perhaps it would always remain so. Deep down, he might have yearned for oblivion more than his fiercest enemies ever could. Yet, the fires of his fighting spirit, relentless and unyielding, refused to dim.   

It felt as though he was cursed, damned, ensnared by divine forces that reveled in his struggle — a pawn in a game that pit him against his own fate. Mars, the god of war, must have wielded his destiny with cruel hands, stripping away his heart and filling the gaping void left in its place with a relentless tide of pain, turmoil, and unquenchable rage.

The following day, as the resonant echoes of the Colosseum games, held in his honor, continued to reverberate through the streets, Marcus found himself immersed in the elegant atmosphere of the evening banquet. The air was thick with the intoxicating aroma of spiced wine and savory roasts, yet he felt like an outsider, trapped in a performance he neither wanted nor understood. Banquets and grand gatherings had never been his domain; he was an island amidst a sea of laughter and merriment.

His social connections were tenuous at best—a woman who was his father's second wife and his half-brother shared their deceased father's vast villa. He remained a mere shadow in their presence, offering nothing of himself except the occasional nod. Only his brother, Julius, his father's son from a second marriage, was a solitary beacon of understanding in Marcus's otherwise lonely existence.

Rumors clung to him like ivy on crumbling stone, painting him as a frigid, soulless warrior. The tale of his coldness often traced back to the haunting loss of his mother in childhood, yet the truth lay deeper, buried beneath layers of unspoken grief.

"General Acacius," a voice rang out, cutting through the revelry. Severus approached him, the gleeful cheers of the crowd fading into the background as he placed a hand on Marcus's shoulder.

“Emperor Severus," Marcus replied, straightening to salute, the laurel crown still uncomfortably perched upon his brow—an ornament he detested.

"I hear the medicus has been tending to your wounds. You owe it to yourself to find rest now; no new wars loom on the horizon. Our foes cower in fear before the prowess of our expansive territories, all thanks to you, my glorious commander,” Severus proclaimed, his expectant smile radiating insincerity.

Marcus remained a stone wall, responding only with a slight nod. Nearby, the young princes Geta and Caracalla watched him, their expressions a blend of awe and envy, their ambivalence swirling around him like shadows.

“While you recover, I need you to contemplate another matter,” Severus continued, his tone shifting with purpose, eyes flicking toward the animated guests. “You’ve earned the title of general, and it is imperative that you embody that honor. I envision a worthy marriage for you—one that reflects your esteemed status.”

The tension in Marcus’s features tightened, his gaze unwaveringly fixed on the emperor. “I intend to arrange a union for you with a woman deserving of a general’s stature. I have my sights set on Lady Octavia, the eldest daughter of Consul Sextus. Her family traces an illustrious lineage among the Roman patricians, steeped in history and prestige. And I daresay they boast a legacy known for producing fruitful descendants,” he added with a hint of jest.

Marcus’s eyes, cold and unyielding, settled upon the beautiful, charming woman beside the senator, her allure seemingly reduced to mere decoration. 

He felt nothing.

The wine glass nestled in his hand suddenly felt far more inviting than any prospect of romance. "What say you?” Severus pressed, confidence bleeding through his words.

“I am honored, Your Highness,” Marcus responded, his voice steady yet underscored with reluctance.

“Should I take that as a yes?”

“With all my heart, no.”

Severus’s brow furrowed, caught in a limbo between amusement and frustration. “You’ve reached this age without a wife. If not now, when? Or is your heart entangled elsewhere?”

Marcus shook his head, the familiarity of this conversation wrapping around him like a well-worn cloak. There was comfort in the predictability. “I am a soldier, eager for the next battle. I would never want to make Senator Sextus’s beloved daughter a widow. Lady Octavia deserves a far richer union than I could offer.”

Severus exhaled slowly, the weight of the moment pressing heavily upon them. “Or are the rumors true? Is your heart still bound by grief?”

Then he saw a flicker in Marcus's eyes, a brief spark of something unnameable, before the mask fell back into place. “What can I say? People will always talk. As I said, I have no such intentions, nor will I. My duty lies with serving Rome, you, and your sons. That is my happiness.”

Severus drew a troubled breath, disappointment washing over his features. “I hadn’t expected such a sharp rebuttal. You remain a steadfast soldier; that much is clear.” He leaned in closer and lowered his voice. “What about Lucilla? I thought there was some chemistry brewing between you two. Although she is no longer young enough for childbearing, that’s why I didn’t suggest her. Would you hesitate to marry her simply because she was the lover of your former commander? Surely, she would choose you as her protector; after all, she shows weakness for soldiers, I presume.”

“I would never allow such thoughts to bloom regarding Lady Lucilla, nor would I presume,” Marcus’s tone cut through the air, sharper than the gladius resting at his side.

Severus, sensing the unyielding edge in Marcus's voice, took a measured sip of his wine, the edges of his mouth curling into a sardonic smile. “Very well, so be it. As my glorious and modest general wishes, I shall not press you further on the matter.”

Marcus dipped his head in gratitude, a flicker of relief breaking through his hardened demeanor. “I appreciate your understanding, Your Highness.”

One night, Acacius, the new general of Rome, sat alone in his barracks headquarters, trying to decide whom to choose as his second in command. His restless mind, always in motion, could not bear the silence that surrounded him. It was almost unheard of for a war-weary general to return to the barracks so soon after a battle to devote himself to the drudgery of duty. In fact, it was rare, perhaps unprecedented. It was astonishing that he would limit himself to mundane duties when he could have had anything he wanted. He could have spent the evening with any number of women from the pleasure houses, or ordered his men to bring them to him, but he didn't, didn't even think about it. This bizarre behaviour led to gossip among the soldiers in the barracks, many of whom could not believe it. After all, what man, especially an unmarried, handsome general, would do such a thing? It might have sparked rumours that he preferred men to women, were it not for an earlier event that had already dispelled such notions.

Suddenly, a voice shattered the stillness outside, echoing through the dimly lit barracks. At this late hour, only a handful of soldiers remained, their slumber deep and untroubled. When Acacius noticed the lack of sentinels, an uneasy instinct stirred within him, compelling him to grasp the hilt of his sword. His instincts, finely tuned by years of combat, alerted him to danger just as a dark figure leaped from the rooftop, descending like a shadow. In a swift motion, he overpowered the masked attacker, enveloped in a black robe that concealed their identity. But Acacius was not alone in facing danger; from the depths of the night, more cloaked figures emerged, their intentions as sinister as the darkness that surrounded them, all eager to bring the general down.

It was a very despicable attack, there were about six of them and they chose the darkest hour of the night. A group obviously with military training who had come specifically to kill him. He wouldn't have had a hard time fighting against them if he hadn't been so tired. But he still managed to overpower four of them with skill and agility, with accurate sharp blows and lethal cuts. 

After a long resistance his strength began to fail and he received a cut on his shoulder and one of them managed to knock him down. But even on the ground he cut another one. Then the last one, in a split-second after his attack, aimed for Marcus' chest and stabbed him with the knife he drew with his other hand. Marcus was fast, he grabbed his hand first with one hand but the knife was going deeper, piercing his armor and then the skin and strong pectoral muscle just below it.

He gasped, moaned, groaned with sharp pain, with rage. 

With the instinct of survival he grabbed the attackers knife, this time with both hands, but in that moment he understood.

When the sharp metal pierced his ribs and reached his heart, when he felt the wave of blood rushing to his throat.

Even in that state he killed his attacker with a short knife, which he found by groping on the ground with his other hand.

But it was too late.

He coughed, followed by a bloody eruption from his mouth. The blood from the cut on his chest didn't stop, it was like a river.

But it was a relief, like a steady release, a fleeting moment of freedom—almost. The very moment he had long anticipated had finally arrived.

So this is what death feels like, he pondered, gazing up at the half-blackened moon suspended in the inky dark sky. The pain had been unbearable; it clawed at his insides with merciless intensity. Yet, in a strange twist of fate, he felt nothing as his body surrendered to its finality. His ears fell silent, and a profound numbness enveloped him. The pain had vanished.

A blink of an eye.

Darkness.

Another blink.

And suddenly, he felt again.

How could this happen? What did it mean? 

Then he saw it—the familiar visage of someone he hadn’t encountered in ages.

Maximus.

A serene smile graced his lips, reminiscent of days long past.

“True. Elysium. I must have ascended there,” he thought.

 Maximus shook his head, as if he had heard the silent longing behind his words.

“Not yet, brother,” he whispered, his voice gentle yet firm. “Your time has not yet come.”

Marcus frowned, confusion etching lines across his brow. “But why?” 

Maximus’s expression shifted, dimming like a candle flickering in the wind. “Or have you forgotten your prayer, your supplication?”

The depths of confusion deepened within Marcus. “My prayer…” he murmured, trying to grasp the fading memory.

“Your prayer was answered, child.”

That voice—it was unlike anything he had encountered.

It wasn't Maximus, he was now gone at his sight.

The sound that transcended humanity; it could not be earthborn or mortal. It was an ethereal quality, a melodic and divine sound that ignited every nerve in his body, powerful enough to raise goosebumps and destructive enough to permeate every cell of his being. The tone held both confusion and promise, intertwining hope and fear.

Suddenly, light began to pour forth around him, casting everything in a radiant glow, while a gentle wind kissed his face. 

Another blink of an eye.

His body felt as though it were being drawn forward, tethered to the swift pull of an invisible chariot.

But instead of pain, there was only the caressing touch of the wind.

Then another blink.

He found himself still lying on the ground, and once again, he raised his gaze to the moon, a celestial sentinel in the dark sky. This time, it was shrouded in total darkness, its edges enveloped in a halo of brilliant white light. As though awakening from a deep slumber, his senses returned in a rush; first, he felt his heart start beating once more, as if claws that had pierced him were now pulled away. Then the warm breeze danced over his skin, breathing life back into him. Control of his body surged back.

With disbelief coursing through him, he turned his head. What he saw was astonishing. Light flooded the landscape, blinding in its intensity—so much that the stars themselves seemed to vanish against its brilliance. He was taken aback when he stood up and touched his own body. His armor had tears where cuts had been, yet there was no blood—no trace of his former suffering. He could breathe easily, and a newfound strength surged through him, more potent than he’d ever known.

He was miraculously, completely healed.

It felt like…

Rebirth.

It should have been a miracle, a divine blessing. Yet he wrestled with surprise and disbelief, knowing he had seldom uttered even a single prayer in his life. Anger boiled within him for the gods; why should they reward him after all?

Was this reprieve the reason he couldn't set foot in Elysium?

How had his prayer been answered then?

It was all so strange. The Pantheon loomed nearby; some of the structures were familiar while others stood oddly illuminated, foreign and surreal.

Perhaps this was a realm of torment.

Just then, something occurred that cemented his apprehension.

He heard footsteps—soft yet deliberate—approaching from behind, followed by a feminine voice that sliced through the air with unexpected sharpness.

When he turned, disappointment washed over him like a cold wave. 

This was not what he had envisioned. This was not his prayer.

Surely, this must be a punishment.

Before him stood a woman dressed in garments unlike anything he had seen before. Anger flared within him again as he noted the disdainful grimace on the woman's face; she hissed a phrase that was foreign to his ears. 

“What the fuck?” the woman exclaimed, her tone dripping with contempt.

Yes, he was undeniably trapped in a place of torment, and he realized with growing dread that his suffering was only just beginning.

***Italy, Rome, 2025***

Earlier that day.

“Shit! Shit! Shit!” The words tumbled from your lips as panic washed over you, eyes zeroing in on the cruelly bright numbers glowing on the clock: 7:45. You sprang out of bed like a rocket, hastily shedding your pajamas and tossing them behind you, landing who-knows-where in the fray of your cluttered room. Clothes lay in chaotic heaps, sketches of costumes scattered like fallen leaves, remnants of your frenzied creative process. You had been drowning in work on the movie set, and though you promised yourself time and again to clean up, that day didn't afford you a moment to spare. With a hasty comb through your tousled hair, you bolted for the door.

But just as you reached the door, you realized you had forgotten your bag. You backtracked, grabbed it, and hurried out again. In your rush, you slammed your sister's door twice to wake her. “Lizzie! Hurry up, or you’ll be late for school!” 

The sound of a scientific discussion filled the air, coming from either the TV or her laptop: "Time is characterized as a motion; however, it is fundamentally impossible to traverse backward. Moreover, to progress forward necessitates the existence of a specific negative mathematical function. Nevertheless, from a mathematical standpoint, there is no inherent rationale preventing such movement. This phenomenon illustrates the complexities associated with the concept of time as described in Einstein’s theory…"

“Ugh, not this again,” you muttered under your breath. Your sister was a total science fiction junkie and often had those brainy shows on first thing in the morning. 

“Hey, nerd! Turn that off and get to breakfast, now!” you called out. 

