#lays of ancient rome

[too-antigonish]

Morse: Fathers & Father Figures

What we learn about Morse's father in the Dexter's novels can seem a bit surprising in light of the way their relationship is depicted in Home.

According to a piece written by fellow author Mike Ripley, however, Dexter was, "...just about the only crime writer I know who has never bitched or complained about television adaptations of his work. He once told me that his philosophy was: “Books is books, telly is telly.” Only he probably put it more grammatically than that."

In Death Is Now My Neighbor, Dexter finally revealed Morse's first name: Endeavour. The chapter in question begins (tellingly?) with the epithet:

They fuck you up, your mum and dad. They may not mean to, but they do. They fill you with the faults they had And add some extra, just for you. (Philip Larkin, This Be the Verse') 

A bit into the chapter we arrive at a moment where Morse is strolling around Bath with his new love interest, Janet, and the following conversation takes place:

It was late morning, as they were walking arm-in-arm down to the city centre, following the signs to the Roman Baths, that she asked him the question:  'Shall I just keep calling you "Morse"?'. 'I'd prefer that, yes.'  'Whatever you say, sir!'  "You sound like Lewis. He always calls me "sir".' 'What do you call him?'  '"Lewis".' 'Does he know your Christian name?'  'No.'  'How come you got lumbered with it?'  Morse was silent awhile before answering:'They both had to leave school early, my parents - and they never had much of a chance in life themselves. That's partly the reason, I suppose. They used to keep on to me all the time about trying as hard as I could in life. They wanted me to do that. They expected me to do that. Sort of emotional blackmail, really - when you come to think of it.'  'Did you love them?" Morse nodded. 'Especially my father. He drank and gambled far too much ... but I loved him, yes. He knew nothing really - except two things: he could recite all of Macaulay's Lays of Ancient Rome by heart; and he'd read everything ever written about his greatest hero in life, Captain Cook - "Captain James Cook, 1728 to 1779", as he always used to call him.'  'And your mother?'  'She was a gentle soul. She was a Quaker.' 'It all adds up then, really?' said Janet slowly.  'I suppose so,' said Morse.

This conversation eventually leads to Janet convincing Morse to send Lewis a postcard in which he reveals his first name. The card reads:

"For Philistines like you, Lewis, as well as for classical scholars like me, this city with its baths, and temples must rank as one of the finest in Europe. You ought to bring the missus here some time. Did I ever get the chance to thank you for the few (!) contributions you made to our last case together? If I didn’t, let me thank you now – let me thank you for everything, my dear old friend. Yours aye, Endeavour (Morse)"

Spoiler: It makes Lewis cry.

One last note about Macaulay's Lays of Ancient Rome. The most famous poem from the collection is Horatius. It is quoted twice in Exeunt—first by a don, second and most memorably for me, by Thursday.

"Then out spake brave Horatius, The Captain of the Gate: "To every man upon this earth Death cometh soon or late. And how can man die better Than facing fearful odds, For the ashes of his fathers, And the temples of his Gods."'

[inspofromancientworld]

Lays of Ancient Rome and its Ancient Origins

By Photograph by MichaelMaggs; original artist unknown. - Own photo of original book cover, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=2198606

Thomas Babington Macaulay (1800-1859) 1st Baron Macaulay was a British poet and historian who also served as the Secretary at War and Paymaster General. He was born in Scotland, England, India, then returned to Scotland at the end of his life via Rome.He started the Lays of Ancient Rome, a collection of poems that he started while in India and continued as he went through Rome before publishing them in 1842. He wrote an introduction to each Lay, identifying the myths, legends, and history that he addresses in the poem.

By John Reinhard Weguelin - Scan of Illustration from book "The Lays of Ancient Rome", Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=2711627

The first Lay, Horatius, talks about how Publius Horatius Cocles, Spurius Larcius, and Titus Herminius held the Sublican bridge, which crossed the Tiber at Rome, against Lars Porsena, the King of Clusium, a Etruscan city, who were at war with the Romans. The bridge was the only crossing the Tiber into Rome and Rome itself was poorly defended.

By John Reinhard Weguelin - Scan of Illustration from book "The Lays of Ancient Rome", Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=2711862

The second Lay, The Battle of Lake Regillus, is about the titular battle which takes place after the retreat of King Lars, when Rome was under threat of the Latin League, a confederation of villages around the Latium area near Rome and led by Lucius Tarquinius Supberbus, the deposed king of Rome, and his son and son-in-law. It imitates Homer's style from the Iliad as it describes battles, which only is ended by the descent of Castor and Pollux, the twin gods of sailors and horsemanship, who were later set up as Gemini in the night sky.

By Giovanni Folo after Vincenzo Camuccini - Department of Image Collections, National Gallery of Art Library, Washington, DC•Catalog: https://library.nga.gov/permalink/01NGA_INST/1p5jkvq/alma991742963804896, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=108018319

The third lay, Virginia, tells the story of Virginius' only daughter, Virginia. He was a poor farmer and Appius Claudius, a member of Rome's upper class (the patrician class) and member of the ruling body, the decemvirs, who lusted after Virginia, who is portrayed as 'beautiful and virtuous'. He claims she is a run away slave, knowing the judge is in his purse (pockets weren't quite a thing yet as they appeared in approximately the 13th century). Her father is determined to save her by any means, even death. The result is a change to laws.

The next is the Prophecy of Capys, which tells the story of Romulus and Remus returning to their grandfather, Capys. Capys is a blind man who then has a prophetic vision of Romulus' descendants victories in the Pyrrhic and Punic wars, making them great.

You can read the Lays here.

[fictionadventurer]

Potential February Reads

East by Edith Pattou

Brideshead Revisited by Evelyn Waugh

The Beggar Prince by Kate Stradling

The Thrifty Guide to Ancient Rome: A Handbook for Time Travelers by Jonathan Stokes

Julius Caesar by William Shakespeare

The Frindle Files by Andrew Clement

A fantasy romance

[cryobabiess]

girldad!geta pleeease!

Filia Divina

Pairing: Emperor Geta x Wife!reader

Tags: childbirth, pregnancy, miscarriage mentioned, implied infanticide, soft!geta (if you squint), historically accurate practices, NOT BETA READ SO IF YOU SEE SOMETHING WONKY NO YOU DIDN’T, good ole fashioned misogyny

AN: Tollere Liberos is in reference to an ancient Roman tradition where a father decides whether or not to accept a newborn as their child. Rejected children were abandoned via ‘expositus’ (aka dead ass just leaving a baby out in the wilderness). So basically girldad!geta but historically accurate lol. Enjoy!

It had only been an hour since you birthed her—a sweet little creature with curls the color of honey and supple skin like the flesh of a ripe plum. With a mighty wail fit to be heard across an empire, she came into the world. Your goddess, Juno, generously granted her the health and strength you prayed for. You rejoiced, though your joy was not shared.

The midwives cleaned your daughter in grave silence, save for the whispers of the politic-men gathered to witness the birth of Rome’s divine son. They huddled together in the far corner of the chamber as your girl laid against her mother’s chest for the first time.

“It cannot be true—look again!” Geta frantically commands the weary doctor. He paces across the marble floor in a state of distress. A litany of expressions troubles his face; disbelief, panic, betrayal.

“My lord, it is not what was desired, but I assure you—the child is female. You have my greatest sorrows.” The doctor mournfully bows his head, knowing better than to look the short tempered prince in the eye.

Geta was persistent, diligently sewing his seed in your womb since your holy union. You passed two of his children as blood, and he held you as you suffered through the pain. He watched your body grow when his efforts succeeded, massaged your taut skin with olive oil, and fed you bread soaked in sweet wine when you felt ill. He even kneeled at Jupiter’s alter to call for the safe delivery of his first son and the health of his wife—All these precautions only to be cruelly slighted.

“The gods have punished me, yet I’ve done nothing but bend to their will.” Geta holds his head in disbelief, his devastation made evident by a deep scowl.

Senator Gracchus tentatively approaches your distraught husband, resting a sympathetic hand on his shoulder.

“My lord, we must atone for our offenses, whatever they may be. It is a grave misfortune indeed, but your bride—“

Rage ignites across Geta’s face as he pulls away from his constituent’s touch.

“Speak tactfully of your empress if you wish to keep your tongue, Senator.” He seethes through a tight jaw. Gracchus relents, his tone softening considerably. He continues slowly and with caution.

“Two winters have passed since your union, and she has yet to bring forth an heir of Rome. Her body has proved inhospitable. The gods have sent a message, and it would be foolish to turn a cheek—you must heed this omen! ”

Geta takes a moment, carefully considering the senator’s plea for reason. He looks back to you, Obsidian eyes gazing down at the linen sheet that obscures your sleeping child.

“I am a conduit of their will. Tollere Liberos will prevail and the gods will decide through me.” Geta turns to you fully. Your heart becomes heavy in your chest as you search your husband’s face for tenderness, but see nothing but solid stone.

In your dreams, you imagined the day Geta approached his first heir as sweet—that he might kiss your reddened cheeks and proudly claim his child. Never did you think the sight of him would cause you to tighten your grip and cower away. He looms over the bed where you lay, exhausted and perspiring, like a holy monument.

“Show me the child.”

“My love, I beg you—“

“Your emperor commands it.” Geta callously interrupts.

You unwrap your daughter in your arms, trembling hands moving as gingerly as possible. She shifts in her sleep, curling her precious limbs toward her delicate body, but does not wake. Geta’s eyes widen at the sight of her.

“So it is true. My faithful wife’s womb has betrayed me.” His gaze softens. Something stirs behind it, but you are not sure what.

“If you wish to return her life, then be merciful and do the same with mine.” Your heart twists and aches, your love for your emperor becoming a knife in your rib.

To your shock, Geta reaches out to his daughter, takes her tiny fist in his palm, and runs a thumb over her blushing knuckles. She wraps her hand around her father’s finger with a mighty yawn.

You have seldom seen your restless husband become so still.

“She bears your resemblance.” Geta’s voice is but a whisper. His gaze doesn’t stray from her. It appears his heart aches the same as yours.