Moments later, she emerged, phone in hand, video chatting with a friend. “Yeah, it’s been a crazy day,” she yawned, plopping down at the table. You rolled your eyes at her. Worst of all was having both a science geek sister and a best friend who was just as obsessed. 

“Every damn morning...” you grumbled while munching on your toast. 

She eyed the nearly burnt toast you’d made and poked it with her finger. “I’d better eat at school,” she remarked.  

You had to agree; you never quite mastered the art of cooking. The more skilled you became at drawing and sewing, the worse you were in the kitchen. It was almost tragic that you couldn't even toast a simple piece of bread. 

“Sorry, I was in a rush, honey,” you replied apologetically. 

“You can’t give a proper toast, even when you’re not in a rush,” she replied with a smirk. “The real issue is that you just can’t let things go.”  

“Hey, how about being a little nicer to your sister?” you said, trying to defend yourself.

“But you’ve been seriously cruel to this poor bread!” she teased, pretending to listen to it. “What’s that?” she joked, acting like she was having a conversation with the toast. “It says it’s going to sue you!”  

You narrowed your eyes and grabbed the tongs, playfully pointing them at her. “If you want to avoid the same burnt fate, you should run to school now!” 

She held his hands up in mock surrender. “I’m teleporting!” she declared, leaping to her feet, snatching her bag, and sprinting out the door, making you giggle as you followed her. 

You took another tentative bite of the almost burned toast and scrunched your face, nudging it away. “Oh man, the next time I walk into the kitchen, it’ll just be to tackle the dishes,” you joked, embracing your cooking woes with a laugh.

As you drove with a mouthful of croissant, you tuned into the radio, soon catching the latest world news.

“On this sunny spring day in Rome, the city is buzzing with life once again, full of energy and charm. This magnificent, romantic city never truly sleeps and is always teeming with tourists.”

You flipped to another channel.

“Tonight, around 1 AM, there’s an exciting celestial event on the horizon. Known scientifically as the ‘Total Lunar Eclipse’ and popularly nicknamed the ‘Blood Moon,’ this event will be visible from Italy and other parts of Europe. Unfortunately, folks in North and South America and Eastern Europe won’t get a glimpse.”

“Just what we need—more tourists,” you muttered under your breath. 

Historic sites were already packed to the brim, a reality you faced almost daily. While most filming typically took place away from the city, a brief scene was scheduled to be shot near the Pantheon, drawing you back for three consecutive days. Permission to film at this busy location had only been granted by the Ministry of Culture after 6 PM, adding a layer of tension to the crew’s dynamic. Everyone was eager to wrap up filming quickly over those three days, leaving you with some errands to tackle before heading back in the evening.

Your first stop? The hospital. 

Yes, the hospital. Your father had been in a coma for ten years following an accident—the same tragic event that had taken your mother. You visited him every day. Your family had moved from the States to Italy when you were just five, and while you adapted to the language and culture fairly quickly, the accident forced you into a dual role, needing to be both a mother and father to your younger sister.

As you pulled up to the hospital, you checked your watch—only thirty minutes left until you had to head to the set. You placed the fresh flowers you had picked up from the florist into a vase in your father’s room and began your usual update about your day. Although talking to someone who couldn’t hear you felt a bit silly, it brought you comfort. When Givorni, a member of the hospital board who knew your father, stepped into the room, he brought unsettling news.

“Look, honey, I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but it’s been over ten years now. The head doctor mentioned that the chances of him waking up are getting slimmer, and soon, you may have to make a tough decision.”

How could you let him go, your father? You stuck to your resolve, as you had every time the doctors suggested there was no hope. You wouldn’t pull the plug on him. Maybe one day he would wake up—you held onto that hope. But, of course, these decisions came at a price; paying for his hospitalization meant you had to work more than one job.

You threw yourself into work, juggling multiple jobs to keep afloat. The design gigs you found online were mostly project-based—some involved theater costumes, others were special designs for wealthy families, and a few focused on accessory design. Yet, nothing compared to working on a film set. Despite the exhaustion, the pay was decent, and you gained invaluable lessons under the head designer, essential for your career advancement. You knew that hard work was necessary to eventually rise to the role of head designer or costume supervisor.

On set, you forged strong connections with others, often reuniting for films or documentaries with similar themes. Another perk of being on set was the chance to mingle with famous actors and actresses. They weren’t always what they seemed; some were charming in front of the camera but difficult behind the scenes, while others proved surprisingly kind. However, some would overstep and forget your role as a costume designer.

You still recall that time when an actress had you rush out in the rain to grab her some coffee, only to scold you because it had gotten cold by the time you brought it to her.

Cruel bitch.

Despite being part of the cast, you chose not to watch the film afterward out of sheer annoyance.

During a break before the night scene, the other girls on set invited you to lunch. Although the food provided on set was good, space was tight, and meals were only served at 6 PM before filming resumed. So, you were relieved when they suggested stepping outside for some junk food. As you exited the trailer, you found yourself surrounded by tourists, eagerly snapping photos with their phones, hoping to catch a glimpse of their favorite stars. The security team was struggling to manage the crowd, a daunting challenge that would only ramp up over the next three days—all for a mere ten minutes of footage.

“Girls, check that out!” One of them pointed to a shop on the way back from lunch, its neon sign flashing: palm reading, tarot reading - book your session today.

Love, Destiny, Fate.

“What do you think? Should we try a tarot reading?” she asked, her tone pleading.

You rolled your eyes. “Come on, guys, these things are a joke; they don’t really do anything.”

To your annoyance, they insisted. 

“Let’s just do it for fun, please!” 

“Yeah, come on! Just this once!” 

You had always been a skeptic about such superstitions, especially after the tragic loss of your parents and your sister's autism diagnosis following that incident. You had more than enough reasons to doubt fate, luck, or even love.

As the girls eagerly paid for their tarot readings—a decision you thought was a complete waste of money—you decided to just watch. But eventually, their relentless begging wore you down, and you agreed to join them so they wouldn’t be disappointed.

When it was your turn, the fortune teller—a woman dressed in an eclectic manner—shuffled the cards and asked you to draw a few. As she laid them out in a specific spread, her expression changed immediately. “Oh dear, you’ve been feeling quite overwhelmed and drained,” she began. She turned over another card. “You may come off as a tough nut, but deep down, you really want to help others.” Then she revealed a third card. “Hmm, it seems like success is on the horizon. You’re working hard, and soon you’ll start to see the fruits of your labor.”

“I hope so,” you muttered.

When she flipped the next card, her eyes sparkled. “Ah, there’s a man here. He’ll enter your life in a way that he’ll soon become your whole world.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “Oh, yeah, right,” you scoffed.

“Seriously, trust me,” she insisted.

“That sounds nice,” one of the girls said eagerly.

“What’s he like?” another chimed in, excitement in her voice.

“Come on, girls,” you sighed in exasperation.

The fortune teller frowned. “Love is in the cards, okay? Let’s just enjoy this.”

Rolling your eyes again, you tried to keep your cool as frustration bubbled inside you.

She continued, flipping over another card. “Look here! Again, it’s all about this guy! Trust me, he’ll settle right in the center of your heart!”

"Woooo!"

“Oh, how lucky you are!” the girls exclaimed.

As your irritation peaked, you struggled to maintain your composure.

The woman pressed on, “This man is...,” she hesitated, as if struggling with a foreign language. “from...,” she raised an eyebrow, “the past.”

“From the what, past?” you asked, intrigued despite yourself.

“Oh, it must be your ex or something,” one of the girls guessed.

"I sure hope not," you grunted.

“Maybe, but it’s a new kind of love,” the fortune teller hesitated, seeming surprised by something.

“What nonsense is this?” you pouted, pursing your lips.

Seemingly annoyed, she replied, “My insights are always spot on, sweetheart.”

Despite your skepticism, you waited as she looked at the last card. “Ah, you’ll have to make a choice,” she said, her tone suddenly serious. “You can either stay with him, or you won’t.”

Okay, that was enough.

“Again with the love nonsense? Don’t you see anything about my career?” you scoffed.

“I’m just interpreting the cards you drew, dear,” she said defensively.

You sighed and stood up. “I don’t need love. I don’t need a man; I need money.”

As the shoot finally wrapped up, it was time to tidy up for the crew, and you found yourself chatting with the girls about tarot readings while you worked. They kept inquiring about your past relationships, but you had none to share. Aside from a brief fling in high school, you hadn't been in a serious relationship. You didn’t want to bring up that one encounter, which had ended in frustration. The guy who left you at the altar would occasionally show up at your door drunk, and you’d promptly kick him out. End of story.

A man from your past, but a new love?

What the hell?

That seemed as impossible as the sun rising in the west.

Once all your tasks were complete, exhaustion hit you, and heading home felt like an uphill battle. You made your way through security to your buddy Leo. “Evening went off without a hitch, huh?” you asked.

“Yeah, just had to deal with a few overzealous fans tonight, but now that our big star's gone, they won’t be coming back,” he replied, propping his feet up on the opposite chair while sipping his beer. “Want some?”

“No, thanks. No moonlight tonight?” you quizzed.

“Didn't you hear there’s an eclipse?” 

“Eclipse?” 

“Yep, if you look carefully, you can see it. Guess you’ve been too busy to catch the news.”

Rolling your eyes, you replied, “Story of my life.” Then you remembered that morning when you first heard about it on the radio.

You walked a bit further outside, fiddling with your phone's camera settings to capture a glimpse of the eclipse. As you focused on the moon being gradually engulfed by the Earth’s shadow, you heard murmurs behind you. Turning toward the bushes, you spotted three girls. “What’s going on? Who are you?” you asked.

They jumped to their feet, looking nervous and frightened.

“Ah, I see, you’re fans too, huh? You must’ve snuck in; good job, Leo,” you muttered. “Alright, girls, time to head out. Our big star has left. You really think he’s just hanging around in a trailer or something? He’s off at a hotel.”

Disappointed, they exchanged glances.

“Which hotel is he at?” one of them asked, grinning.

You sighed and grabbed her arm. “Move! Get out of here, fast!”

After escorting the girls to Leo and the security team, you made your way back to the trailer, where a nightmare awaited you. It was an absolute mess—fabrics and materials were strewn everywhere, and scattered papers littered the floor. Who had created this chaos?

When you asked one of your colleagues, he told you it was the props manager and his team who had left the mess behind. They must have mistaken the design trailer for another. Some papers looked ancient, clearly part of a realistic set design, with a few appearing to be genuine antiques. Recognizing they would be used as props, you took them over to the other trailer. Just as you were about to leave, a sudden gust of wind blew one of the papers from your hands, and as you bent to retrieve it, a strange sensation washed over you.

“Whoa.”

What was that odd feeling?

You carefully picked up the scrolls and placed them into the box, something caught your eye. Drawn to the writing, you felt an inexplicable familiarity, as though you had encountered it before. A wave of emotion washed over you, and your eyes began to well up. But why were you feeling this way?

The script was in Latin—an old form, likely dating back to ancient Roman times. Curiosity sparked within you. What could it possibly say? With no one around, you reasoned that there was no harm in taking a closer look.

You fished your phone out of your pocket and opened the language translation app you had downloaded earlier, eager to decipher the text. Aiming the camera at the writing, you waited patiently. After a few moments, the app began to translate, though the phrases came through fragmented.

“Please... accept my sacrifice... I offer you..." It was all pieces meant nothing but then you realized that sentence: "If that person is engulfed in distress or peril, grant him the chance to rise to another life, another time…"

Another what? Life? Time?

“What on earth is this?” you muttered to yourself, realizing that the translation seemed nonsensical. “Stupid app.”

Suddenly, hearing footsteps approach, you panicked and accidentally tore the edge of the paper.

“No, no, no, no, no!”

Frantically, you tucked it into the back pocket of your shorts. Better to hide it than risk being caught holding it.

“What are you doing here?” the props manager snapped, glaring at you. His expression shifted to shock when he noticed the decor papers you had just brought in. “Hey, you didn’t mess with these, did you? Some are authentic; we barely got permission from the collectors' family, and they need to be delivered the day after tomorrow.”

“Are they real ones?” you asked, pretending to be innocent.

“Yes! Please don’t tell anyone—the director must have lost his mind. He asked me to use the authentic ones as props. We had no time to find replicas. You didn’t touch them, did you?”

You nodded. “No, of course not,” you lied. You had no idea why you’d even done that. “But shouldn’t these be in a museum or something?”

“No, they’re antiques, imported specially from a private collection.”

And now you’d ripped one of them.

You were really in hot water. Exiting the trailer, you returned to yours. When you pulled out the antique—likely priceless—that you had stuffed in your pocket, you felt a wave of dread.

It was crumpled and had a torn edge, but fortunately, the writing remained intact, albeit looking a mess.

But it wasn’t entirely your fault.

Why had they sent the wrong trailer?

Oh right. Wrong trailer.

Couldn’t the crew member who dropped it off have mixed it up somewhere?

Yeah, that was a reasonable thought.