“And a head of golden hair.” You can only offer an exhausted smile.

Geta takes his daughter into his arms for the first time.

“The gods have spoken!” He declares to the small gathering of senators. Your emperor raises his girl above the laurels atop his head. Some look on with horror, and others with pride.

“She will have my name! It is done.”

As your daughter’s first weeks pass, Geta’s tenderness only grows. In the lavender hours of dawn, you wake to find him cradling her in the crook of his arm. He speaks to her softly.

“Poor girl, you have wounded your father’s pride. My, what tragedy.”

You smile at the sound of her gentle crooning as your husband assuages her back to sleep.

“A son would belong to Rome—but you, dear Septima, will belong to me.”

[multific]

His Love

Marcus Acacius x Reader

Summary: You were meant to marry him, thinking he is an unkind man, you kept your distance from him, but soon, you learned the truth. 

As the sun cast its golden rays over the bustling streets of ancient Rome, Marcus Acacius, a bold Roman soldier, crossed paths with you, his soon-to-be wife. 

At first, your heart held nothing but hate for this man, seeing him as a brute and unkind soul. 

However, destiny had a different plan in store for both of you.

In an unexpected turn of events, you discovered that he was nothing like your initial judgment had led you to believe. 

Beneath his hardened exterior lay a heart filled with kindness, compassion, and a burning love for you.

You wanted to explore that.

To see where it would lead the two of you. 

And so, you began to spend more time together. 

You ate together and even went on many walks around the city. Seeing him interact with people made you realise just how kind he was.

Watching him smile spread a warmth inside your heart.

Slowly, the walls you had built around your heart began to crumble. 

Marcus's gentle words and thoughtful gestures slowly melted away your worries, allowing love to blossom inside you. 

In the tender moments shared, he revealed his vulnerability and how deeply he had fallen for you.

One evening, Marcus took your hand and whispered to you. 

"My love, I know that our journey together began with animosity, but I promise you, my intentions have always been pure. I am here to protect you, cherish you, and love you with every fibre of my being."

Tears welled up in your eyes at his words. 

"Marcus, I never imagined that behind your cold facade, there would be such a loving heart. I am grateful for the person you have shown me, and I too must confess, I have fallen deeply in love with you."

From that moment forward, your lives intertwined as you embarked on a journey filled with love, trust, and unwavering devotion.

Your wedding was simple. Your family was there, and you had a great time.

But you were just thankful for the journey ahead of you with a husband so loving, kind and handsome. 

In the years that followed, amidst the madness of war and the difficulties of life, Marcus remained your dedicated rock. 

His unwavering support and unwavering love carried you through every storm, reminding you of the depth of his commitment.

Of his Love.

Taglist: 

@castellandiangelo @imagines-by-a-typical-fangirl @manduse @jacalineiscomingforyou 

@mandoloriancookie @deliciousfestsalad @lilliumrorum @asgards-princess-of-mischief 

@fallout-girl219 @dracaryxzs @snowtargaryen 

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

/YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO TRANSLATE, TO STEAL OR TO REUPLOAD ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[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.”

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[cherubimcore]

in another life

pairing: emperor caracalla x fem!reader

author's notes: so... i'm still in my brainrot era for caracalla and can't stop thinking about him, this is supposed to be a romeo and juliet based fanfic but i don't think that it's similar?? i tried, okay... also this is VERY occ for caracalla and there is probably some inconsistencies about ancient rome :)

warnings: character death

in the sprawling empire of rome, power was a fickle god, worshiped by many and feared by all. the twin emperors, caracalla and geta, ruled with an iron grip, their partnership fraught with rivalry and shadowed by whispers of rebellion. their reign was a delicate balance between ruthless control and the ever-looming threat of betrayal.

you arrived at the so-called capital of the world with your father, a king of a distant and prosperous kingdom that bordered this grandiose empire. rome had extended its hand in friendship to your land, offering an alliance that promised prosperity in exchange of the rich resources that they coveted. but beneath your father’s polished words and ceremonial offerings lay a darker purpose: he had aligned himself with the rebellious senators, promising aid in their scheme to assassinate the emperors.

as your father’s only child, you were raised to understand the intricacies of court politics. you were his crown jewel, the tool he wielded to charm, to negotiate, to manipulate. in the emperor’s court, you were not just his daughter—you were his weapon, his most valuable pawn in this dangerous game. raised to charm and manipulate, you knew your role well—to earn the emperors’ trust, particularly caracalla’s, and distract him long enough for your father’s plan to unfold.

your arrival was announced with all the pomp rome could muster. the imperial palace loomed above you, an oppressive monument to the power of the two brothers who sat on its throne. emperor caracalla and emperor geta greeted you in the grand atrium, their guards standing stiffly at attention.

geta spoke first, his smile cool and diplomatic. "we welcome you to rome. we hope this alliance will strengthen the bonds between our nations."

caracalla stood beside him, his gaze sharp and appraising as it rested on you. where geta greeted you and your father with the smooth diplomacy of a seasoned statesman, caracalla’s approach was raw, unfiltered.

"your daughter must be the jewel of your court," caracalla said, his eyes lingering on you. "tell me, princess, are you here to negotiate for your father or to keep us distracted with your beauty?"

his eyes locked onto yours, and for a moment, the noise of the palace faded into nothingness, a blush crept up your neck, but you met his gaze without flinching. "perhaps both, caesar. beauty has its uses, after all."

he smirked at your boldness, though something in his expression shifted—a flicker of interest, perhaps. it was the beginning of a dangerous dance, one you were unsure you could win.

your father laughed, the sound forced and hollow. "she is here to learn, caesar. to see the heart of the empire and to witness its greatness."

"and perhaps," geta interjected smoothly, "to see a future where our nations stand united."

the meeting was brief, a show for the gathered senators and nobles. but as you followed your father out of the hall, you felt caracalla’s gaze linger on you, heavy and unrelenting.

days turned to weeks, and you found yourself drawn into the web of roman politics and deeply intertwined with your father’s plan alongside the senate, your role in the plan was clear: earn caracalla’s trust, distract him, and keep him blind to the storm brewing around him. but the emperor was not an easy man to deceive.

caracalla was nothing like his brother. where geta was polished and calculating, but still easily manipulated by your father’s tactics and the promise of becoming more rich and powerful with the fake alliance, caracalla was unrestrained, he moved through the court like a lion in a cage waiting for an opening, a weakness to attack.

this was the man you had to win over.

but, despite your father’s warnings, you found yourself intrigued by him.

it all started the very next day.

the palace gardens were caracalla’s private sanctuary, a place rarely visited by anyone but the emperor himself. you had stumbled upon it by accident, your wandering taking you through a small, ivy-covered archway that led into the hidden oasis. the air smelled of blooming jasmine and freshly turned soil, and the sound of a trickling fountain filled the space.

you were admiring the garden when you heard a low voice behind you. “you’ve found my secret.”

startled, you turned to see caracalla standing just beyond the archway. he wasn’t wearing his usual armor or the heavy robes you saw him wearing the other day, but a simple tunic and sandals. the sight of him like this—relaxed, almost unguarded—caught you off guard.

“i didn’t mean to intrude,” you said quickly, scared of the outburst that you heard happening in the walls of the palace when emperor caracalla felt unease “i didn’t realize this was yours.”

he stepped forward, waving off your concern. “you don’t need to apologize.” his tone was light, but there was a faint amusement in his eyes.

you shifted awkwardly, unsure whether to leave or stay. “it’s… beautiful here. i wouldn’t have expected this from you.”

his lips curved into a small, sardonic smile. “because you think I’m incapable of appreciating beauty?”

“i think you spend so much time commanding armies, intimidating senators and watching fights in the colosseum that it’s hard to imagine you planting flowers,” you said boldly, surprising even yourself.

he chuckled—a low, warm sound that made your chest tighten. “fair. but even a tyrant needs a place to think.” he gestured for you to follow him deeper into the garden.

you hesitated, then complied, walking beside him as he led you to a stone bench beneath a towering olive tree. the fountain gurgled nearby, its water sparkling in the afternoon sun.

“you come here often?” you asked, glancing at him.

“when i can,” he admitted, sitting on the bench and gesturing for you to do the same. “this was my mother’s garden. she designed it herself.”

the mention of his mother softened his voice, and you sat down, intrigued by this side of him. “it’s lovely,” you said. “she must have been a remarkable woman.”

“she was,” he said quietly. for a moment, his usual bravado faded, leaving something raw and unguarded in its place. “she loved things that grew. said it was a reminder that life could flourish even in the harshest conditions.”

his words surprised you. this wasn’t the cruel emperor you had been warned about, the man whose name was spoken with fear and loathing in equal measure. this was someone else entirely—a son mourning his mother, a man seeking solace in a world that demanded so much from him, as a princess soon to be queen, you felt for him.

“i think she’d be proud of what you’ve done with it,” you said softly.

he glanced at you, his gaze searching. “and what about you, princess? what do you think?”

you hesitated, unsure if he was asking about the garden or himself. finally, you said, “i think there’s more to you than what people say.”

his expression shifted, a flicker of vulnerability crossing his face. “and if i told you i don’t know how much of that man is left?”

you looked at him, truly looked at him, and saw not the monster your father had painted him to be but a man struggling beneath the weight of an empire. “then maybe you should spend more time here,” you said gently, gesturing to the garden. “it seems to bring out the best in you.”

he smiled then—a real smile, not the sardonic smirk or the calculated grin you had grown accustomed to. it was fleeting, but it made your heart skip all the same.

“perhaps you’re right,” he said, his voice soft.

the two of you sat there for a while, the silence between you warm and unspoken, the garden wrapping you in its quiet embrace. and for the first time, you wondered if you had misjudged him entirely.

as weeks turned into months, your encounters with caracalla became more frequent and intimate. he shared stories of his childhood, of the relentless pressure to prove himself, while you offered glimpses of your own struggles—carefully omitting your father’s true intentions.

one afternoon, during a rare moment of peace, caracalla pulled you aside, leading you to a hidden alcove in the palace. “i want to show you something,” he said, his voice quieter than usual.

he revealed a small pendant, its surface engraved with intricate patterns. “my mother gave this to me when i was a boy,” he explained. “she said it would protect me.”

“it’s beautiful,” you said, studying the craftsmanship.

he hesitated, then pressed the pendant into your palm. “i want you to have it.”

your breath caught. “i can’t take this. it’s yours.”

“i trust you with it,” he said, his tone firm but kind. “and… i trust you.”

the weight of his words left you speechless, and as he closed your fingers around the pendant, you realized that your heart had betrayed you entirely and you felt the first stirrings of guilt for the betrayal you were complicit in.

days passed and you hadn’t heard from either emperor caracalla or emperor geta, not even your father, who was starting to feel unease.

“what if they found out?” he would repeat to you pretty much every night after another day passed without hearing a word from the twins “did we underestimate them somehow? did the senate underestimate them?”

a part of you wanted that to be true, that both of the emperors discovered your father and the senate’s plans, even if that would mean your death, even if you would have to stare at caracalla’s eyes after you had betrayed him, you could do that as long as he didn’t die.

but then the gilded invitation arrived in the early hours of the day, you were already awake, anxious about your father’s anxiety, so you were the only one in the house to pick them up from the praetorian guard, after thanking the man and closing the door, you admired the letter’s ornate edges and wax seal marking it as a token of the imperial court. you turned it over in your hands, noting the unfamiliar handwriting on one of the envelopes. unlike the formal script of past correspondences, this handwriting was bold and deliberate, almost impatient.

breaking the seal, you unfolded the parchment and read:

“to honor the customs of your homeland, a ball will be held tonight in the imperial palace. wear your finest attire. i will be waiting. – c.”

your breath hitched at the signature. not geta, whose name was synonymous with the empire's carefully curated diplomacy. no, this was unmistakably from caracalla. the thought of his hand crafting those words sent a strange thrill through you, though you quickly shook it off.

that evening, the palace was aglow with light, torches and lanterns casting a golden hue over the sprawling marble corridors. the distant hum of music grew louder as you approached the grand ballroom, your gown—a rich fabric from your homeland—whispering against the polished floor.

inside, nobles twirled in an elaborate dance, their laughter mingling with the music. the scent of spiced wine and fresh flowers filled the air. yet, despite the overwhelming splendor, you felt his presence before you saw him.

caracalla stood near the far end of the ballroom, his dark attire contrasting starkly with the vibrant colors of the guests. his gaze swept the room until it found you, and once it did, it remained fixed, unwavering.

you hesitated, your heart racing. you could feel the weight of his attention as he made his way through the crowd, his movements deliberate and unhurried.

“princess,” he greeted when he finally reached you, his voice low and rich.

“caesar,” you replied, curtsying slightly.

“you wear the traditions of your homeland well,” he said, his eyes tracing the intricate embroidery of your gown before returning to meet your gaze. “the room pales in comparison.”

heat rose to your cheeks, and you struggled to maintain your composure. “flattery is unbecoming of an emperor.”

he smirked, leaning in slightly. “then perhaps i’ll save it for when we’re alone.”

before you could respond, he extended his hand. “dance with me.”

you glanced around, noting the curious stares of the other guests, but you knew refusing would only draw more attention. reluctantly, you placed your hand in his, and he led you to the center of the ballroom.

the music shifted to a slower tempo as he pulled you into the first steps of the dance. his hand settled firmly on your waist, his other holding yours with surprising gentleness.

“you look uneasy,” he observed, his tone teasing but not unkind.

“i’m dancing with the emperor,” you replied, forcing a small smile. “should i not be?”

“perhaps,” he said, his lips curving into a faint smile. “but I’d prefer if you didn’t look so ready to flee.”

his words struck too close to the truth, and you averted your gaze, focusing instead on the rhythm of your steps. yet, even as you tried to maintain distance, his presence was overwhelming, his gaze drawing you back to him.

“you intrigue me,” he admitted softly, his voice low enough that only you could hear.

“why?” the word escaped before you could stop it.

“because you’re different,” he said simply. “you don’t fawn or flatter. you look at me like…” he trailed off, searching for the right words. “like i’m human.”

for a moment, the mask he wore—the ruthless emperor, the conqueror—seemed to crack, revealing something more vulnerable beneath. it unsettled you, yet it also drew you in.

the music slowed, and the dancers around you began to disperse, but caracalla didn’t let go. instead, he guided you toward a quieter corner of the room, away from the prying eyes of the court.

“why do you do that?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

“do what?”

“look at me like…” you faltered, unsure how to articulate the intensity of his gaze.

“like you’re the only one here?” he finished for you, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes.

you nodded, your breath catching as he took a step closer.

“because you are,” he said, his voice soft yet resolute.

before you could process his words, he leaned in, his hand rising to cup your cheek. the kiss was slow, deliberate, and completely disarming. for a moment, the world fell away, leaving only the warmth of his lips and the steady pressure of his hand on your back.

but as the reality of what was happening sank in, panic gripped you. you broke away abruptly, your breathing uneven as you stepped back.

“i… i can’t,” you stammered, your voice trembling.

his expression didn’t falter. instead, a faint smile tugged at his lips, as though he had expected your reaction. “it’s all right,” he said gently. “i’ll wait.”

his confidence unnerved you, and before you could say anything more, you turned and fled, your heart racing as you slipped into the shadows of the palace halls.

even as you disappeared into the night, even after you went to your room, changed clothes and tried your best to forget what happened his words lingered in your mind as well as his lips against yours.

unbeknownst to you and caracalla, the senators had finalized their plans the night of the ball. your father’s role was to provide soldiers to infiltrate the palace under the cover of night, but he himself also wanted to be present to see the emperors being eliminated in a swift, coordinated attack by his men.

later that night doubt began to creep into your mind. caracalla, for all his flaws, had shown you a side of himself that few others had seen. his ferocity masked a profound loneliness, a desire to be understood that resonated deeply with you, besides you couldn’t deny to yourself anymore you were actually falling in love with him.

after twisting and turning in your bed, feeling the pendant he gave you as a gift weighing more and more as the hours passed you decided to confront your father.

"are you sure this is the only way?" you asked, your voice trembling

he turned to you while putting his armor, his expression hard. "do not forget your duty, my daughter. rome is a beast that devours all in its path. if we don’t strike first, it will destroy us."

you wanted to believe him. you wanted to convince yourself that caracalla was nothing more than a tyrant, that his death would save your people. but the thought of his blood on your hands made your chest tighten with a pain you couldn’t explain.

so when your father turned around to leave the house and meet with his soldiers and the senate one last time before killing the man you so loved, you made a decision on the spot.

the halls of the palace were dark and eerily silent, save for the soft rustle of your hurried steps. the chill of the night bit at your skin as you clutched your cloak tightly, the pendant caracalla had given you swinging against your chest with every movement.

you shouldn’t have been here. you shouldn’t have left your chambers, defying your father’s orders and the pact he had made with the senate. but the thought of caracalla lying dead, betrayed by those closest to him, made it impossible to stay away.

when you reached his quarters, you hesitated for a moment before pushing the heavy doors open.

caracalla stood by the window, his figure outlined by the pale moonlight. he turned at the sound, his expression softening when he saw you. but his brow furrowed when he noticed the fear etched across your face.

“princess,” he said, his voice low, laced with concern. “what’s wrong?”

“they’re coming for you,” you said, your voice trembling. “my father… the senate… they’ve sent soldiers to kill you and your brother.”

he stared at you, his face unreadable. “you shouldn’t be here,” he said, his tone gentle but firm. “if they find you with me—”

“i don’t care!” you interrupted, stepping closer. “i couldn’t let you die without warning you. without trying to save you.”

his jaw tightened, but before he could respond, the sound of boots echoed in the corridor outside. the soldiers had arrived.

caracalla moved to draw his sword, but you grabbed his arm. “no,” you said desperately. “you can’t fight them all. you’ll die.”

“and what would you have me do?” he asked, his voice heavy with resignation. “run? hide? i am caesar. if i must die, i will die standing.”

the doors burst open before you could respond, and a group of soldiers flooded into the room, their swords drawn. at their head stood a centurion, his gaze cold and unwavering as he pointed his blade at caracalla.

“step aside, princess,” the centurion commanded. “this is not your fight.”

you moved in front of caracalla, spreading your arms wide. “if you want to kill him,” you said, your voice steady despite the terror coursing through you, “you’ll have to kill me first.”

“don’t make this harder than it has to be,” the centurion said, his tone almost pleading. “step aside. this is justice.”

“justice?” you spat. “this is treachery. and i won’t be a part of it.”

the soldiers hesitated, exchanging uneasy glances. but the centurion raised his blade, his resolve hardening.

caracalla’s hand came to rest on your shoulder, and you turned to face him. his eyes, usually so fierce and calculating, were soft and full of something you hadn’t expected—peace.

“you didn’t have to do this,” he said, his voice low and full of emotion.

“yes, i did,” you replied, your voice breaking. “because i love you.”

the words tumbled out before you could stop them, and for a moment, the world seemed to stand still. “i love you,” you said again, tears streaming down your face. “i don’t know when it happened, or how, but you’re not the monster they said you were. you’re flawed and human and—”

caracalla silenced you with a smile, his hand lifting to cup your cheek. “i love you, too,” he said, his voice as soft as the breeze outside. “i think i have since the moment i met you.”

he leaned down, his lips brushing yours in a kiss that was both tender and desperate, as if you could somehow pour all the words you hadn’t spoken into that single moment.

when he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his voice a whisper. “i wish we had more time.”