At least they could believe that—until you fixed it.

You really should have contacted your friend Katie, the antiquities expert at the General Directorate of Museums, right away.

It was just Latin script on the paper with bullshit, but that didn’t change the fact that it was an invaluable artifact.

You were so fucked.

The rest of the night unfortunately took a turn for the worse after that call came in. The antique paper you had accidentally torn was missing, and everyone was turning the place upside down looking for it. But how could you admit that? Confessing it could get you fired, and it didn’t really matter that it was someone else's family heirloom. After all, it wasn't your fault. It was all the mistake of whoever had brought it to the trailer in the first place.

You tried to reassure yourself as you pretended to help with the search. While you were busy suppressing your guilt, you suddenly heard a sound. But there was no one in sight—was it one of those girls again?

“Oh, I’m really tired. Whoever you are, just show yourself now,” you called out as you walked forward. The eclipse had hidden the moonlight, plunging everything into darkness. The only illumination came from the distant lights of some buildings ahead, but it was still shadowy where you stood. As you approached to the sound, you caught sight of a shadowy figure with back turned, draped in a long black cloth.

A strange feeling washed over you. You crept closer, and the odd sensation intensified. 

It was a man—yes, definitely a man—well-built, in a black robe, holding… a sword?

Your eyes widened in shock. 

“What the fuck?"

He turned to face you, and the first thing you felt was a perplexing déjà vu, as if you knew him but couldn’t place him. His intense gaze and striking features seemed familiar, yet you couldn’t put your finger on it. And those clothes… 

"Who the fuck are you?” 

Wait a minute.

This wasn’t your first encounter with someone like him. He had to be one of those extras—probably overworked and known for causing trouble on set. He must not have bothered to change out of his costume and was relishing this unexpected role.

“Look, man, I don’t want any trouble, but I really need you to take off that costume. I’m responsible for the outfits, and if anything happens to it, my paycheck will take a hit, okay? Didn’t anyone give you a heads-up?” You stepped closer, but he just stood there, staring at you like a statue.

Taking a closer look, you noticed the armor beneath his robe was unlike anything you’d ever seen on set. Had they started filming something new without you? That couldn’t be right—or worse, what if he had stolen it? Wonderful. You reached out to inspect it further, but in an instant, he grabbed your wrist, spun you around, and shoved you away like you were nothing.

“Aaaah!” You winced, clutching your sore wrist and glaring at him in frustration. “Are you out of your mind? Get that costume off now! Can’t you hear me? Are you deaf or something?” 

He sighed, casually wiping his sword with the hem of his robe and sheathing it as if he did it every day. He performed the action with such style that even a seasoned actor might be impressed.

“I see you’re really into character. Nice job!” you said with a hint of sarcasm. “But as I said, I need you to take it off. Now.”

“What kind of shameless woman are you to demand that I undress?” 

What the hell was that? His accent, thick and unfamiliar, rolled off his tongue in a way you had never encountered. It was as if a whisper from another age echoed through each word he spoke.

“Undressing? Oh God, what kind of maniac are you?” You sighed. “This is your last warning; I’ll call security.”

He frowned, as if hearing the term for the first time. “Security…” he muttered to himself, clearly annoyed.

Just then, you heard someone call your name. Turning around, you spotted Leo and hurried over to him, grabbing his arm. “Leo, that guy seems either like a maniac or he’s drunk. I think he might be an extra, but he could also be an intruder.”

Leo looked just as taken aback as you were. “I’ve never seen him before. Is that a sword?”

“It’s probably fake,” you muttered.

The man glared, brandishing his sword as he pointed at you. "You two, tell me where I am."

“Yeah, he’s definitely drunk,” you whispered to Leo. 

Leo played it cool. “Listen, man, I need you to come with me right now. I need to figure out why you broke into the film set.”

“The film… set...” he repeated to himself in confusion.

“Why is he acting like he’s never heard of it?” Leo asked you, both of you now staring at him nervously.

“I told you he’s crazy or maybe psycho. Do you think he could have escaped from a mental hospital or something?”

“Let’s hope not. But what would he be doing here? If I could get the cuffs on him without freaking him out, we could call the police.”

“Great plan, go for it,” you urged, giving him a gentle nudge to encourage action.

As Leo pulled the handcuffs from his waistband, the strange man eyed him suspiciously, as if he posed a threat. “I’m going to put these on you now, alright?” 

The man's face remained expressionless, cold yet menacing.  “And what if I refuse?” 

You gulped. “What are you doing, mister? He’s the security guard—don’t make this any harder.” 

“You asked for this,” Leo said angrily, pulling out his baton. 

You were taken aback when the man tightened his grip on his sword in response as Leo stepped closer. 

“Listen, we all know that sword’s fake—”

Out of nowhere, he sliced through Leo’s baton with a swift, precise motion.

You froze for a moment, unable to process what had just happened.

Leo turned on his heels and bolted. “Police! I’ll call the police!” 

“Where do you think you’re going? Wait for me!” you shouted in panic but a hand suddenly grabbed your arm. The man’s sword was still clutched in his grip, and you couldn’t help but notice the red stains on it. Could it be b-blood, real blood? Fear began to creep in, and you started to tremble. 

“Look, please don’t hurt me! I’m really sorry for calling you crazy, a psycho, and a maniac. I shouldn’t have said that. I’m begging you, forgive me!” you said, almost sobbing.

"I assure you that I have no intention of causing any harm. I need to uncover the truth of my surroundings. Please, help me understand where I am, what is this place?"

What the hell? It was like he’d lost his memory or something or his mind. 

“What do you mean?” you asked, trying to come up with a way to wriggle free. 

"I find myself in a familiar location; however, the surrounding environment appears to have undergone significant changes."

You leaned closer to him. “Are you sure you’re not just drunk?” 

You swallowed hard as he shot you an angry glance. 

“There he is!” 

“Let her go now!” 

Leo and the others had arrived, guns aimed and ready. 

“I suggest you surrender, sir. Just do as they say, and they’ll help you. If you really can't remember where you came from, they can sort it out,” you urged him, hoping to de-escalate the situation. 

“Put down your sword now,” Leo commanded. 

“They'll help me, you say?” the man muttered, his gaze fixed on them. 

This might be your best chance to get him to back down. “Yes, definitely. The police will help you,” you replied, offering him a reassuring smile. 

“Police,” he repeated, a flicker of confusion crossing his face.

He was behaving like a little kid, learning new words by repeating them.

“I will release this woman,” he stated, finally sheathing his sword. Everyone took a deep breath.

“He'll surrender,” you relayed to your friends, then turned back to the man. “But I need to take your sword back to where you got it.” 

“The gladius is mine.” His tone was resolute, as if the sword had belonged to him for years. 

However, if he had stolen it from the prop crew, you could land yourself in a heap of trouble, far worse than the mess you’d made with the paper. 

“But it poses a danger to them. If they can’t trust you, they can’t help you. So, please hand me the sword,” you insisted. 

He paused, contemplating your words, then took the sword scabbard from his waist and looked at you sternly before handing it to you. “Promise me you’ll protect this with your life.”

You rolled your eyes, exasperated. “What is this? Are we filming a movie or something?” 

He grabbed your arm and shook you. “Promise me.” 

As soon as you picked it up, you staggered under its weight. It was a real sword indeed. With a sigh, you relented. “Okay, okay, I promise.” 

As he relinquished the sword as if it were the most precious thing to him, Leo and the others looked on, intrigued, surprised. 

He must’ve truly lost his mind or something. Watching him leave with the security guards, you couldn’t shake a sense of curiosity about what he’d been through. After they were gone, people who had heard the commotion on the film set gathered around you. This was far more interesting than searching the area for antique parchment, and they listened in fascination as you recounted the bizarre encounter.

As the security guards urged Marcus to speak, his gaze was fixed on the screens in the security room. He was mesmerized by the footage playing out before him. What he saw astonished him—moving images flickering in small boxes, an experience he had never imagined and could never have anticipated.

“Hey, look up here!” Leo snapped his fingers, trying to regain Marcus's attention. “What kind of freak are you? Don’t you have any ID or something on you?”

Marcus didn’t even seem to register the question; he was too transfixed on the screens. Leo took a deep breath, his anxiety bubbling over. “Listen, mate, for us to help you, you need to spill the beans. What were you doing on set? How did you manage to sneak in? And where did you get those clothes and that sword? You know it’s illegal to carry a real sword in this country, right?”

Just then, he spotted you on one of the monitors. The footage showed you walking out the outer door, leaving the premises.

“That woman,” Marcus murmured, “that woman said you would help me, and I gave her my sword in return.” 'She promised," he thought.

“Alright, we’re trying to help you, but you have to answer my questions,” Leo insisted.

“Tell me how to reach there,” Marcus urged, pointing at the screen. “Is that another life? I need to go there.”

Leo and the other guards exchanged glances, bewildered. “What did you just say? Another life? Come on, what kind of joke is this? ‘There’ is right outside, you fool!”

Suddenly, Marcus sprang to his feet, and Leo stepped in front of him, blocking his path. “Hey, you’re not going anywhere until the police get here!”

With a roll of his eyes, Marcus swiftly grabbed Leo and shoved him aside, causing the guards to stumble into one another in the chaos. 

“Hey! Stop!” they shouted after him as he dashed away.

You were examining the sword in your hand as you stepped off the set and into the parking lot toward your car. It was undeniably real, yet it looked so pristine. Perhaps the scabbard had been restored; its craftsmanship clearly reflected a lot of effort. You had seen replicas before, but this one was strikingly accurate, almost like a genuine ancient artifact.

However, according to the set crew, the sword wasn’t part of the props. You were supposed to take it to the museum tomorrow—maybe they would decide what to do with it. You opened the car door, placed your bag and the sword in the back seat, and shut the door. But just then, you noticed him—the crazy man. He was sprinting toward you.

That lunatic.

You quickly flung open the driver’s door, jumped into the seat, and turned the key in the ignition. As the engine roared to life, Marcus approached, bewildered; he had never encountered a car door before. Taking advantage of his astonishment, you drove onto the bustling street, and to your surprise, he dashed after you, but soon he captivated by the scene.

Standing there, mesmerized, he absorbed the chaotic sight of the vehicles surrounding him—their strange forms, the symphony of sounds, and the dazzling lights. In that moment of realization, he understood: in this extraordinary place, horses were no longer needed for riding. These remarkable machines forged their own path, free from the constraints of the past time, his time.

A taxi pulled up, and the driver, who must have seen way too many movies, rolled down his window and leaned out. “Hey! Do you want to catch her?”

Marcus was taken aback but nodded eagerly.

“Jump in then, man!” The cabbie said, chuckling at Marcus's surprised expression as he opened the back door for him. He thought this strange carriage didn’t need a horse, but seeing how you had gotten in earlier made it a bit easier for him. He climbed in and followed the cabbie’s instructions, pulling the door shut behind him. He was astonished when the cabbie hit the gas and effortlessly steered the vehicle. Looking out the window, he couldn’t help but marvel at the unfamiliar street, the other cars—everything felt so foreign and unusual.

“Don’t worry, mate, we’ll catch your girlfriend!” the cabbie reassured him.

“Girl...friend…” Marcus mumbled under his breath, another strange word to add to his growing list.

“Awkward outfit choice, buddy. No wonder she ran away,” the cabbie laughed. “Did you try to surprise her like this? Maybe next time, try a Batman outfit—it worked with my girl.”

Another odd phrase and a joke that flew right over Marcus’s head.

After a short drive, the cabbie brought the car to a halt, noticing that your taxi had stopped as well. “There’s your girl!” he announced.

Turning his head, Marcus spotted you getting out of the other taxi and heading toward an apartment building. He tried to recall how the taxi driver had opened the door for him earlier. The cabbie noticed his bewilderment and smirked. “Seriously? You can’t open the door? You must be pretty drunk,” he teased. “Come on, mate, you’re gonna wanna dash now.”

“I owe you one, coachman,” Marcus said, grateful.

The cabbie laughed hard. “You owe me 26 euros, that’s right.”

Once again, Marcus encountered another strange term, but he didn’t have time to dwell on it. The moment the cabbie shouted at him, “Hey, you haven’t paid!” Marcus felt the pressure to hurry. He pressed the door shut, but the cabbie opened his window, yelling, “You didn’t pay!”

The honking alarms from the cars behind startled Marcus, but he stayed focused. “You didn’t pay!” the cabbie shouted again.

You turned around at the ruckus, nearly fainting when you spotted him.

“No way!” you exclaimed, worried.

As you hurried toward the apartment block, Marcus pulled out a denarius from a pouch on his belt and tossed it to the taxi driver. The cabbie caught it, turning it over in his hand, recognizing the face of Emperor Severus, which he swore he had seen in a museum. “What the hell is this? A prank? Where's the damn camera?” he muttered.

How could he still be chasing you? You reached into your bag for your keys. It was late, and the streets were nearly empty, but he appeared resolute in following you.