“in another life,” you said, your voice trembling, “the gods will grant us that wish.”

a shout from the soldiers brought you back to reality, and caracalla’s arms tightened around you.

the soldiers moved as one, their blades piercing through you and caracalla in unison. pain blossomed in your chest, but it was dulled by the warmth of his arms around you. you felt yourself falling, and he held you tightly, lowering you to the ground as his own strength faded.

your head rested against his chest, his heartbeat slowing beneath your ear. his lips pressed to your forehead one last time.

and as the darkness closed in, you clung to the hope that somewhere, in another life, you would find each other again.

in the years that followed, your story became legend. the foreign princess and the emperor who fell in love despite the odds, who died together in defiance of a world that sought to tear them apart.

the marble pillars of caracalla's room bore silent witness to your final act of defiance, and in the years to come, flowers were left there in quiet tribute to a love that defied the gods themselves.

rome remembered you not as a traitor, but as a symbol of love and loyalty—proof that even in the darkest times, light could be found in the unlikeliest of places.

[pyjamatranslation]

The Agony & The Ecstasy

Part 1 of 2.

Plot: A woman is sentence to death for murdering her husband. In the cells of the Colosseum, she meets Lucius. 900 words.

Warning: Mentions of a shitty husband, loss of child, blood, murder, suicide.

A/N: This is my first time writing fanfiction. After some light research, ancient Rome was not a nice place to be a woman.

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Lucius lay on his cot, near sleep despite the chaos of sounds beyond his cell.  Injured men groaned in agony as they tried to survive the night.  The animals of his homeland grunted and snorted at whim.  Footsteps now scuffled along the sand walkway with the distinct sound of something being dragged.  A cell was opened then locked, the footsteps receding. He tried to quiet his curiosity and nearly succeeded until a woman screamed.  Jolting up in bed at the sound of it, he thought of his wife.  The scream hadn’t been one of fear or injury, but of rage and strength.  His wife made that sound on the battlefield many a time.  Standing now, he pressed himself against his cell door to see more.  

In the cell diagonal to his, a woman paced back and forth.  He would have thought the dark red stains on her stola were wine if not for the pattern he knew came from blood spraying out of a mortal wound.  He had seen her before, in the stands of the Colosseum sitting next to the senators. 

“My lady,” he called.  She whipped her head towards his voice, the way the tigers did when you walked too close to their cages.  Her eyes were wild and glistened with unshed tears that reflected the flames of the torches lining the tunnel.  “Whose blood is that?”  She looked down at herself as if unaware of the stain upon her clothes and hands.  

“My husband’s.  A beloved senator of Rome.”  Disappointment escaped him as a sigh, a pity it wasn’t the General’s or one of the emperor’s. 

“Not beloved by all.���  She looked at him briefly then moved to rattle the door of her cell, her frustration making it a valiant effort.  “What did he do to you?”  He wondered.  She kept her hands wrapped around the bars but knelt gently as her adrenaline faded and gave way to exhaustion.

“I gave birth today.”  Lucius thought she was ignoring his question until she continued, “My husband refused the baby.”  The tears that threatened to fall earlier fell now, a mark down each cheek, the wet lines a tragic war paint.  “It’s the second time he’s done it.”  Lucius moved from standing at the bars to sit and lean against them.  He thought of the Roman custom tollere liberos of laying the newborn on the ground for the father to see.  Picking it up and raising it into the air was a father’s way of accepting to raise the child.  If the father didn’t, the child was abandoned, left outside to the elements and the animals. “I created life, I carried the child.  Yet he has the power to decide its fate.  Why?  What has he done to earn that right?”  She looked to Lucius like he might have the answer.  He didn’t.  “I created life.  I took his away.  I earned that right.  My body, my child, my hand on the knife.”  Lucius watched as she leaned her head again the metal bars.  Tomorrow they’d hand her a wooden sword and she’d fight for her life in the Colosseum, punishment for killing a man, but in truth, it was punishment for daring to fight against a system that gave her no control over her life.

* * * * * * *

Lucius knelt in the arena, his hands sifting through the sand and remembering everyone he’d lost.  It was over now, there would be no more bloodshed.  No more pain.  The grief would be his lifelong companion but there would be comfort in that familiar pain.  He tensed at the sound of movement, swivelling his head to find the source of it.  The lady had survived the day, but barely.  She half crawled, half hobbled towards the downed body of a royal guard, one arm wrapped around herself.  Lucius breathed in relief and wondered how long before the idea of peace settled in and he no longer needed to fight and watch for threats.  He stood to go to her, watching as she reached for the guard’s sword.  Swaying to a standing position, she held the sword up and Lucius could see the colourful clouds reflected in the blade as he approached her.  He watched in horror as she turned the sword around so it pointed at herself.  His relaxed footfalls turned to hurried steps as he ran towards her.

“No!” he called out.  Jarred by his voice, she stumbled as she turned to see who was there.  Almost within reach of her now, he slowed as she pointed the sword at him.  

“Leave me be,” she said, her voice shaking.

“I will not let another drop of blood fall in this sand.”  She moved her hand away from her waist to show him the blood pooling into the fabric of her dress there.

“Let me go,” she pleaded.  He stepped closer to try to help stop the bleeding but she swung the sword at him.  He dodged it and caught her wrist, twisting it with enough pressure to have her yelp and drop the sword.  He regretted the first but was relieved by the second.  His other hand came around her to press against the wound at her side.  She hissed at the pain. 

“We need to get you to a doctor.”  She fought his embrace,

“I cannot bear to be a childless mother.  Release me of that agony, please, have mercy on me.”  There was a time when he did not care if he lived or died.  Having seen the light beyond that darkness, he couldn’t leave her lost in hers.  

“I will find your child,” he promised.  She stopped fighting him, tilting her head to look at him.  Her hand wrapped around his wrist but it was her expression of wonder and gratitude that grabbed a hold of him.  This moment touched him more deeply than the accolades and applause of the amphitheatre were ever meant to.   

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Thanks for reading!

[pendragonsclotpole]

building on my idea that merlin takes on the name ambrose pendragon after arthur’s death, like imagine it’s 50 years later.

everyone from camelot is dead. the anglo-saxons have won, historical conquests of britain are continuing on as they did and here remains merlin, previously known as emrys, neither name really a surname and the latter always more of a title, but both representative of a world that no longer exists, a kingdom that has fallen apart, a servant with no master, a half without that which makes it whole.

so maybe merlin leaves. he explores. first he travels the isle and perhaps when people ask him who he is he defaults to an ancient practice. people, you see, have often been known by what they do or who they serve or where they come from. for a while, for the decades that pass wherein people remember the rule of the pendragons and the great kingdom of camelot and the failed prophecies of albion, he is not Merlin of Ealdor but Merlin of Camelot.

but people die. memories fade. time passes. merlin remains. and after a while, he cannot call himself Merlin of Camelot. not only do people forget his old kingdom, they forget his name, they bring along new languages and then around 300 years after arthur’s death, a collection of stories begin to be written, about magic, about merlin, about—

Arthur.

people you see, have often been defined by what they do or who they serve or where they come from. when the stories of arthur begin to be told anew, and remain with merlin through the tide of centuries, merlin resolves to forge a new name. he devises first the name in the style of a servant or of some of the common folk.

Merlin of Pendragon.

merlin toys with that idea, wears it for a few decades but something in those words rings false, sounds wrong, and unsettles his blood, as if he lays claim to a dynasty that shall never be his and will never rise again. when he uses it, people laugh and think him an uneducated fool playing at legend. it feels trite and awkward and wrong.

Merlin Pendragon sounds better, more forgivable if not entirely presentable. It makes merlin sound like he is a Pendragon, but only one sorcerer has ever laid claim to the Pendragon name and her name had not been merlin. (it makes merlin a Pendragon, and not even when Arthur lived had merlin considered such a fate a possibility, that Arthur could ever consider—)

merlin continues thinking, and by the time he settles on a replacement it is out of obligation and urgency. he cannot be nameless while he works as a healer and travels the world and serves other people as best as he can. he cannot be merlin Pendragon if the only man who could have conferred that name to him is dead.

instead he becomes Emrys Pendragon, and for a while, that name becomes a second skin. but like the serpent he has always been, merlin eventually sheds that skin. centuries have passed and those who once bore the name emrys, the last descendants of the druids and the people of Camelot, now only recognize that name in legend. the name once more marks him as stupid fool in love with the romantic notion of chivalry. besides, the languages have shifted and a name that once rolled off the tongue has become clotted and stuck in the mouths of people. no one can say it as it had once been said nor as it once belonged by arthur’s side, if only in secret.

merlin again returns to the drawing board, and luckily by that time he is aware of the translations of his many names. on a visit to rome, the grand imperial capital Arthur once dreamt of seeing as a young man, merlin thinks of a perfect substitute. His final name.

Ambrose.

Ambrose Pendragon.

it is emrys, but not quite.

it is merlin as he is forced to live without Arthur.

it is what Arthur could have been if he had lived at merlin’s side.

it is, written shorter, A. Pendragon.

it is a simple name. it is a stupid name. it is a name that breaks his heart and reminds him of his failings and keeps the faith alive within him.

years after adopting the name, merlin wakes up and walks to his desk and sees the name written on the outside of an envelope and he imagines it’s a letter from arthur.

a thousand years later, he sees it written on the sides of coffee cups and envelopes, monogrammed on his coats and cufflinks, inked on his essays, emblazoned on the side of his shop, and merlin imagines that when Arthur returns, he will return to a world already familiar with an A. Pendragon.

It shall be a welcoming world, as if across all these centuries, by some miracle, Arthur Pendragon had lived all along.

[irrelevantwriter]

His Wife, Her Power

Pairing: Emperor Geta (Gladiator 2) x Female Reader/You

Warnings: NSFW, Ancient Rome type shit, vaginal fingering, unprotected vaginal sex, mentions of bodily fluids, power couple tings

Word Count: 3242

Summary: Part 2. The Emperor of Rome learns just who he chose to be his queen.

A/N: Part two is upon us. And its gonna get nasty. Again, I took major liberties with Ancient Rome. Let’s pretend okay. There also might be a part three 👀 Feedback is that good shit.💗

*Read Part One here

*Masterlist

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

You released a breath, feeling the last of your hair being freed from the confines of their pins. Your maiden brushed through your hair gently, nearly lulling you to sleep. Lavender emanated from your skin, making the temptation of slumber all the more intense.

“Your highness, the Emperor has called for you,” she whispered, setting the ivory comb aside. 

You nodded, a kind smile aimed her way. “Thank you. I’ll be along shortly,” you gently dismissed, not wanting to be followed. 

She understood. 

You took a moment to gather yourself in the solitude of your own chambers. You thought back on the day and the events that led you here. It’d started as any other and now you were possibly facing a fate much worse than death. 

Geta had been infuriated at you. He did not wish to eat dinner with you nor bathe with you. You hadn’t seen him since he’d threatened a night of merciless tyranny. 

Your husband, while sadistic at times, was simply a man. He did not want for much when it came to a wife. But you…you yearned for so much more. More than him crawling atop you. More than the uncoordinated coitus you’d grown accustomed to. And despite your husband’s misgivings, you did love him. You did lust for him. 

But he had barely scratched the surface of just what kind of woman he’d married. 

A knock from outside your door let you know a guard was waiting to escort you. You glanced down at your attire, pleased with the color choice. A robe of red and gold, similar to that of your husband’s, adorned your frame. It concealed what lay underneath. A sheer stola, the shade similar to the deepest scarlet rose you’d ever seen. One that lay in the gardens just beyond your chambers. 

Your sandals padded softly along the marble floors, soft echoes following you. A guard was placed at your front and back. At first glance, it looked to be for your protection. But something told you otherwise.

The journey to your husband’s quarters was long. Unnecessarily so. Once you’d made it to the entrance of his chambers, the guard at your front knocked on the door. It opened, revealing the Emperor’s own maiden. She smiled, eyes downcast and not meeting your own as she greeted you.

“Your highness, the Emperor is waiting.” 

She stepped aside, letting you through. You thanked her, holding your robe together as she left, the door closing in a muted thud. 

Soft light glowed throughout the room from several candles. A tray of fruits and meats sat near goblets of wine. By the looks of it, your husband had already helped himself. 

“You seem nervous.”

His voice startled you. He made himself known when he stepped out of the darkness of the night, sheer curtains blowing in the gentle breeze of his balcony. 

He wore a robe that nearly matched yours though his was much more intricate and regal. 

“If I appear nervous it is only because I wish to please my emperor,” you said with a bow of your head. 

Geta scoffed. 

“Placations will not get you far here, my love.”

He reached for you, beckoning your forward. You took his hand, letting him lead you. He bypassed the food and poured you a hearty glass of wine, maroon droplets sloshing over the side as he did so. 

“Here. You’ll need it.”

You took the drink, bringing it to your lips. You sipped, the pungent taste of grapes making you feel warm already. 

“My, my…someone is in a hurry,” Geta teased, his own glass poised in the air as if to make a toast. 

You belatedly realized he’d meant to toast with you. Humiliation crept its way up your spine. 

“I’m sorry, Augustus,” you softly offered, licking the excess wine off your lips. 

“It’s alright. I’d say that’s the least of your discretions, wouldn’t you?” 

He smiled and you couldn’t tell if he was speaking in jest or just waiting for the right moment to strike. 

You watched as he took a long pull from his glass, swallowing nearly all of its contents. A wayward drop made its journey down the hill of his Adam’s apple and over his exposed chest. Your stare was unabashed. He took notice. 

He looked at you for a long moment and it nearly made you uncomfortable. You took another sip from your wine, feeling that fuzzy sensation start to move through your limbs. 

“You, my wife,” he started, placing his cup on the table, “are truly a stunning sight. Do you know that?”

You smiled, eyes aimed down at the rare emotion in your husband’s voice. 

“You don’t believe me?” 

You placed your glass down, shaking your head. “Of course I do, Augustus.”

“You know all of Rome has you in their hearts. Their Emperor as well. A slave to you. And you dare to seem coy when I remark upon your beauty?”

He was teasing you. 

“A true lady of Rome knows of her beauty. But she never lets others know. That is her strength,” you replied, meeting the slow burn beginning to take shape in his eyes.

Geta smiled. A hint of pride in his face at your words. 

“Ah, there she is. What did you call yourself earlier?” He mimed as if he was thinking, a ringless hand lifted to his chin. “Oh yes! A jungle cat. My jungle cat.” 

His features shifted then. His shoulders squared. His chin up and pointed down at you. An Emperor coming to life. 

“You were quite the spectacle today, wife. A rarity even for you,” he remarked as he slowly started to circle you. 

“Forgive me, husband. I was speaking out of turn. That is my error.”

You flinched when his hand weaved itself into your loosened tresses. He played with the ends, his chest nearly touching your back. 

“While I appreciate the gesture, I much prefer your talk of freedom and sorcery.”

He moved to stand in front of you again, any traces of anger or irritation erased. 

“I thought of your words for the remainder of the day. And I have to admit,” he paused, eyes lasciviously roaming across your figure. “I am intrigued.” 

You felt your nipples pebble beneath your clothing at the way he was taking you in. He looked starved. A wild animal ready to pounce. It made the heartbeat centered in your chest travel downwards. It stopped between your legs. 

“I am not a sorceress,” you attested, squaring your own shoulders when he laughed. 

“Some say you are. Displayed by the way the people adore you. The way your Emperor does.”

He stepped closer, hands reaching for the opening of your robe that lay at your breasts. 

“I only love who I have a duty to love. There is no crime in that.”

Geta cupped your cheek, tutting down at you. “Of course not, my love. But I want to see what lies beyond that duty.” 

He pushed your robe off your shoulders, revealing your barely hidden form beneath it. The fabric fell to your feet, leaving your arms naked. A breeze kicked up, making your nipples even more prominent against the sheer fabric. 

Geta took you in slowly, the flames of his gaze heating the chill of the night. 

“I want you to give yourself to me. Freely. It is your turn to take, my love. You have my explicit permission.”

A thunderous wave accompanied the heartbeat between your thighs at your husband’s words. His hands made a home at your hips. His lips, at your allowance, pressed gently into yours. And it was you, drunk on the power wielded over to you, that opened your mouth to welcome him in. 

Your tongues danced together as one, the taste of wine evident. He grasped at the fabric concealing you and grunted against your lips. You pushed his own robe from his shoulders, baring him to your eager eyes. He was no Roman soldier, but he was built sturdy as any god carved from marble. 

“Let me touch you,” he pleaded, the words sounding like a symphony to your ears. You nodded, allowing him to undo the knot at your shoulder. 

Your own hands reached for the knot at his waist, the only piece of clothing he wore to cover his modesty. You’d never initiated such a thing. Geta buried himself into your neck at the action. 

Within seconds, you were both bare. His hands tangled in your hair while yours tugged at his. He tasted the column of your neck, moaning when he tasted something sweet. Honey. 

“I wish to show you something,” you breathed, pulling him from your chest. 

He nodded, eyes unfocused as he tried hard to listen to your words.

You led him to his own bed, releasing him so that you could lay back. You were on display for him. Curves highlighted by candlelight. Your hair was fanned around you, creating a halo. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think your husband was worshipping a goddess at her altar. He looked like a man lost in the desert, gazing upon you as if all hope was centered between your thighs. 

For him, it was.

You took him in. Unruly curls, wild eyes, and a cock as hard as the stone columns you resided in. He panted as if he’d run a mile to get to you. Sweat glistening off his pale skin. He was his own sight to behold. 

“Do you know, my Emperor, that I cast a hand upon myself at night? Without you?”

Geta’s eyes hurriedly found yours at your words, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. 

To demonstrate your point, you caressed yourself, soft stomach tightening as you traced delicate shapes into the flesh. He followed your movements, entranced. 

“Not possible,” he mumbled. 

“Why not?”

“It is a man’s duty for pleasure. Not a woman’s.”

You giggled at his ineptitude. 

“Oh, on the contrary…,” you cooed, your hand slowly making its way down your body. You passed over the curls nestled at the apex of your thighs and instead dipped a shallow finger beyond your folds. A soft gasp fell from your lips, your eyes closing briefly. An ocean of need sat beyond your walls. Wet and waiting. 

“You have aroused yourself?” He asked, somehow looking amazed and stupefied at the same time. 

You saw his cock twitch. 

“At times, yes,” you answered with a gasp, your finger catching the hidden source of pleasure just above your folds. 

“And you seek pleasure on your own? Without me?” 

He was not displeased as you’d anticipated. He was curious, hand reaching for himself. You watched as he squeezed the base, surely staving off the same unquenchable need you felt. 

“I do,” you admitted, finally plunging a finger into your depths. Your palm brushed the outside of your folds as you did, sending lighting bolts of ecstasy through your veins. 

“I want to see,” Geta demanded, one hand still holding himself. 

You acquiesced and spread your legs, letting his eyes feast upon you properly. One hand worked another finger in while the other cupped your breast, gently tugging at your nipple. 

You moaned at the feeling, nearly forgetting your husband was witness to such a wanton display. 

“Do you wish to touch me?” 

Geta nodded, swallowing as he joined you on the bed. You reached for his hand, putting a digit to your lips and lathering it in saliva. He watched in rapt fascination as you led him to your core. His hands were hardly calloused, but still rougher and bigger than your own. One of his fingers felt like two of yours, the stretch utterly blissful. 

“You’ve drenched your thighs,” he observed, taking a moment to see just how wet you were. You let him do as he wished, giving yourself over to his touch. 

He teased your entrance, using your arousal to coat himself. When he used his fingers to spread you, you trapped his hands between your thighs, the emptiness you felt too overpowering. 

“Please touch me, Augustus. Fill me,” you begged, your voice sounding foreign to your own ears. 

He dutifully did as you requested, slipping two fingers inside. You arched your back, inching closer to his charitable touch. 

“You are mesmerizing,” he rasped, feeling your inner walls tighten around him. 

“Curl your fingers. Inside.” You gripped the bedding beneath you as he slowly pushed in and out, taking your instruction. Stars filled your vision as he did so. 

You were on the cusp of coming undone and without thinking, you joined his hand, manipulating his thumb so that he brushed against your delicate bundle of nerves. On the fourth pass, your body tightened and bursts of white light appeared behind your eyes. That feeling that you’d never found with him, but always with yourself had descended upon you. And just like every occasion before, you soared. 