“Stop!” you called, holding your hand up.

You pulled your phone from your pocket. “Stop, or I’ll call the police!”

For your words to be taken as a threat, Marcus had to understand their meaning, and he didn’t, he had no idea. “Give me back my sword,” he demanded.

“Okay,” you replied, opening the car door and grabbing his sword. “Just take it and leave me alone.”

He reached for his sword, examining it, while you quickly grabbed your bag. Your hand searched for the pepper spray you kept for emergencies.

While you were rummaging, Marcus noticed a parchment in your bag.

“Okay, now can you go?” you said, turning to leave. “Good night.”

“Wait.”

“What now? I gave you your sword. Please, just leave me alone,” you whined.

“That parchment—let me see it.”

He noticed it?

“Why?” you asked, wary.

“I may have seen that before,” he murmured.

You were exhausted and just wanted this absurd night to end. Reluctantly, you handed it to him. As he read, his eyes widened in surprise.

“This...” He looked up at you in awe. “Did you read or spelled any of this, by any chance?”

“Yeah, so what?” you replied defensively.

“You’re the one who called me.”

You raised your eyebrows, baffled. “What did you just say? Why would I call you? I don’t even know you!”

He took a step toward you. “Those words—this is what brought me here, I’m certain.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” you shot back, taking a step back yourself. “Look, I’m done with your nonsense, okay? Just leave me alone!”

"I need to return. Whether I traveled here or was brought here, I certainly need to head back to… my own time."

You erupted in laughter.

Did he really just say that? Maybe you were stuck in some ridiculous dream. “Seriously? That’s the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard. Tonight has been full of absurdities. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m heading home to rest, and I warn you—stay away from me.”

Just then, you heard your sister call out from the window.

“Get inside now!” you shouted at her. Fumbling with your keys, you opened the apartment door and stepped inside. The man remained outside, but you ignored him, shutting the door firmly behind you and starting up the stairs. As you climbed, he repeatedly scanned the words written on the paper, hoping to find a way back to his own time. 

But nothing happened.

Why had this girl—you—read it and made him arrive here? What was the secret to unlocking the path back?

For the first time in ages, you woke up not to the blaring sound of an alarm, but to the ping of your mobile phone. It was someone from the set, and they sounded quite anxious about the events from the night before. They informed you that a strange man had taken you hostage and assumed you must be feeling pretty shaken. As a result, you were given the day off. You felt a wave of relief; in fact, you were eager to see Katie and sort out the whole parchment mess, so this felt like a great opportunity.

After hanging up, you snuggled back under the blankets, but a sudden thought nagged at you—what if that man was still out there? He was a maniac, after all.

But could he be crazy enough to have spent the entire night on the street?

Reluctantly, you peeled yourself out of bed and peeked out the window. To your relief, there was no one in sight. However, you soon noticed a commotion below. People on the sidewalk were stopping, giggling, and snapping pictures of something. Straining to see from your high vantage point, you could only make out the awning of the pizza shop below.

“Could that lunatic be down there?” you wondered aloud.

His outfit undeniably could capture people's attention and spark their curiosity.

A voice inside you insisted, “Forget about it. You don't know him. It doesn't matter what he does.”

But your conscience nagged at you—maybe he was a mentally unwell person who truly needed help. Perhaps his family was searching for him. “Fuck it,” you muttered, sliding out of bed and throwing on your dressing gown as you made your way downstairs. 

Stepping out into the street left you in shock. There he was, just as you remembered.

It wasn’t a dream or a nightmare.

He was sitting on the ground, still dressed in that strange outfit from yesterday—his Roman soldier costume. Passersby, especially tourists, were snapping pictures. He didn’t react at all; his head hung low, probably accustomed to the attention after sitting there since morning. A pang of guilt hit you, seeing him like that. You inched closer. He caught sight of your feet first, then looked up at your face, and immediately stood up, turning his head away for some reason.

“Do you really have nowhere to go?” you asked. He shook his head. People were still stopping to take photos, but you warned them off and pulled at the man's arm. “Come with me, you pain in the neck.”

Just then, you heard a familiar voice call out—Enzo, the owner of the pizza place below your apartment. “Do you know this guy? He’s the reason I’ve got so many customers today,” he said with a grin.

You glanced inside the bustling restaurant. It was packed. You smiled at Enzo and explained that he was a friend and kept tugging the psycho along. 

“Where are we going?” he asked, clearly confused.

“To my apartment. Would you rather just sit on the street?”

His expression hinted that he would rather not engage. You walked in silence, hoping that Mrs. Costa, your landlady and the owner of the flat, wouldn’t spot you as you passed her door. Every glance at the peculiar man trailing behind you revealed an expression of wonder, as if he were seeing an apartment building for the very first time. When you reached your apartment, you unlocked the door and said, “Come in.”

He peeked inside, his eyes darting around. “Is this... where you live?” 

“Yeah, technically.” 

He seemed to avoid looking directly at you, which felt strange. What wasn’t strange about him was the real question. 

“It’s not safe for a woman to let a stranger into her home,” he remarked.

You raised your eyebrows playfully. “Seriously? Wasn’t it you who followed me here?”

“It wasn’t my intention,” he replied.

“What do you mean by intentions? I'm trying to help you!”

Suddenly, you heard a door open downstairs, and instinctively, you shoved him inside. “Get in quickly, or go back to the street. I really don’t care!” you snapped.

He complied, and just as you were about to close the door, you heard your landlady's voice call up to you. 

“Sweetie, is there a problem? I thought I heard a man's voice.”  

“Good morning, Mrs. Costa! Everything's fine, don’t worry.”  

“My ears must be deceiving me. Good morning, dear. I thought it was that man again.”

That man being your ex-fiancé, whom you'd kicked to the curb just last week. 

“No, he didn’t come. He can’t come back.” 

“Okay, cara mia, see you later.”

“See you.” 

You closed the door and let out a deep sigh. As you turned around, you nearly collided with the psycho who had followed you right behind. You stumbled, almost losing your balance, but he acted quickly, wrapping his arms around your waist. Both of you were taken aback by the sudden closeness.

“Who the hell is this guy?” your sister Lizzie asked, staring wide-eyed at the two of you.

He quickly pulled his hands back, and you stepped away. 

“Wait a minute, isn’t that the guy from last night?” she questioned.

“Don’t you have to get ready for school?” you responded, glancing at her.

“Don’t you have to get to work too?” 

“Nope, I’m off today.” 

“Oh, really?” She examined the man, they exchanged confused looks.

“This is my sister Lizzie, and this is... um... what’s your name again psycho?” you stammered. 

He didn’t answer, keeping his gaze averted. Lizzie looked between you both, clearly intrigued by what was unfolding.

“Do women in your world always walk around with their legs uncovered?” he whispered, leaning in close to your ear.

Ah, so that’s what the sidelong glances were all about. You glanced down at your short shorts. “Do you have to get weirder every second?” you snapped through clenched teeth.

“Or is he just a friend from the film set or something?” Lizzie chimed in as she returned with her bag.

“What makes you think that?”

“It’s the outfit he’s wearing. That looks like a Roman soldier’s garb, probably a general’s,” she observed.

“Your sister is quite clever,” he said with a smile.

Your jaw dropped the first time you saw him smile. 

And it was also when you realized he was rather handsome.

What on earth?

Was it really time to think that?

“Anyway, I’m late for school. Bye.” 

“Bye, sweetie.” You shut the door and turned to him. “Are you seriously just going to stand there? Come inside.”

Suddenly, he grabbed his arm. “Could you hand me a piece of cloth?”

“What did you say? For what?”

He removed his black robe, and your eyes widened at the sight of blood running down his arm. “What happened to your arm?”

“A pugio grazed it.”

“A what?” you exclaimed.

“In a fight. Not here. Back in my time,” he explained.

“Here we go again,” you muttered as you headed to your room for the first aid kit. When you returned, he was in the living room, observing everything with his usual expression as if seeing it all for the first time.

You studied him before entering—his armor fit him as if he wore it daily, and he moved and spoke with a familiarity that was unsettling. 

Could he truly be from another time?

Did time travel actually exist?

If so, why had you never encountered it before?

And why was it happening to you?

Shaking your head, you tried to dismiss the ridiculous thought.

Come to your senses girl. 

You steered your thoughts back to logic. He was strange, or maybe just nuts; there had to be a rational explanation for this, had to be. 

“Why don’t you sit down? Let me take a look at your arm.”

“What’s this?”

“First aid kit. It’s the first time you’ve seen one, isn’t it? This is tincture of iodine. We need to apply it to the wound to prevent infection. I’ll bandage it too,” you said as if explaining to a child. You reached for the supplies and began cleaning the wound. It was deep, but he didn’t flinch as you treated it. Instead, he focused intently on your face, avoiding looking down at his injury.

“Acacius...” he murmured.

“Excuse me?”

“My name is Marcus Justus Acacius, commander of the Roman Legions, having recently been entrusted with the esteemed position of General of Rome."

Your jaw dropped.

He said it in such a way that it was difficult not to believe him.

How could he pull that off?

You bit your lip, stifling a laugh. “Of course you are, and I’m Queen Elizabeth, by the way. Nice to meet you, Mr. General.” As you extended your hand, it was clear he was unsure of what to do next with the handshake. With a sigh, you stood up after wrapping up his arm. 

“In this place, do you people really think everything is a joke?”

“Look, I don’t know what your problem is, but if you decide to go to the police, you must tell them everything. They’re the only ones who can truly help y—”

Suddenly, he seized your wrist. His rudeness was starting to grate on your nerves. “Read the parchment again. I need to get back to my own time; I’ve already lost too much of it here.”

“You can’t be serious.”

"I find myself in a precarious situation. Upon my initial arrival in this place, I believed I had entered a state of bliss akin to Elysium. However, I have come to realize that this environment is far worse than one might imagine. The Rome I once knew has vanished entirely; I am uncertain of how much time has elapsed, but it is clear that I cannot remain here. So please, read this.”

“Why not read it yourself?”

He released your arm. “I tried; it did not… work.”

“Maybe it’s because it doesn’t do shit and there's no such thing as time travel at all.”

“Listen, at this point, woman, I don’t care if you believe me or not. Read this at once. Someone betrayed me, and my brother might be in danger too. I need to return and find out. So spell it.”

“You must have a fascinating life. Fine, Mr. General. As you wish.”

You took the paper from him and reread the lines you had seen earlier. 

"If that person is engulfed in distress or peril, grant him the chance to rise to another life, another time…"

Marcus glanced around, a look of disappointment spreading across his face. “I’m still here.”

“Yes, you’re still here. I told you. Maybe you’ve got brain damage or something, and lost your memory or mind. There’s got to be a logical explanation though. Just come with me to the police station; the cops will help you.”

“What does ‘cops’ mean?”

You rolled your eyes. “You’ll see when you get there. Trust me, okay?”

He nodded. “You trusted me enough to let me into your house. I guess you’re the only one I can trust here.”

How could you have imagined things would become even more complicated once you stepped into the police station? 

“No ID, no passport, no fingerprints, no phone records in your name… no family, no home, and no birth record… nothing.” As the officer spoke, you found yourself wondering just how much more surprising this situation could get. 

“I was born in the year when Consul Postumius Albinus and Atilius Serranus were in power in the Senate.”

Everyone stared at Marcus in shock—officers paused their work, and even the criminals in the holding cell burst out laughing. The officer shook his head in disbelief as others struggled to control their laughter. You buried your face in your palms, mortified. The officer, clearly racked up, signaled to the other officers to seize Marcus by the arm. Then turned to you.

"Is he a refugee? Did he enter the country illegally? And let's not overlook the clothes he's wearing, which seem to match his strange way of speaking."

“Illegally? No,” You glared at the officer as they shoved Marcus into the holding cell. “Look, officer, I think this guy might be—” You gestured around your head, making a circular motion. “Have you checked the mental hospital records?”

“I told you, ma'am, there’s no record under the name he provided. I’d be surprised if there were any.”

“Are you really planning to keep him locked up?”

“He assaulted a security guard and vandalized a film set. He’s scheduled for court.”

“What if they drop the charges?”

“Then he’ll be released soon, but not without providing us with some form of ID.”

“Okay, thanks.” 

He looked so out of place in the cell, standing apart from the other criminals who were looking at him like he was from another planet. You felt a pang of guilt for bringing him there.

“You said they’d help me, but now they’ve locked me up. Are they going to execute me?”

“What? No, of course not! Look, I thought they’d be able to find your family with your name, but I was mistaken. Are you sure you have your name right?”

He shot you an incredulous look. “Why would I lie about my name?”

"Well, it sounds ancient and a bit strange. Just like you," you muttered.

“It’s complicated. You don’t have any ID or passport. I do have a plan to help you get out of here, but you might need to spend the night.”

He gripped the iron bars, thinking. “I can wait one night.”