Your chest heaved as you floated back down, Geta’s touch still strong against you. You whimpered and gently pushed him away, the sensitivity too much. You watched as he looked at his hand, coated in you. He rubbed two fingers together, the digits never meeting. There was too much of you for him to feel his own touch. 

“That is what a woman giving herself to you looks like, my husband,” you said with a satisfied smile, nodding to his hand. 

Geta looked down at you, searing your skin. His cock was still hard and now dripping with its own need. He used his hand, the one coated in your essence, and began soothing his own ache. His bicep tightened, his stomach taut as he peered down at you, sprawled out and lust drunk. 

“I have never met another like you,” he panted, eyes rolling when he paid special attention to the head. “You may not be a sorceress, my dear…but magic is what surely lays beyond your depths.”

You smiled up at him, seeing his chest flush red. You leaned up on your elbows, reaching a hand out to stop him. He did so reluctantly.

“Kiss me.”

He met you in the middle, arms holding himself up as his cock brushed your stomach. He kissed you hungrily and with desperation, hissing when your hand encircled him. His forehead came to rest against yours, completely overtaken by your touch.

“If you want to believe it is a spell between my thighs that has you prisoner, then so be it,” you whispered against his lips. 

He grunted when you stopped, the delay of gratification beginning to frustrate him. Before he could complain, you pushed against his chest, signaling that you wanted him beneath you. He’d never had you in this position and you could see him questioning such a request. 

“Let me show you, my love. Let me show you what having me means.”

Without another word, he did as you asked. 

He sat propped against feathered pillows as you straddled him. His eyes immediately went to your breasts. He feasted on them, pawing and nibbling every inch of honeyed skin. You held him to you, feeling his hips brushing up to meet yours. When he grazed your opening, you both moaned. 

You reached between your bodies and steadied him, forcing him to meet your gaze. You placed him at your entrance, sensuously lathering him in you. And as slowly as you could manage, you began to ease him inside. His arms instantly encircled you, fingers digging into the flesh at your hips. You did the same, hugging him to you as you became one. It was not the first time, but it would feel that way for many reasons.

“Gods, that feels…divine,” he exhaled, his lips brushing the tops of your breasts. 

“Like this…it feels like you're in the very depths of my soul,” you confessed, shifting your hips ever so slightly. The movement caused you both to draw in a breath. “Only you’ve been here, my love.”

Geta hummed in approval, thrusting his hips upwards. You gasped, your own hips beginning to find a rhythm atop him. 

“Are you certain? You speak of this pleasure as if you’ve had it with another.”

You threw your head back when a particularly sharp thrust made you see stars. Geta gripped your hair, forcing you to meet his gaze. 

“I haven’t,” you assured him, burrowing into his neck. “It’s only been you. You are the only one to see me this way. Explore me so deeply.” He made it a point to seat himself deeper at your words, making you lose your breath. You sought out his lips in return. “You are the only one to fill me with seed.”

He kissed you. It was bruising and matched the speed of his hips below you. You held on tight, feeling him draw pleasure from you unlike anything you’d ever felt before. 

His hands held your hips, keeping you in your place above him. He watched you fall apart with every rock of his hips. When he could see tears mount in your eyes, he felt for the spot you’d shown him just above where he was sheathed in you. 

His fingers fumbled, unfamiliar with how to touch you. But the moment you tightened and gasped around him, he knew he’d found it. 

Your nails dug into his back, his own hands claiming their place on your backside. Euphoria mounted at the highest hill and you could feel yourself getting ready to fall down it. Moisture collected in your eyes, the feeling of it all too much. 

“You are mine. You belong to me. To Rome. And you are mine to tame,” Geta growled, pulling your chin down so that you faced him. 

“Yes, yes…I’m yours. All yours,” you deliriously agreed. 

He nipped at your lips, hips still fucking up into you. “Such a good wife.”

Ironically, his words were your undoing. You began to fall, careening through the heavens as your entire body tensed with ecstasy. You couldn’t make out what was real and what was not as wave after wave dragged you under. The only thing you could be sure of was your husband’s voice as he fell alongside you. Together. 

A warmth spread through you as your mind returned to your body. You were utterly satiated, barely able to keep yourself upright. Geta did so, leaning into you as the last of his seed painted your walls. You welcomed it, opening your hips up further to take all that he had to give. 

Like a good wife.

When enough time passed and the breeze of the night made itself known again, you shifted your hips, meaning to retreat. Geta stopped you. 

“Stay. Like this. Just for a little bit,” he commanded. 

You did as he said, not in a rush to part from him. 

This was out of the norm for you both, but it was welcomed. You caressed the muscles in his back. He let his hands dip along your waist and hips. Sweat and your releases bound you together as the candles melted down. 

“You do not know of the power you possess, my love,” Geta softly confessed, his lips placing barely there kisses along your neck. 

You met his eyes, staring down at the cooling depths of mahogany. You cupped his cheek, feeling the beginning roughness of an unshaven face. 

“I do, my Emperor. A true lady of Rome knows she holds all the power.” 

Part Three

[too-antigonish]

My Strange but Unified Theory of Exeunt

Last week I talked about the poem Horatio in a post about Morse and fathers and @astridcontramundum asked what I thought it meant in the context of Exeunt. Hopefully she won't be sorry she asked because here's my (as usual) long answer:

Horatio is quoted from twice in Exeunt. The first time, Prof. Fortescue is lecturing to his students at a tutorial and gives us the most famous lines:  

Then out spake brave Horatius, The Captain of the Gate:  "To every man upon this earth death cometh soon or late. And how can man die better Than facing fearful odds For the ashes of his fathers And the temples of his gods?"

The second time occurs just before Thursday’s has his “turn” in the same spot where Morse will many years later experience his own collapse. He says: ”’How well Horatius kept the bridge in the brave days of old.’ We'd a padre big on that out in the desert. Drumhead service just before Alamein. ‘And how can man die better than facing fearful odds?’ Always stuck with me.”

I think they used those lines to plainly tease the idea that Thursday was going to die. Prior to Exeunt airing, almost everyone thought Thursday would have to die in order to explain Morse’s never mentioning him again in the future. When Fortescue says those lines in the beginning, I think we’re supposed to think that someone—probably Thursday—is going to die heroically. Then Thursday repeats some of the poem—connecting it to his WWII service—just before he has his “spell” and it seems like more foreshadowing. 

The thing about the poem though, that most people *don’t* know, is that the big surprise at the end is that Horatio *doesn’t* die. It just looks like he will: Even when his companions have abandoned the bridge because it is on the verge of collapse, Horatius remains. He stays until bridge finally does fail, and then plunges into the river below with the full weight of his armor. It is certain death and both sides stand stunned into silence by his final sacrifice.

But then, both sides find themselves even more surprised when they see the crest of his helmet beginning to rise from the water and he slowly emerges, striding towards the Roman bank. He not only survives, but arrives home to a hero’s welcome and a long life.

All of the usual narrative pieces are in place for us to expect Thursday to make the ultimate sacrifice—to die. For me, Thursday—like Horatio—does sacrifice everything, but the poem was actually foreshadowing his survival, not his death. And for Thursday, his survival is in many ways a far more difficult sacrifice than death would have been. It would have been easier for him in so many ways if he had died in defense of Sam or even fighting Lott. Instead he has to live with the ambiguous and messy aftermath.

Morse could also be Horatio in the sense that he goes to Blenheim Vale facing a high probability of death. What were the chances that the bikers would “come through” for him? That Morse went expecting to be double-crossed and killed by Lott seems much more likely to me. But I do think that Morse, like Horatio, would reason that, “If you’re going to go, then there’s no better way than defending the things that are most important to you,” and so he goes anyway.

He survives too—but unlike Horatio, his heroism will always remain a secret *and* with his realization about Thursday’s guilt and Lott’s revelation about Tomahawk’s identity, it brings perhaps more sorrow than it does victory. And, I would argue that his survival is only temporary or perhaps partial.

The gunshot scene has many possible interpretations, but at its core, my (forever unprovable) theory is that it balances out the survival foreshadowed by Horatio. Horatio was all about the audience assuming that Thursday had to die. But along with that went the assumption that of course Endeavour had to live. This is a prequel after all.

But the gunshot scene said a big, loud, “No. We can kill off Endeavour if we want to and we will.” You can go back and forth until the cows come home about whether or not the scene was simply him contemplating death, actually going through with it, or absolutely, purely symbolic and imaginative. However, I don’t think you can honestly argue that the scene doesn’t somehow connect the concepts of  “Endeavour Morse,” “gun,” and “death” to each other. Somehow those concepts have to be included in any interpretation.

So this leads to my weird theory about Exeunt, which is that Russ Lewis heard everyone saying, “Well I don’t know what’s going to happen in the end, but of course we all know that Morse is going to live—so no suspense there. And Thursday, well, he has to die. I mean it’s the only way to explain why we never hear about him later.” And to this, Russ Lewis thought, “Ha! I’m going to do exactly the opposite. Thursday lives and Morse dies!” 

Am I right? I will never know. Do I have more thoughts on Exeunt? You really, really don't want to know just how many.

[stumpyjoepete]

Thinking a bit more about Megalopolis (see prev post). It's not really the case that the script is as disjointed or schizophrenic as my post makes it out to be. The central plot is pretty simple: an egotistical city planner has an ambitious and futuristic vision for redeveloping the city, and he butts heads with the Mayor and others who oppose him in this. He ultimately succeeds in building his utopian "megalopolis". Everyone is happy, the end.

And yet.

There's this... intense centrifugal force that prevents everything from cohering into a unified whole. It's like a puzzle where all the pieces are cut from the same picture, but upon closer inspection, no two pieces quite fit together. Or like that collection of nonsensical objects. A fork where the tines and the handle are connected by a chain. A watering can with the spout facing the wrong way. A quick glance leaves you confused, and that confusion is only deepened by further contemplation.

I think this is especially clear in the pseudo-intellectualism of the title cards, narration, monologues, and quotations/references:

Laurence Fishburne does this heavy-handed narration at the beginning and end of the movie (and several random points in between). And there are these associated title cards that look like they were made by applying an "Ancient Rome" theme to some PowerPoint slides. "Or will we too fall victim, like old Rome, to the insatiable appetite for power of a few men?" My brother in Christ, you are making a movie where the hero is named Cesar, and the happy ending is when he successfully pulls a Robert Moses. This is not a story about power corrupting or good intentions going awry. What are you doing???

Cesar Catilina interrupts Mayor Cicero's speech (where he is introducing a plan to build a casino) in order to lay out an early plan for "megalopolis", which is an ambitious and long-term alternative to the (short-term) casino plan. He prefaces his megalopolis pitch by reciting the Hamlet soliloquy. What exactly does Coppola think "To Be Or Not To Be" is about? He must thinks it means, "I am a dark and brooding bad-boy intellectual", since it's hard to see how "I'd like to kill myself, but I fear death" fits into an argument about the importance of long-term thinking in urban planning.

Cesar says several negative things about "civilization". "[Imagine] humanity as an old tree with one misguided branch called civilization... going nowhere." (Shot of notebook shows an illustration with 'war' and 'cruelty' offshoots from said branch.) "Emerson said the end of the human race will be that we'll eventually die of civilization." (Note: unsourced, probably fake quote.) "Civilization itself remains the great enemy of mankind." Umm... you're an urban planner! You're doing a high modernism. What exactly does it mean for you to call civilization the enemy? Is "megalopolis" somehow anti-civilization because it looks like a Georgia O'Keefe painting instead of a bunch of straight lines and right angles? Will the "war" and "cruelty" branches wither and die when buildings have labia?

Also, there's this amazing line read that completely inverts the meaning of a fake Marcus Aurelius quote (the quote was attributed to him by Tolstoy but is not actually something he said). "The object of life is not to be on the side of the majority, but to escape... finding yourself in the ranks of the insane." Why did you put in that pause??? Fake Marcus Aurelius is turning in his grave! You're supposed to be fleeing FROM the ranks of the insane! I suppose this isn't really inconsistent with the characterization of Cesar, it's just such a fucking batshit thing to say.

All of the cargo-cult intellectualism listed above could perhaps be excused if the vision that the film is supposedly about had any content whatsoever. Or, alternatively, if the movie was about something more substantive, and the vacuous megalopolis vision took place off-screen in an epilogue, like the "happily ever after" of a children's story. But no! The movie repeatedly interrupts the plot to grab you by the shoulders and scream in your face: "I have a vision! For the future!". And then--now that it has your undivided attention--it shits the bed like a man who has just polished off an entire bag of sugar-free gummy bears and washed them down with a fistful of Ambien:

"Conversation isn't enough. It's the questions that lead it to the next step. But initially, you have to have a conversation. The city itself is immaterial, but they're talking about it for the first time. And it's not just about us talking about it. It's the need to talk about it. It's as urgent to us as air and water."

"Mr. Catalina, you said that as we jump into the future, we should do so unafraid. But what if when we do jump into the future, there is something to be afraid of?" "Well, there's nothing to be afraid of if you love, or have loved. It's an unstoppable force. It's unbreakable. It has no limits. It's within us. It's around us. And it's stretched throughout time. It's nothing you can touch. Yet it guides every decision that we make. But we do have the obligation to each other to ask questions of one another. What can we do? Is this society, is this way we're living, the only one that's available to us? And when we ask these questions, when there's a dialogue about them, that basically is a utopia."

After the revolution, we won't have conflicts anymore; we'll have dialogue instead. We won't have a need for the "jobs" and "sanitation" of "now"; we'll have the "imperishable" "dreams" of "forever". We won't have problems that need solving; we'll all be too busy asking each other questions. Now, if everyone could just shut up and get the hell out of the way and let Cesar implement his vision, then "everyone" will soon be "creating together, learning together, perfecting body and mind." A chorus of children's voices gradually morphing into Laurence Fishburne's, chanting, "One Earth, indivisible, with long life, education and justice for all." It's eschatological anti-politics made entirely from cotton candy. Please, for the love of God, stop making Adam Driver monologue at me! Let's get back to Aubrey Plaza stepping on horny fascist Shia LaBeouf!

The incoherence of Megalopolis's vision is compounded by how anachronistic its depiction of our fallen world is. There are some half-hearted (and ham-fisted) gestures in the Clodio sub-plot towards the dangers of Trumpian populism, but the script was first written in the 80's, and it's extremely obvious that Coppola is writing about New York City in the preceding several decades. The city's finances are in dire straights. (There's literally a "Ford Tells City: Drop Dead" reference!) The city is full of slums, the streets are full of crime, and the elites are all decadent. (For Coppola, decadence means that ladies are doing cocaine and smooching each other in the cluh-ub.) The main character is Neo-Roman Robert Moses, and the conflict of the film is about urban renewal. In case you, like Mr. Coppola, have not been made aware, slum clearance is not a major political issue in 2020's Manhattan.

Two thirds of the way through the movie, a falling Soviet satellite provides a deus ex machina, blowing up the financial district and clearing space for megalopolis to take its place. Ironically, a previous attempt to produce the film came to its abrupt end when two planes flew into some buildings in the financial district. Perhaps you heard about it. The financial backers of the film at the time considered Megalopolis's plot a bit too close to current events for comfort and withdrew their support.

But Coppola's depiction of Manhattan was already decades out of date by then. Moses stepped down in '60. Jacobs' book railing against urban renewal came out in '61. The Power Broker came out in '74. One presumes popular opinion of Robert Moses soured in the following years. The crisis of the city's finances that peaked in '75 was over by '81 when NYC balanced its budget and reentered the bond market. The crime wave of the 70's and 80's had receded by the year 2000. The demand for housing in NYC proper is as high as it ever has been, and it's only getting higher. Megalopolis imagines America as an incoherent mishmash of several decades of mid-century NYC, dressed up in the toga of the late Roman Republic, calling out for (Robert) Moses to part the slums and take us into a promised land that is literally beyond any description, and whose only concrete feature seems to be glowing people-movers.

A Robert Moses with the power to stop time, at that!

Oh, did I forget to mention that part? Cesar discovers he has the power to stop time in the opening scene of the film. I forgot because it's literally irrelevant to the plot. Time stops a few times, and then it starts back up again, and the events of the film just plod inexorably forward. For a movie as temporally dislocated as Metropolis, perhaps that's just as well.

[softpascalito]

Dulcissima I Marcus Acacius x Vestal!Reader I Chapter VII - Bona Dea

! This Fic contains major spoilers for Gladiator II ! Proceed with caution !

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

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x Vestal Virgin Reader Rating: Explicit / MDNI Word count: 18k+ Tags: Secret Relationship, Vestal Virgins, Religious Guilt, Gladiator fights, Gladiator II compliant (more or less), Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Ancient Rome, Age Difference, Slow Burn (ish), Injury, Kissing, Historical Inaccuracy, (Attempted) Sexual Harassment, Smut, First Time, More tags to be added

AO3 // Series Masterlist // Masterlist // Fic Playlist

notes: ! last major spoiler warning for gladiator II below the cut !

i was supposed to upload this two days ago but silly me decided to have a mental breakdown instead. anyways, enjoy the new chapter ♡

bona dea - a goddess/her festival subligaculum - underwear

Chapter VII

The house is filled with the overpowering scent of strong wine and blooming flowers. Food and drink is being served, the atrium of the roman villa that belongs to the senior magistrate and his wife transformed into a place of worship as much as a place to celebrate.

The annual winter festival of Bona Dea, one of the most important (and as some argue, fun) nights of the year for the women of Rome. A tribute to the goddess that promises fertility along with chastity and healing, in return asking for her worshippers to hold the values of a good, roman wife. Her celebrations allow strong wine and sacrifices led by the Vestals and most importantly–ban all men from the villa and its grounds. Just laying eyes upon the holy celebration and the rites would be enough to condemn a man to a life of blindness.

It is so different from the worship you are used to from Vesta. She is quiet, a prayer whispered into the flames, the crackling noise of the wood, the only company for women who ask for safety and blessing on lonely nights.

You have barely been able to eat, despite the food seeming worthy of the gods. Bona Dea has always made you nervous, the prospect of trying to effortlessly fulfill the rituals that have been passed down from generations of women before you. But the prospect of meeting Acacius in mere hours had you trembling the moment you rose from your bed this morning. The hours seemed to tick by agonizingly slowly all day, making you wonder if the sun would ever set.

But it did. And with the early darkness of the winter night came the loss of appetite. And the later it becomes, the worse you feel. The comfortable anticipation starts mixing with an anxiety you’ve rarely felt before. Nothing can go wrong.

Of course, something goes wrong. When you reach the large front entrance of the atrium, the one you hoped to slip out of unnoticed after fulfilling your duties, is far too busy. The columns are decorated with skillfully woven vines, the entire room alight with candles and torches. A thin layer of smoke still hangs in the air from the rituals you conducted earlier, making the space feel even more sacred.

You settle on making another round, speaking some words here and there, disappearing into a crowd that has evidently already enjoyed the strong wine forbidden to them on other occasions. You catch a glimpse of Severa chatting animatedly with a few other women and duck away just in time to avoid attracting their attention.

It is already late, far later than you meant to leave. You know Acacius will be waiting. He has no rites to attend to tonight. Instead, he will be able to casually stroll out into his–

The gardens. Just like the other houses, there are spacious gardens attached to the villa you are currently trailing through. There has to be a way to slip out into that direction and get up Palatine Hill, which is rather close. Pretending to long for some fresh air, you step into the lush green, plants and trees imported from places where they do not wither in the winter. They lend themselves to your cause perfectly, barely allowing the guests inside to catch a glimpse of your white stola as you tread the small paths, the light around you becoming less and less. You slip past a few trees, fight your way through bushes–and are met with solid stone. Of course. A wall to keep out everyone who tries to sneak into the gardens. Or in your case, sneak out of them.