“If you have amnesia or something, you need to shake it off and remember your family. Otherwise, you’ll end up a refugee, and I could find myself in here with you for trying to help.”

He frowned. “I don’t have any of those things.”

You exhaled a troubled sigh. Had he really lost his mind? Based on his appearance, he seemed to have Italian roots. His accent was odd but articulate; he couldn’t possibly be a refugee. 

“My bulla—why did they take it?”

"Bulla?"

He pointed to his neck. "The thing I was wearing."

“Ah, your medallion? Unfortunately, you can’t have accessories while in custody. It's good we left the sword at home, like I suggested,” you whispered, ensuring no one could overhear.

“That item is very important to me. I want you to take care of it, just like my sword, or maybe even more.”

“Look at you giving orders. I’m starting to think you really are a commander,” you joked.

But he stood there, still and serious. “It’s General,” he corrected you.

“Right, Mr. General,” you replied with a smirk, but he frowned. “Fine, I’ll take your precious medallion and head home. Tomorrow, I’ll chat with Leo, the security guard, and have them drop the charges against you. Who knows, maybe someone from your family will show up by then.”

“Will you return tomorrow?” 

“Yes, don’t worry.”

He nodded. "I trust you."

You felt goosebumps ripple down your spine at that deep tone. How could he express such conviction? He truly was an extraordinary character.

When you stepped into Katie's spacious office, filled with antiques, in the General Directorate of Cultural Heritage Protection and Museums, you still couldn’t shake the feeling that yesterday had been a dream. It was all too surreal. You shook your head as you glanced down at the medallion in your hand, a tangible sign of that extraordinary day with the mysterious man named Marcus.

It was hard to believe that everything actually happened. You hadn’t come here for him, but rather to discuss the parchment you had accidentally damaged. Katie, an expert in antiquities and assistant manager, was someone you trusted implicitly. She had known your parents well and had been incredibly supportive, particularly when she took your sister Lizzie under her wing every summer. Lizzie had been diagnosed with mild autism, but her intelligence shone brightly, and you were thankful to Katie for giving her a supportive environment.

After a brief catch-up about your father's health, you finally pulled the crumpled parchment from your bag. “Please tell me you can fix this.”

Katie examined the paper closely, putting on her glasses. “Wow, this is the real deal. The keeper must have taken great care of it, despite its age.”

“Yeah, until I got my hands on it,” you mumbled, feeling sheepish.

“Well, we’re lucky it didn’t tear all the way through the writing. But you really need to be more careful; this is a rare artifact.”

“I truly didn’t mean to,” you admitted, your embarrassment evident.

“It might take a couple of weeks,” she replied gently.

“What? I need it sooner! It's only torn a little; can't you just glue it?”

She shot you a look. “This isn’t like sewing a costume, you know. First, I need to analyze the type of material. To repair tears in parchment, I’ll need to use gelatin or other animal-based products, and I have to determine the right one. As for smoothing out the wrinkles, the entire document might need to be placed in a humidity chamber.”

You stared at her, wide-eyed. “Seriously? I had no idea restoring paper was that complicated.”

She chuckled. “Parchment isn’t like your everyday paper. It’s made from animal skins, and you should be grateful it’s not papyrus, which is made from plants. Parchment has some serious advantages, like being more durable in humid conditions and allowing writing on both sides. But if you need this so bad, I can whip up a replica for you; it might just fool the decor crew.”

“Oh, that would be amazing,” you replied, relieved.

She smiled and headed to a large cupboard brimming with various papers and parchments. “Here,” she said, returning with a similar piece of parchment. “This one looks a bit like yours.”

“Katie, thank you so much,” you said sincerely.

“Anytime.”

“You can read what’s written on it, right?” you asked, curiosity piqued. “I looked it up on my phone, but you know, the scriptwriter is really after authenticity.”

“Of course,” she said, glancing at the paper. “It’s a prayer.”

“A prayer?” you echoed.

“Yep, according to this, it’s addressed to Janus, the god of beginnings and endings, who’s second only to Jupiter,” she explained, pulling out a book titled *Ancient Roman Mythology and All the Gods*.

“But Janus has two faces,” you remarked, examining the page in the book.

“Exactly—the past and the future,” she replied, shaking her head. “The prayer mention like 'another time' and 'another life',  which possibly could be hinting at escape or a peaceful death. The meaning of many artifacts like this often remains a mystery, even to historians and archaeologists.”

You paused, suddenly uneasy. Could it be true what happened with Marcus?

No, that seemed impossible.

But what if it was?

“Can I ask you one more thing? I was talking to the scriptwriter earlier, and I think he could really use your help with something he’s stuck on,” you said, pulling the medallion out of your bag. “He’s trying to figure out how someone wearing this medallion could travel through time. Is that even possible, or does it sound kind of ridiculous? Does that make sense?”

Katie furrowed her brow, scrutinizing the medallion with her magnifying glass before holding it under ultraviolet light. She looked at you, astonished. “This is incredibly rare. Your scriptwriter must really be into these. But the engravings aren’t connected to time. Did he notice the sun-like symbol?” It was prominently displayed at the center of the medallion, next to the inscriptions. “That’s Sol Invictus—the official sun god of the Roman Empire and protector of soldiers.”

A wave of realization washed over you. “Did you say soldier?” your voice quivered.

“Yes, it’s an amulet or talisman designed to offer protection to the wearer against all evils. The inscriptions indicate this. It’s beautifully preserved. Most in the museum are worn down, but this one looks almost brand new,” she remarked, her admiration evident.

Yet, as you absorbed her words, a tightness gripped your chest. Part of you wished she had dismissed the medallion as a fake. Why did it have to be real?

“But I’m not quite sure how the prayer on the paper connects to time or anything like that. It seems we’ll have to do quite a bit of digging to unravel that mystery,” she added with a grin.

“Maybe it has something to do with the symbols,” you suggested, noticing the same sun sign on the necklace, which was also etched small in the corner of the paper.

“No, I don’t think that’s it. There’s no symbol on the paper—just the inscription. The purpose of the parchment serves a different role, but—”

“There it is,” you interrupted, gently pointing to the symbol with your fingertip. Katie looked at you, puzzled.

“Honey, there’s no symbol there—just some wear and tear.”

How could she not see the symbol you noticed? You glanced again to double-check; it was definitely there, but she remained firm in her denial. Or could it be that she simply couldn’t see it, while you could?

What on earth was happening?

Maybe you were truly starting to freak out. As you got ready to leave Katie’s room, a question bubbled up inside you. If, by some impossible chance, that man had traveled forward in time to your era, how would he ever make it back to his own? “Katie, let’s say—it’s unlikely, of course—but how could this time traveler, from the film, have arrived? And how would he return? Do you have any logical ideas?”

“This might sound a bit far-fetched, but if it were possible, I’d suggest a portal would have to open, and it would need to reopen in the same spot for the person to get back,” she explained.

“In the same spot,” you echoed quietly.

“Exactly. The audience would be blown away, right?” she replied. “Oh, absolutely,” you chuckled, a bit nervously.

“Just one more thing, Rose,” she said before you left the room. “It sounds silly to mention this without thorough research, but it’s quite possible that the individual who wrote that parchment and the one who inscribed the medallion could be the same person.”

You nodded slowly, “Yeah, I see what you mean. Thanks.”

You sat in the car for hours before finally starting the engine, resting your head on the steering wheel as you drifted into thought.

How was this even possible? 

This man was from another time, an era long gone.

But how?

How did you end up in this bizarre situation when nobody makes films or TV series about this kind of thing anymore?

Was Marcus correct?

Did reading that parchment somehow summon him or cause him to travel in your time?

Suddenly, a wave of sympathy washed over you. It must be incredibly hard for him. Then you recalled the harsh words you’d thrown at him: “freak,” “maniac,” “psycho.” 

With a deep sigh, you turned the key in the ignition. You should have freed him from the police station sooner. 

When you arrived, it was a challenge to convince the officer. Fortunately, after you called Leo for assistance, the crew from the set decided to drop their complaint since no damage had been done. You signed a form acknowledging that you were responsible for knowing this stranger and agreed to return his lost ID soon. Before long, a policeman escorted him inside.

You swallowed hard as your eyes met his, still struggling to wrap your mind around the fact that he was a soldier from ancient Rome. 

“You came as you promised,” he said as the car rolled away. 

He still didn’t seem accustomed to the ride, curiously fidgeting with everything around him. 

“Yeah, I had to—considering your obsession with promises,” you managed to murmur, your voice shaky.

“Or do you believe me now?” he asked, hopeful. 

“I’m still unsure and in shock, to be honest. But I think I’ve figured out how to get you back to your time.” 

“Is that right?” 

“I’ll read the parchment again, in the same place,” you explained, the plan crystallizing in your mind. He nodded slowly, contemplation etched on his face. "That is a logical conclusion."

“By the way, I’m Rose,” you said quietly. 

He turned to you, intrigued. 

“Rose,” he repeated, your name lingering in the air. “Rosa,” he repeated again, trying to pronounce it in his own way. 

“In Latin, yes,” you confirmed, your smile widening as his expression softened. “It’s a beautiful name,” he remarked, the tenderness in his voice stirring something deep within you.

“Thanks, yours is nice too, I suppose,” you replied shyly as you pulled into the parking spot.

“Here?”

It was dark now, and fortunately, Marcus had led you to a secluded spot where the set wasn’t too crowded. He mentioned that this was where he first opened his eyes. 

“Forgive me for not providing you with clean clothes,” you said, noticing he had been wearing the same outfit for days. 

“That’s alright. There were times when I didn’t take off my armor for twenty days,” he replied confidently.

You grimaced. “Ew. Didn’t people around you douse you with water? You must smell terrible,” you joked, laughing.

You couldn’t help but notice the flicker of a smile across his face—was he smiling?

How could he be that handsome?

“Let’s get on with this; I need to head back,” he said, fastening his medallion around his neck again. “A present from someone important?” you mocked.

He brushed off the question, his expression shifting to one of seriousness. “Spell the words,” he instructed, his tone commanding.

Where had the smiling guy gone? Regardless, he was about to leave, slipping back into whatever life he had come from, and soon he would be entirely out of your world. Why did it matter to you?

You pulled out the parchment from your bag and draped it over your shoulder before glancing down to read. “I guess this is goodbye, Mr. General.”

He shook his head. “It is.”

You extended your hand. “It was nice to meet you after all; I hope everything goes well for you.”

He looked at your hand, seemingly unsure of how to shake. You grabbed his hand with both of yours and smiled. “That’s how you do it,” you said, initiating a proper handshake. He nodded but quickly pulled his hand back, clearly eager to return. You looked back at the parchment, and shock gripped you as you witnessed the letters begin to shift. 

Yes, they shifted. They fucking moved!

"This is just some magical shit," you barely muttered.

Whether they danced before your eyes, or you were losing your grip on sanity, you couldn't quite tell. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked, noticing your sudden change in demeanor.

“Nothing, it’s just…” How could you articulate the absurdity of it all? 

You fumbled through your thoughts without reading the text, aware that the words had morphed, and your grasp of Latin was sufficient to recognize the difference.

"If that person is engulfed in distress or peril, grant him the chance to rise to another life, another time…"

In that instance, a blinding flash erupted behind Marcus, framed between the ancient stone pillars of the temple. Oh, fantastic. Everything behind the brilliance blurred, and a peculiar wind started to stir, filling the air with an unsettling energy.

“It worked,” Marcus declared, excitement radiating from him. He boldly approached the radiant light, but oddly, it didn’t seem to pull him in. He furrowed his brow and glanced in your direction. “Something’s not right.”

“Tell me about it,” you retorted, your mind buzzing like a beehive with confusion. This was all too overwhelming.

He stepped closer and snatched the parchment from your grasp. “What’s written here has changed. What kind of lesson is this, gods?” he bellowed, frustration edging his voice.

“Hey, I’ve done my best. I’m done, okay? Just go back to your own time!” 

“It doesn't say ‘that person’ here; not anymore at least. It says ‘those... two," he murmured, suddenly contemplative. 

“So?” you asked, regretting it immediately. You didn’t like the look on his face.

He moved toward you. "You called me, and I believe you should come with me."

You backed away. “What? Are you out of your mind? I didn’t call you! Stay away from me!” you wailed.

But he kept advancing, and just as you were about to turn to escape, he grabbed your wrist. 

“Let go!”

"I assure you that I will bring you back. I must return now, for this may be my only chance."

“Let go of me! No, you can’t! Please.” But your struggles were futile, like fighting against stone. Why couldn’t anyone on set hear you, for heaven’s sake? 

With a fierce determination, he pulled you toward the blinding anomaly, despite your protests. The last thing you remembered was the wash of light enveloping you.

And then, in the blink of an eye—

A strange wind giving you goosebumps.

Another blink. Marcus stood before you, a triumphant smile on his face. The bastard was elated.

But why?

You quickly grasped the reason as your eyes scanned the surroundings, the realization hitting you like a painful shock. “This is impossible,” you gasped, disbelief washing over your features. There were no skyscrapers, no trailers, no street lights—only temples, countless temples, all illuminated by the flickering light of torches lining the streets. “No, no, no, this can’t be happening,” you exclaimed, frantically searching for the rift or portal.

Where had it gone? 

Marcus watched your frantic search, his brow furrowed. 

“We have returned to my time.”

Was he smiling???

That was the last straw. You glared at him, anger boiling inside. “We? We have returned? Are you fucking kidding me? You dragged me in here! Why did you do it? How could you?” With all your might, you punched him repeatedly in the chest. 

"Stop it. I gave you my word that I would help you return in your own time. You can trust me on that."

“How? How do you plan to do that? Do you think this portal or rift or whatever it’s called just pops up everywhere, asking, ‘Hey there! Anyone want to time travel?’ I can’t believe you. After everything I’ve done to help you, you’re just a jerk, ungrateful bastard! I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!” You kept punching him on the shoulders and chest, but he didn't even feel hurt; he only sighed deeply.

Suddenly, he covered your mouth with his palm. “Call me whatever you wish, but I swear I’ll keep that promise, on my life. Now, please, keep your voice down. The guards are patrolling nearby, they might hear us.”

You didn’t care; tears streamed down your cheeks as your mind struggled to comprehend this unreal situation. How? Why? The questions spiraled endlessly. 

In the distance, the Colosseum came into view. It was undamaged, intact, perfectly circular. This bizarre reality only deepened your confusion, and you could take it no longer. You crumpled to the ground, unable to stand.

hope you enjoyed the chapter babies, thanks for reading ❤️

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[idkwhylou]

𝐕. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡

Summary : After a night spent in the safety of Marcus’s arms, you wake to confusion, doubt, and the weight of everything left unsaid. But as the days unfold with unexpected softness, something between you both begins to shift. And for the first time, maybe… it’s time to try.

Marcus Acacius x f!reader

Words : 8,2K

Warnings : trauma recovery, mentions of bruising, secret relationship, soft intimacy, bit of fluff, arranged mariage, no y/n

A/N : I couldn't keep it in my drafts any longer, I've received so many messages, comments and reactions... Soooo I'm giving it to you now guys ;)

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⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

The morning light filtered the thin drape of the chamber’s window, soft and golden, casting pale striped across the bed. You stirred slowly, your body aching in places you had not realized had tensed in sleep. The space beside you was empty. Cold. 

Your hand moved instinctively across the linen, searching for the heat that should have lingered. But there was nothing. No trace of Marcus. Only the imprint of where he had been, like a dream dissolving on waking. You blinked, trying to remember when exactly you had fallen asleep. When his arm had curled around your waist. When your body, exhausted from weeks of fear and silence, had finally let go. 

For a few seconds, you lay perfectly still. The ceiling above you was painted with soft movement—tree shadows swaying faintly in the breeze—but all you could see was last night. Titus’ voice. His hands. His lies. And then, Marcus. Silent and steady in the dark, the weight of his body beside yours.

You let out a quiet breath, but it trembled at the edges. Where was he now ?

Your eyes darted to the edge of the room, his sandals were gone and so was the cloak he had draped across the back of the chair. No sound came from the hallway—no voices, not even footsteps. The silence was not oppressive, but it pressed all the same.

Was he avoiding you ? Regretting you ? Had you misunderstood the quiet closeness of the night ? 

A knot began to twist in your chest, slow and uncertain. You sat up, brushing the sleep from your eyes with the heel of your palm. Your hair was tangled across your shoulder, still holding the faintest scent of him, and you hated how safe it had felt. Hated how much you wanted to believe in a single night of stillness ? As if that could undo everything. 

Maybe you should not have come into his room, kept avoiding him, pretended he did not exist. What the hell were you thinking ? How could you think h could comfort you when he could not even apologize ? Like a fool, you let yourself be softened by his reassuring and protective touch, when he never knew how to be tender with you. What an idiot.

He was not there. Of course he was not. You blinked once again at the empty space beside you like it had personally offended you, then promptly flopped onto your back with a groan, hands over your face. Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. You had let him hold you—hold you—like some tragic little wife, all tear-stained and fragile, and now he was just gone ? Maybe he was with Lucilla. Gods. Drinking something expensive and brooding handsomely while she praised his noble restraint. You scoffed aloud at the ceiling. Restraint your ass. You should have bitten him too.

You swung your legs over the edge of the bed, trying not to wince at the soreness in your arms—bruises you had not had the courage to look at yet. 

You needed air. 

You needed to see him—to know, even without words, if last night had meant something. Anything. You were tired of worrying, of resenting people, of feeling out of place. And so, barefoot, you crossed the room. The floor was cool beneath your feet. The hallway stretched quiet ahead. You did not know what you expected, find him waiting for you ? Gone altogether ?

But when you turned the last corner and stepped into the dining hall, your breath caught. 

There he was. 

Marcus sat at the end of the long table, as he always did. Regal without trying. A goblet in one hand, his dark eyes resting on the morning light pouring through the open archways. His tunic was simple, but perfectly set. No armor today, no sword at his side, just him. Composed. Real. And alive, apparently, which was somehow infuriating.

He looked up, and when your eyes met his, the strange tightness in your chest eased like something heavy being set down. His expression did not shift dramatically, but it did not close either. “Good morning.” He said, his voice even. 

You nodded once, the simplest answer. One second, you were sulking your way into the dining room—ready to hurl yourself into a cup of wine and strew like a tragic heroine—and the next, you froze in the archway like you had spotted a ghost. 

Your heartbeat scrambled like it had been caught doing something wrong. You hesitated for a breath, then crossed the room with more confidence than you felt and took the seat beside him—not too close, but not across the entire Empire either.

He looked at you then, quietly, as if assessing a storm cloud that might pass or pour. “Is everything alright ?” 

“Yes.” You said quickly, too quickly. “Perfect. Absolutely. Why would not it be ?”

He arched an eyebrow, and you gave him your best imitation of someone not unraveling internally. It probably looked more like a poorly trained actor in a second-rate tragedy.

And so, silence felt between you. Not the old, cold silence full of resentment, but something more… tentative. Testing the air between two people who did not know how to begin again. You reached for some bread, took a bite and chewed it like it was your sole task on earth. 

He was the one who moved first, reaching for a fig, the smallest shift of his shoulders brushing ever so slightly toward you. You glanced at him, then looked again—truly looked. He looked different now, not just older, but worn in, like marble weathered by time. His face was thinner, as if something had been quietly carving at him from the inside out. The line of his jaw was darker with stubble, rough and uneven like he had not bothered to shave in days, and it suited him far too well. 

His eyes—always intense, always watching—held a quieter storm behind them now. But it was his body that caught you off guard the most. Broader somehow. His arms, strong before,  now looked as if they had been chiseled harder by effort or whatever weight he had been dragging through the months of your silence. He looked heavier with it. More real. More tired. And, if it was possible, even more beautiful. The kind of beauty that was not sculpted, but earned. The kind that made your breath catch in your throat, and your pride pretend it did not.

Should you say something ? Ask where he went last night ? Make a joke ? Thank him for not letting you cry like a stray dog ? Gods, was that pathetic ? Maybe you should compliment his beard. No. Terrible idea. He would think you missed him. Which you did—did you ? He did not need to know that.

You cut a fig into quarters like it was a military strategy as he sat behind you, quiet and still—the kind of stillness that made you want to scream just to see if he would flinch. You could feel his presence, heavy and calm, and it made your thoughts more chaotic by contrast. Was he only kind because you were falling apart ? Or worse, did he pity you ?

You were midway through constructing a compelling inner monologue about how you were absolutely, definitely never going to bring it up, when his voice cut through your spiraling.

“Do you want to go for a walk ?”

The question hung there, small and simple. But it felt like a stone dropped into still water. You were not sure why it hit you like that. Maybe because he had not asked you anything gentle in months. Maybe because, for the first time, it was not about duty or damage control. There was something different in his eyes; a thread of hope, too thin to name. 

And Gods, you did need a walk. Fresh air. Space to sort through the riot inside your head. To figure out what to say to him, because you were absolutely not going to let him avoid it this time. Not the apology. Not what happened between you. If you had to drag him through it one question at a time, so be it. 

You drew in breath. Nodded once. “I should… get ready.” You said quietly, already rising from the table. But before you could take a full step, his hand caught your wrist. You froze, not from fear, but from the suddenness of it. His grip was not hard, but firm enough to stop you and to hold your attention. 

“What are those ?” His voice had changed—lower now, rougher, like something had scraped through his throat. 

You turned slowly, your gaze finding his. His eyes were fixed on your arm—on the edge of the sleeve that had fallen when you reached for your cup. The bruises were faint now, dulling to that sick yellow-violet, but they were still there. Ugly, lingering, leaving the memory of Titus branded into your skin.

You did not answer right away. Instead, your heart thudded, loud and unhelpful. You could feel the heat climbing into your neck. That too-familiar feeling of being exposed, blended with shame.

“It is nothing—”

“No.” He cut in, quiet but certain. You tried to pull back, just an inch but he did not let go. “Tell me who did that.”

Your mouth opened, then closed again. You did not know what to say or how to say it. The words tangled in your throat. You could see it now, the shift in his whole posture, the way the air around him pulled tight. This was not casual curiosity. He knew. Maybe not everything. But enough.

And he was angry. Not at you—never at you—but something simmered beneath his skin; and it scared you, because you did not know if it would spill. You looked down and swallowed. Then, finally, you said, “It does not matter anymore.”

His jaw clenched, and still, he did not let go. “It matters,” he said, “It matters to me.”

You jerked your head towards him, but looked away quickly, jaw tightening. The words were there—pressed like thorns behind your teeth—and you could not make them come out. 

“I said I am fine.” You muttered, quieter this time, the fight draining from your tone. 

Marcus studied you, his fingers still around your wrist, but the grip was looser now. Almost hesitant. His brows furrowed with worry, the effort of holding something back. For a moment, it felt like the entire villa held its breath. Then, with a soft sigh through his nose, he let you go. 

The absence of his touch was immediate. You stepped back, smoothing your sleeve like it mattered. Like you could erase what he had seen. You could feel his eyes on you still, heavy and sharp, trying to fit the last pieces together.

“This is not finished.” He said at last, voice firm. “You do not have to tell me now. But you will tell me.”

You nodded, or something like it. A slight dip of your chin. Not a promise, neither a refusal. Then you turned, and left the room to get ready—your heartbeat still tangled somewhere between his words and your own silence. 

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

The weeks that followed moved like a quiet tide, surprising in their peace. Marcus was often gone during the day, pulled between the Senate and the army, his name spoken like a spell in every corner of the Empire. But somehow, despite the demands, he returned to the villa more often now—and not just to sleep. 

Sometimes, it was just to share a late meal with you in the gardens, his armor unbuckled, tunic sleeves rolled to his forearms as he listened to you talk about nothing and everything. Other times, he would find you reading beneath the trees and simply sit near, not intruding. Just there, a shadow beside yours, his presence oddly calming. 

Things were not perfect—no, far from it. There was still heat between you, but not the kind that burned to has. It crackled in the way you traded sharp glances over breakfast, when you teased him for forgetting he had already told you about some senator’s outrage (again), or when he would call you a ‘menace’ for beating him at a gale you swore you did not cheat at. 

It was strange, really. The tension did not break you, instead it built something. He was still hard to read sometimes, still carried the weight of the Empire in the set of his jaw, in the quiet way he stared at the horizon when he thought you were not watching. But there were moments when he let you in. When he laughed too loudly at something you said. When his eyes softened during quiet walks, brushing your fingers just barely with his.

And you—you stopped flinching when the silence stretched. You started trusting it. Trusting him in a way.

Even the villa felt different. Less like a gilded cage, more like a strange kind of home. You found yourself leaving the doors open longer, letting sunlight spill across the floors, the air less heavy. There were no declarations. No grand promises. But things were changing, growing softly and deliberately. 

And for the first time in a long while, you let yourself hope that whatever this was—whatever was unfolding between you and the man once made of cold marble and war—might actually be real.

Still, not everything had been said. 

Sometimes you would feel his eyes on your arm, the one that bore the fading yellowed shadows pf bruises that had never quite healed right. You had caught the way his gaze lingered there when he thought you were not looking, jaw tight, fingers curling against the edge. But he did not press further, and you did not explain. 

You had not spoken about that night neither. The fight that had splintered you both. The night you had said things too sharp, too honest, and he had let you walk away like it meant nothing. Everything still hung between you like a wire pulled taut.

There were times you felt it again, that crack under the soft, everyday peace. When the air stilled and a silene stretched just a little too long. When Marcus returned from the Senate with his shoulders squared and his voice clipped. When you wondered if the soft truce between you was simply a lull, not a solution. 

And though his presence had grown warmer, his touch gentler, his words more frequent. Something inside you still braced. Just a little. Waiting for the question, or the accusation—the return of the cold. Because neither of you had dared to touch the wound, you had just taken it upon yourself to bandage it without even disinfecting it. Not thinking that it could become infected again, and not heal, continuing to burn. And wounds, even quiet ones, had a way of bleeding through silk. 

Still, he stayed. And so did you. That had to mean something. 

You decided long before the sun set, but it was not until the villa had quieted and the stars spilled fully across the sky that you found the nerve. Tonight, would be the night. 

You stood outside his chamber door for a long moment, hand hovering just above the carved wood. You had not stepped a foot in here since the trembling aftermath of something you had not even dared name aloud. The memory of his strong arm around you still lived beneath your skin. So did the way your breath had hitched when his hand found your waist.

Now ? You were not sure what you felt.

Your knuckles rapped gently once—a sound so soft it was nearly swallowed by the hush of the night. You heard nothing in response, but the door was ajar, just enough to invite doubt. You pushed it open slowly. 

The room smelled like him, the curtains stirred lazily in the breeze, moonlight draping itself across the bed. And there he was; seated at the edge of it, half turned toward the open window, boots still on, elbows on his knees. He had not heard you, or maybe he had and just had not moved. His hair was mussed, beard thicker than usual, shadows pooled beneath his eyes. Even in stillness, he looked heavy—like he carried the whole world on his shoulders. 

He glanced toward you, brows drawing ever so slightly together. “Could not sleep ?” He asked quietly, voice like smoke. 

You shook your head. “No. Not really.”

A pause. You could feel his eyes searching your face as you stood there like an idiot. This was not how you planned it. You had rehearsed. Gods, had you rehearsed. In the mirror, in the gardens,… At one point, you practiced a ‘serious but emotionally available’ face in a spoon. And now ? Now your mind was blank your hands clammy, and Marcus was looking at you like he had been expecting something coherent. 

You opened your mouth. Nothing came out. 

Great start. 

You cleared your throat, “I, uhm—well, I just—” You gestured vaguely toward the chair. Or the fireplace. Or the concept of words. “I was walking. And then I… kept walking. And now I am here.”

Marcus blinked slowly, like a man trying not to spook a very nervous deer. 

You gave a nervous laugh. “Not because I was following you. Obviously. That would be strange—I mean not that strange. We are married. I am technically allowed to know where you sleep.”

Dear Gods. You were actively unraveling in real time. He did not laugh, but something shifted at the corner of his mouth—the ghost of a smile, maybe. Or sympathy. Or both. 

You shifted your weight from one foot to the other. “Anyway. I am here. And I will just… sit. If that is alright. Unless it is not. In which case, I can stand. Forever. I have excellent calves.”

There was a pause. 

And then, to your complete and utter horror, he spoke gently. “I have things to say actually.” Marcus said, voice even. “And I would rather not say them to a woman pacing holes into my floor.”

You blinked. “Oh.”

A beat. And then you finally sat. Not gracefully, but it counted. You did not speak—not because you did not want to, but because your whole brain had been reduced to a very faint buzzing noise. Marcus was not looking at you with frustration or coldness. He looked like someone trying very hard to be careful. 

His voice, when it came again, was quiet. “I should have said them a long time ago.”

He leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees, hands clasped like he needed them to stay still. The fire cast shifting shadows across his face—more angles than softness, but his eyes… they were quieter now. Tired. Honest.

“I have spent most of my life doing exactly what I was told,” he began, tone flat but not without feeling. “Born into duty. Raised with purpose. There was no space for softness, not really. My father taught me that empathy was a crack in the armor. And if you leave that crack, someone uses it.”

You did not move. You barely breathed. 

“I was trained to lead man. To win wars. To make decisions and never waver. But no one teaches you how to live with those decisions after. Or what happens when the battlefield follows you home.” His voice dropped a little, like the words were being pulled out one by one. 

“When we got married… I did not know what to do with you.” He looked down, his jaw tightening. “You were so alive, so bright. And I was afraid—not of you but of what it meant to have something—someone—I might not be able to control for once.”

You felt a prick behind your eyes, but you did not dare to interrupt. Not now. For the first time since the ceremony, you never heard him talk that much.

“I thought distance would protect us both.” He spoke. “If I kept you at arm’s length, maybe you would stop wanting more from me. Maybe I would stop wanting something I did not deserved.”

He swallowed hard, “But you did not stop. You were kind, you were patient, you made… space for me. And I filled it with silence. I treated you like you were the one intruding. And that night—” His voice hitched for just a breath. “That night I raised my voice to you—”

He shook his head, shame rippling through the gesture. 

“I should have never spoken to you that way. I was cruel. I knew I was hurting you but I did it anyway. And when you started to see him again and again, looking at me like I was a stranger—” He drew in a slow breath, eyes flicking to you then away again. “I have seen that look before. On men in battle, right before they realize the blade’s already gone through.”

You felt your throat tighten as Marcus exhaled through his nose, slowly. “I promised myself I would be better after that. That if you ever gave me another chance, I would not waste it. I did not think I would get one…”

He finally looked at you again, and his gaze was everything he had not been able to say until now. “I do not expect you to forgive me easily. Or quickly. But I have to say it. Because I was wrong. And I see you now. I seeyou.”

You sat frozen, the room too still, too full. Your fingers were clenched in your lap without realizing, your heart hammering wildly in your chest. It was not a grand declaration, neither poetry, but it was the most honest thing Marcus had ever given you. 

You sat still for a long time after he finished, the only sound between you the soft crackle of the fire. The weight of his words pressed against you like water—not drowning, but deep and heavy.

“I do not know if I can ever really forgive you Marcus…” You said at last, voice low, trying to not be cruel. “I am… trying to understand. And I heard what you said. I did. It meant something that you said it.” You glanced down at your hands. “So, thank you for that.”

A flicker of a smile touched his lips, faint and rueful, but he said nothing. 

“I just…” You shook your head. “I need you to understand that what you did—how you treated me—it made me feel like less than nothing. Like I was stupid for even hoping I could be seen. You made me feel disposable, small, and I hated myself for the things I did.”

His jaw tightened but he did not interrupt, letting you take your time, just like you did with him.

“As for Lucilla,” Your voice faltered, sharp and bitter. “I do not want to talk about her. Not now—maybe not ever. I am not stupid… I know there are things I do not know, things I will probably never know. But if there is one thing you can give me now, it is this: let me choose not to know. At least for now.”

“I can do that.” He said quietly, his voice solid with sincerity. “Whatever pace you need. I just… I want to make sure things go well for our marriage. Even if it takes time.” 

You looked at him for a long moment, your chest aching—not from hurt, not anymore. From something else. Something that might one day become softness again.

Then you inhaled, slow and shaky. “I should tell you about the bruises.”

Marcus straightened with that quiet, focuses stillness he always had when preparing for something painful. His eyes did not leave you a second. 

You wet your lips, “You were away that night and Titus found me in my chamber.”

His name landed like stone. Marcus did not speak, but you saw it in his face—that flash of rage quickly banked, forced down with effort. 

“He thought I wanted something from him. But I did not… I did not see what he wanted. I did not want it.” Your throat tightened. “But he did not care.”

You looked down at your arm, at the ghost of the fading bruises beneath your sleeve. “He grabbed me. Told me I had led him on. That I wanted it. That I could not act like I did not.” You were trembling now, but you did not stop. “He kissed me.”

Marcus’s hands were fisted in his lap, his knuckles white.

“The marks are from when I tried to pull away,” you said. “He was stronger. He did not care. And then, I screamed for the guards.”

Silence crashed in the room, loud and suffocating. Then—“I will kill him.”

You looked up sharply, “No.” 

His voice had turned ragged, wild with fury. “He touched you—” 

“I know what he did.” You snapped, louder than you meant. You swallowed hard and lowered your voice. “But that is not why I told you. I did not come here so you would explode again or fight another man.”

He stared at you, still trembling with restraint. “I told you because I needed you to understand,” you continued, voice gentler now. “When I came to your bed that night—it was not about forgiveness. I was not over what you said, or how you made me feel. I was still angry, hurt.” 

You breathed in. 

“But I needed someone. I needed safety. And even after everything. I still felt safer beside you than I did anywhere else.”

That silenced him. Not in weakness, in something deeper, a hit that landed behind the ribs. You rose from the chair and took a step closer. “I am not telling you to fix it. I am not asking you to make it disappear. I just… I did not want to carry it alone anymore.”

Wordless he closed the distance between you. There was no hesitation this time, no tension, just the steady, unshaking way he folded you into his arms: one hand at the back of your head, the other pressing gently to the middle of your back like he was afraid you might break if he held to tight.

“I am sorry.” He murmured voice low and rough against your temple. “If I had been here—if I had just—” He did not finish. His jaw clenches against the words. “I should have protected you. I should have known.”

You shook your head faintly, your fingers curling into his tunic. “It is not your fault. He is the one who did it.”

“I still left you alone,” he whispered. “And you were already hurting—from me.”

He kissed the top of your head—not rushed or desperate, but slow. Steady. Like something he had been wanting to do for a long time and did not want to do wrong. Then, softer still, “Stay tonight.”

You looked up at him. “Please,” he said. “Just stay. I need to know you are safe. I need to be here when you wake up.”

You did not speak right away. But something in your chest loosened, some old, sharp fear that had been clinging to your ribs for too long. It did not disappear. But it dulled, just enough.

And you nodded without really knowing why. Maybe it was exhaustion, maybe it was loneliness dressed up as resolve, or maybe it was something you did not have a name for yet. You could not forgive him yet, but Gods you were tired of holding your own weight, tired of sleeping cold, tired of feeling like you were always bracing for impact.

And here ha was, finally reaching back. It was not enough… but it was something. A step. Maybe you were foolish for wanting to try. Maybe you would wake up tomorrow with regret curled in tour chest like smoke. But for tonight, you just wanted quiet. A moment of calm. A place to set your heart down and rest. And for some reason—you hoped he might be that place.

He kissed your forehead gently once more. “Thank you.” He whispered. “And… I am sorry. For all of it. For what I said that night. For the months before. For making you feel like you were anything but wanted.”

You leaned your head against his chest and closed your eyes. This time, when the silence settled between you, it was not heavy with unsaid things anymore. It was true peace.

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

After that, the mornings were the easiest, you sat across from each other like two people sharing a long truce, a loaf of bread, and mild confusion about how you got there. At first, they were filled with the soft scrape of plates and the occasional clink of a cup. You would steal glances at him over your plate, and he would pretend not to notice. 

One morning you were sipping watered wine while he read parchment over fruits, sometimes glancing up like he had something to say. You caught him watching your hands as you took something from a bowl, but did not ask why. Then, he broke the pattern. 

“The cook adds honey now,” Marcus said, gesturing to the same bowl your hand was in a few seconds ago. “He said you liked it that way.”

“Your spoon paused midair. “That is thoughtful I guess.”

“He said it is better for your mood,” he added, eyes flickering upward. “His words. Not mine.”

You snorted, and for the first time in weeks, something like amusement sparked between you. He did not smile right away, but you caught the ghost of one tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Later, he would start taking digestive walks in the gardens. This happened from time to time, until it happened after every breakfast. They became a place strange of comfort where he would walk ahead sometimes, hands clasped behind his back, talking about nothing in particular—history, the state of the vines. You listened without answering, but never left his side. 

One day, he had offered you his arm, but you did not take it. You were not quite ready for that. Still, you walked beside him, close enough that your hand might brush his if either of you stopped pretending you did not want them to. 

The garden air was cool that morning, still carrying the damp scent of night-bloom flowers. You passed the row of cypress trees where the sun broke in perfect slants—and suddenly, your breath caught. You had walked this same path before. Not long ago. Not with Marcus. With him.

The memory flared like heat against the base of your neck; his voice too close, the press of his hand on your body, the way he looked at you. You could still feel it sometimes. The weight of that night lingering on your skin like dust that refused to wash away.

Your steps faltered. Not noticeably, you hoped. But the General noticed everything. He did not say anything, only shifted slightly closer, as if to shield without smothering. His hand did not reach for your again, but you could feel it hovering, just enough to remind you he was there.

You did not speak of the memory. But the shadow it cast stayed with you for the rest of the walk. And even as the sunlight warmed your face, you could not help but wonder if the past would ever stop bleeding into the new.

“This tree,” Marcus said after a moment, gesturing toward the fig grove, “My mother planted it when I was a boy.”

You blinked. “She had good taste.”

“She did.” He said quietly, letting sadness taking over him for a short second before winning control back. “In trees, at least.” 

That earned a dry look from you, and a corner-smile from him. A truce, again.

One afternoon, you found him in the book room—not a place you often wandered anymore. The air was cooler there, quieter in a way that felt sacred, like even the dust had agreed not to stir. The sun cut through the tall windows in golden angles, bathing the room in soft light that spilled across the mosaic floor and pooled at Marcus’ feet. He sat like a statue half-forgotten by time, a figure caught somewhere between war and rest, the curve of his brow relaxed, the corners of his mouth just slightly unguarded. 

He looked younger in the sun, or maybe just.. less worn. 

You hovered in the doorway for a moment, unsure. But something about the angle of his shoulders, the quiet scratch of turning page pulled at you. So, you stepped inside, each footstep hushed by the plush runner beneath your sandals, and sank onto the second lounge opposite him, a respectful distance away.

He did not look up, but you saw his hand pause on the page. His voice was low, smooth like poured bronze. “Did not expect you in here.”

“I thought you might be hiding something scandalous in the scrolls.” You said lightly, teasing—trying, gently, to find your place in this new softness between you.

A faint exhale escaped him, amusement, maybe. “Just Caracalla, Geta and the city’s water systems. Scandalous, indeed.”

You smiled. Just barely. But it stayed. The silence returned, though this time it settled like a comfort rather than a wall. You let your gaze drift lazily over the room: the shelves stacked high with neat rolls of parchment, the thick scent of ink and old vellum, the soft creak of his chair as he shifted. Somewhere outside, birds chirped in the olive trees. It was peaceful in a way that made your bones feel heavy.

At some point—without quite meaning to—your head tilted back against the lounge. Your lashes dipped. The words in your mind began to blur. And then, with the gentlest of exhales, you gave in to sleep. You did not notice sleep had claimed you, not until something warm and light was laid across your shoulders.

Your eyes fluttered half-open, just enough to catch the shape of Marcus’s figure standing near. His shadow passed over you as he draped a blanket—soft wool, faintly scented of him—across your arms. He did not speak. Did not linger.

He only returned to his seat, the material of his chair groaning faintly beneath him. The scroll reopened, the words read again. But his gaze did not stray far. Every so often, between one paragraph and the next, his eyes lifted toward you. There was something unspoken in the way he looked at you. Not hunger, not longing, but a kind of... awe. Or maybe confusion, that you were still here. Still trying. Still close enough to reach if he only dared.

And so, he did not reach. But he watched. And that, for now, was enough.

On another day, in the quiet shade of the peristyle, you stood beside him as the birds dripped in and out of the courtyard fountain, scattering droplets like glass. The afternoon air was warm but mazy, the hush of the villa stretching between columns and falling into a rhythm all its own.

You were not looking for him at first, you told yourself you were only wandering, restless and uncertain, your thoughts knotted after to many night of still pretending not to care. But something pulled you toward the baths. Something quiet, curious, and perhaps, a little foolish. 

You pushed the door open without thinking. The air inside was thick with steam and warmth; perfumed faintly with rosemary and heat-soaked stone. At first, you did not see him. Only the curve of the pool, the golden ripple of water. Then—

There he was.

Marcus.

Leaning back against the stone edge, eyes closed, dark hair slicked from his face. He looked less like the General then, less like the man with the burden of Rome on his shoulders. He looked… peaceful. Almost.

Your breath caught.

You should have left. Should have turned on your heel and walked straight back out the door. But your feet did not listen. Something strange and warm and deeply unsettling pulled you forward, not quite longing, not quite anything you had admit to. You stepped quietly across the tiled floor and sat on the rim of the bath, just beside him, careful not to let your dress touch the water.

He did not open his eyes.

Your pulse quickened—Gods, what were you doing ? The heat from the bath curled around your legs, climbed up your spine. Your skin prickled where the steam kissed it, and your palms pressed flat against the stone to keep them from shaking.

You were not even sure why you were there. Only that the closeness made your thoughts blur, and your body had grown traitorously warm. You looked at him and something unfamiliar bloomed in your chest, heavy and heady and hard to name.

You had sat beside him before, but never like this. And never with your breath this short.

You should not have stayed. You knew that. But your body had made the decision long before your mind could catch up. He was still. His chest rose and fell with the steady breath of someone who had not yet realized he was being watched. Or maybe he had. Maybe Marcus always knew more than he let on. Maybe he was letting you look.

You did.

Gods, you did.

Your eyes drifted down—over the water beading on his collarbone, the way it ran in lazy rivulets across the planes of his chest, sinking into the hollow beneath his throat. His arm rested on the edge, strong and relaxed, muscles softened by heat but still unmistakably powerful.

You thought, absurdly, of how those hands would feel on your skin. What it would be like if he turned his head and looked at with that quiet, unreadable gaze. If he said your name in a way he never said before: low, and without armor.

And then, your thoughts grew bolder.

The things he could do to you.

With those hands. That mouth. That voice—firm and low, made for command and confession alike. You imagined his breath hot against your neck, his weight pinning you to something that was not cold marble for once. His voice in your ear—no orders, no cruelty, just need.

Worse still—or better—you imagined the things you could do to him. The slow drag of your fingers down the scar at his side. The way he might shudder under your mouth. How his control—so prized, so carefully guarded—might crack when you whispered that you wanted him.

You swallowed hard. Your thighs pressed together before you realized what you were doing. He still had not opened his eyes as you bite your lower lip hard, trying to calm the feeling growing in you. And maybe that was a mercy. Because if he had, if he had looked at you in that moment, and seen the thoughts unraveling in your mind like silk slipping from a spool, you were not entirely sure you would have stopped yourself.

Not this time.

Not when the heat between your legs burned hotter than the bath itself. Not when his nearness made you forget all the reasons you were supposed to hate him. And Gods help you—not when you did not want to anymore.

You were not sure what prompted it—the tilt of his head in the light, maybe, or the way his fingers absently traced the rim of the marble basin, steady and unthinking, like he had forgotten you were there. There was a gentleness to him in that moment, unguarded and rare. 

And without much thought, your hand reached up—slow, hesitant—and brushed your fingers against the faint scar that curved along his temple. It was not deep, just pale and thin, nearly lost in the bronze of his skin. But you had seen it a hundred times and never once touched it. Never dared. 

The moment your skin met his, he flinched. Not violently—not like someone bracing for pain—but quick, instinctual, like a breath drawn too sharply. His shoulders stiffened. His jaw set. And when his eyes snapped to yours, there was something unreadable in them. Caught between memory and alarm.

You pulled your hand back at once, heat rushing to your face. “Sorry,” you muttered, trying to laugh but failing. “I did not mean to— I was just curious.”

His expression did not soften. If anything, he seemed to withdraw into himself, folding shut like a gate. “It is nothing.” He said, voice suddenly colder, clipped. “Old wound.”

You blinked, caught off-guard by the shift. The sunlight did not feel quite so warm anymore. “Right,” you said, folding your arms, letting the sarcasm slip out like defense. “Of course. I forget you only bleed strategically.”

That made him look at you—sharply, this time. But he did not speak.

You felt ridiculous. Embarrassed. Small. “If you are going to act like that every time I touch you, then maybe do not let me stand so close.” You added under your breath, more wounded than you meant to sound.

A pause followed. Long enough that you regretted speaking. Long enough that you wanted to disappear entirely. Then—“No.” He said, quieter now. Not cold. Not sharp. Just… pained. “Do not apologize.”

You glanced up. He was watching you, the tension around his mouth loosened, though his eyes still held something tight. Fragile. You looked at him. Really looked.

The years hung on him in ways he did not try to hide, not anymore. There were faint lines at his brow that had not been there when you first met. His eyes held shadows even when he smiled. That scar, and a hundred others you had never seen, told stories he rarely let escape.

“I never asked where it came from.” You said softly, meaning the scar but not only that.

He shook his head, gaze sliding back to the birds. “Does it matter ?”

“Maybe not,” you murmured. “But I still wonder.”

He turned his head and watched you. Not with the cold stare he wore in the Senate or when rebuffing servants. No, this one was quieter, patient, amused. You froze, heart thudding like a hammer against your ribs. 

“Why do you look at me like I have wronged you again ?”

You bristled. “I am allowed to have feelings.”

“I did not say you were not.”

There was silence again, he did not look away—and that was the worst part. He saw you, all of you, even when you tried to hide behind clipped retorts and crossed arms.

Then—without warning—he reached out and took your wrist.

“Marcus—”

“Come here.” He said, and tugged. Not roughly, not demanding. But firmly enough that resistance meant nothing.

You stumbled forward, nearly slipping, your foot hitting the shallow step of the bath. “I am clothed.” You hissed, voice low with mortification.

“I do not care.” His other hand rose, brushing damp hair from his brow. “Touch my scar again.”

You blinked. “What ?”

He tilted his head, the faintest ghost of a smirk at the corner of his mouth. “You touched it before. Do it again.”

“I am not going to—”

But then you were already closer, your knees pressed to the edge, his legs brushing yours under the water. The heat of the bath—or maybe just him—was getting to you.

“Marcus—”

He shifted again—and suddenly, with practiced ease, he pulled you fully onto his lap.

Your breath caught, a sharp inhale. The water soaked into your dress at once, turning the fabric heavy against your skin. Your palms flattened instinctively on his bare shoulders to steady yourself, and Gods, there was nothing between you but wet cloth and silence.

He did not gloat. Did not tease. Just looked at you, steady and open.

The water clung to you like a second skin. You shifted slightly in his lap, acutely aware of the way your soaked dress now pressed against your body—thin and near-transparent, clinging to every curve. It offered no protection, no mystery. Not there. Not with him. 

And he was still naked beneath you. 

You could feel him, his warmth, the sheer size of him, the strength held barely in check. It jolted something in your memory. That first night. The stretch, the heat, the way he had filled every part of you lie he had been made for it. 

Your breath hitched. 

You cursed your own thoughts, trying to still the sudden thrum in your veins. 

Marcus noticed. 

His eyes dropped with a slow, reverent calculation that made your skin prickle. His gaze swept over the soaked linen plastered to your chest, then darted back up, locking on yours. His jaw tightened, but he did not say anything. Did not move. He was letting you decide. And it made everything worse. Or maybe better. You were. Not sure anymore. 

You tried to speak, to reclaim some kind of composure. “This is inappropriate,” you muttered, not quite able to meet his eyes. “I am—I am practically indecent.”

His voice was quiet. Rough. “You are beautiful.”

The words struck harder than they should have. Not because of what he said—but because of how he said it. Like it was not a line. Like he was not trying to win anything. Just stating a truth he could not help but see.

You swallowed, pulse loud in your ears. “Stop that.”

“Why ?”

“Because I do not know what to do if you are kind.”

He did not smile. But his hands, large and warm beneath the surface of the water, tightened gently around your waist, then his fingers found your wrist with a gentleness that almost undid you. The kind that said he knew exactly where the hurt was. He lifted it slowly, eyes never leaving yours, and then bowed his head. His lips brushed over the fading bruise there, warm and deliberate. Once. Then again. Not hurried. Not hesitant. Just… careful. As if he could take the ache into himself if he kissed it enough. As if he was sorry in ways he hadn’t found words for yet. “Then do not do anything.” He said. “Just stay.”

Your fingers curled into his shoulders again. You did not trust your voice, but you did not move either. Maybe this was foolish, but in his arms, for one quiet moment, it did not feel like a mistake.

“Do you always ask for the impossible ?” You murmured.

He exhaled through his nose. “Only the things I hope you will give.”

And somehow, just like that—without apology or command—your walls faltered. Just a little. Just enough to stay there, soaked and silent, your heart a fluttering thing in your chest.

There were other moments too. Smaller ones. Quieter than breath. The kind you almost missed if you were not paying close enough attention.

Passing him in the corridor—your arm brushing his by accident, or perhaps not entirely. His hand would linger, just barely, fingertips grazing the inside of your wrist like a question he did not dare ask. He never said anything, but he always looked back. Just once. Just long enough to make you wonder if he felt it too.

There were the near-collisions over wine at dinner—your hands both reaching for the same carafe, fingers brushing. A static moment that always hung a beat too long before either of you moved. You would pull back with a muttered ‘sorry’ and he would offer the faintest smile, as though that brief contact had said more than words ever could.

And sometimes, when he was not looking, you watched him. From the edge of the garden, half-hidden by the cypress trees. From the far end of the dining room where the candles did not quite reach. From shadowed hallways where he passed like a figure carved from marble—all broad shoulders and unreadable calm—except when he did not think anyone could see him.

Then, he was different. Less like a statue. More like a man.

You did not know why you still wanted to try. Why, despite everything—the fights, the silences, the bruises that were not his doing but still lived under his roof—you found yourself hoping.

Why your heart had the audacity to beat faster when he laughed—not that dry, curated chuckle meant for senators and generals. No. The real one. The rare, startled kind that cracked through his composure when you said something genuinely stupid or clever or both, and he forgot to be perfect for just a second.

Maybe you were a fool.

Maybe you were just lonely.

Or maybe—Gods help you—some quiet, buried part of you had started to believe that even a man made of stone could learn to hold warmth in his hands.

And maybe, if he did, he would learn how to hold you too.

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

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