Your heart is pounding in your chest. Heading back inside, finding another way–it will take too long. He could be gone by then. With a small shake of your head, you step forward and let your hands run over the cold stone. The moon is hiding behind clouds, giving you essentially no light to work with. Still, you somehow manage to find two crevices to tuck your fingers into and pull yourself up. Panting slightly once you've heaved yourself up onto the stone wall, you look back for a brief moment, catching a glimpse of the lit up villa through the trees, listening to the voices and music drifting over to you.

Suddenly, it feels like you're looking down upon your whole life, like you are seeing yourself from the perspective of the gods you so worship. You try and think of something to hold you back, any excuse to just jump back into the gardens and have no one ever be the wiser about the ideas in your head. You think about the dishonor you may bring to the Vestals, to your family. To him. The punishment they would settle on. The whispers that would follow you, even after death.

You try and think of a good reason to stay. But not a thought comes to mind.

So, you jump down on the side that leads further down the path and up to the house with the lavender gardens, a path you do not wish to leave now that you’ve started walking it. Even if it leads straight down to hell.

***

Acacius sighs quietly as he gets up from the bench he sat down on what feels like hours ago. His mind is as restless as his body, his head spinning a different direction every time the wind carries the sound of what could be someone sneaking toward him through the night. The statue of Mars stands quietly next to him as he begins to pace back and forth, eventually expanding his rounds onto the stairs. Up. Down. Have you changed your mind? Back. Forth. An invisible tug of war with the thoughts racing through his head.

The small pavilion is lit by only a few candles, providing just enough light to see but not enough to shimmer too far through the trees. On Bona Dea, the whole town below is alight with the celebrations of the women. Song, Chatter and Light travelling through the night air, distractions that lay like a shroud around your meeting. A protection not unlike your veil. An indication that what lays below is not to be touched–an indication he so desperately longs to ignore.

It's not any sound that makes him turn his head. It is an instinct that he cannot name that has him turn towards the path below. And there you are. Looking almost like a ghost, dressed in a festive, white stola that swishes around your body as you hurry the last few steps, the top of your head crowned by the very veil he just saw in his mind. And he suddenly feels like he cannot wait a second longer.

Acacius meets you halfway up the stairs, his arms sliding around your waist like they belong there. Like a child resting its head in their mothers lap, like a soldier returning to his village after the war. Like the most natural homecoming, a nestling of a body against that of its lover.

“Acacius–” You whisper his name, a relief that it can finally fall from your lips again. “I’m sorry for making you wait.”

He hums quietly, his thumb rubbing gentle circles into your side. “I would wait all night for you, Dulcissima.” He cannot see the blush that spreads over your cheeks but he can hear it in the small breath that escapes you. “May I?”

Keeping one arm firm around your waist, he leads you up the stairs, towards Mars who stares into the distance. Unlike the stone eyes of the statue that are forced to stare at one point on the horizon for eternity, Acacius’s eyes never leave you. Even when he leans down to the small tray he brought along earlier, grabbing a glass filled with red wine and handing it to you, he keeps his focus on you. You barely get to whisper a thank you before a frown spreads over his face. “What happened to your dress?”

“I had to climb the garden wall,” you mutter sheepishly, embarrassed that your original plan has so clearly gone awry. He watches as you take a sip of the wine before you continue. “I will clean it in the morning, it is not worth speaking of.”

Acacius doesn't agree. It feels like another thing he's making you do. A visual representation of the way he is soiling you, tainting your beautiful white gown with reminiscents of the dirt and grime that stains his armour after returning from battle. “It is my turn for apologies. You should not have to–”

He is shut up by your lips coming to rest on his. He can taste the red wine he picked out for tonight and by the gods, he does not think there is anything he likes more. Picking out what you taste like for him.

There is a small tremor in your body, an insecurity that he immediately recognizes as inexperience. He sighs into the kiss at that, his taunt muscles finally relaxing as he blindly reaches behind himself, finding the stone bench and lowering both of you onto it, never breaking your kiss. Sweet. You just taste so sweet.

He allows you to dictate the pace, only pulling back when you do, your breath coming in short pants. His forehead rests against yours as he reaches down to take his own glass, nudging you until you toast him, glass against glass creating a light melody that fades as quickly as it has appeared. You both drink in silence, only the distant noises of the celebrations and those of the garden around you reaching your ears. 

“May I ask you something?” He hums, his voice low in his throat as he watches you raise your wine to your lips, the flames of the candles reflecting in the glass and liquid, sending smooth shadows over your face. At your nod, he continues. “Why did you ask to meet tonight? Bona Dea must mean a lot to you.”

You smile softly, though there is still a hint of nervousness present in your eyes. “The gods are busy looking down onto the feasts.” It is the unspoken part of your response that makes Acacius feel almost light-headed. If the goddesses eyes are truly on the feasts happening in the city, they are too busy to see you under the cover of darkness. One of his hands is still supporting your waist and he uses the other to set his glass down again before coming up to caress your ankle. A sliver of skin pokes out from under your stola, giving him a taste of what is waiting below the linen and silk that you are wrapped in. He feels you lean in, a hand gently coming to rest on his shoulder for support as he maneuvers you onto his left leg. In one smooth motion, Acacius runs his calloused hand past the hem of your stola and up your calf. You shiver, shifting slightly. “Acacius–”

It's somewhere between a whisper and a begging command. He forces himself to pause, his hand resting on your knee, the fabric of your dress bunched up around his forearm. “Do you want me to stop?” You shake your head silently. And he decides that maybe, he can push a bit further. “Is this why you wanted to meet?”

He can practically see you pause, your eyes flickering nervously back and forth. He may be completely wrong. It may not even have occurred to you–this. That you could do this. Because technically, you can’t.

“Maybe,” you whisper and he smiles at the subtle hint in your tone that sounds less like a maybe and more like a yes. And he'd be lying if he said he didn't have the same train of thought. He just didn't expect you to want him like this. Hell, he barely expected you to show up. Not with how much you are both risking.

“I’m sure you know–” you whisper as his hand travels further, slowly but surely inching up your thigh. “That Vestals are sworn to celibacy.”

He gives as gentle a squeeze as he can, watching with a smirk as you bite your lip, stopping yourself from letting out a noise. God, how he wants to hear that noise. How he wants all of Rome to hear the noise, wants to hear his name fall from your lips as he gives you the pleasure you've been denied your entire life.

“There are other ways,” he muses, his thumb trailing over the edge of what he assumes to be a subligaculum covering your most private area. “Other ways of pleasure.” He cocks an eyebrow at you, his hand gently rubbing over the soft skin of your inner thigh, not quite crossing the invisible threshold yet. “Dont tell me you have not discovered any of them?”

This time, he can watch as the blush spreads over your cheeks and down toward your throat. His gaze softens slightly. “You do not have to tell me, if you do not wish to.” Acacius sighs quietly, his eyes watchful, trying to gauge if he's gone too far. If he should retreat. “Does this feel good? We do not have to–” He can feel himself stumbling over his words. “I do not wish to force myself upon you. We do not have to do anything if you are not ready.”

“What if I'm never ready?” You whisper before you can stop yourself, resting your head against his shoulder and he tuts as he looks down at you.

“Then we will never do anything.”

“Go on.” It is a whispered plea. And Acacius gently obliges. He knows how to give commands that demand to be followed. But he also knows how to take them.

His fingers sneak under the delicate cloth that forms your underwear, his index finger finding the space between your legs already deliciously wet. He can feel himself getting hard at just this. The thought that merely sitting on his lap, kissing him, feeling his hands on your leg, is enough to arouse you to this point. He swipes his thick index fingers through your folds, making you clutch onto his shoulder and whimper in surprise. A low chuckle leaves his lips as he stills his hand again, not wanting to overstimulate you right away. He is keeping that trick up his sleeve for later.

“Your body does not know of your vows, dulcissima,” he rasps, his beard scratching against your skin as he places soft kisses against your neck. He feels you shiver and while he is sure some of it can be attributed to the excitement, he has a feeling the cold is also doing its part. He has a sudden urge to pick you up and carry you inside. If you truly want him to see you, to bare yourself before him–the first man to ever touch you like this–it cannot be on a cold stone bench.

“Let me take you inside.”

(art by art by Gökberk Kaya)

notes: okay, i know, i know, bad moment to stop. i promise the next chapter is in the works! ♡

[blueiscoool]

Archaeologists Unearth Ancient Mosaic of Winged Medusa in Spain

The stunningly preserved Ancient Roman mosaic floor was found at the Huerta de Otero site in the city of Mérida.

In both ancient and modern interpretations, Medusa is often known as a monster — a Gorgon with tresses of serpents whose stare turned men to stone. This version typically appears in children’s movies and fantasy thrillers, but her image hasn’t always been so awe-inspiring. In late June, archaeologists in Western Spain uncovered an Ancient Roman mosaic floor that depicts Medusa with tiny wings and flowing locks of hair, thought to have been used as a protective symbol.

The mosaic was found in the city of Mérida’s Huerta de Otero archaeological site. Ancient Romans established a colony there in 25 BCE named Augusta Emerita. Traces of its former inhabitants — including an amphitheater and a bridge — can be found throughout the modern-day city. “[The site] is of an exceptional nature due to the level of conservation of the ruins and, above all, the ornamental elements that decorate the well-preserved house: not only the mosaic of the Medusa but also paintings and sculptural motifs,” said archaeologist Félix Palma in a statement.

The Huerta de Otero location was excavated in 1976 but lay untouched for decades. Research picked back up in 2019, when the city employed professional archaeologists and students from its Barraeca II Professional School to explore the ruins. Since then, the team has uncovered an Ancient Roman defensive wall, a road, and the home of a wealthy family.

The Medusa mosaic adorned the floor of this home. Depictions of fish, peacocks, and carefully tessellated patterns surround the artwork’s central figure: a human-like Medusa, her gaze turned to one side.

Although this image diverges from some contemporary renditions of the mythological figure, the mosaic’s winged version was common in Ancient portrayals of Medusa. While early Greek depictions of the mortal-turned-monster, cruelly punished for being raped by the god Poseidon, show her as grotesque, Medusa’s image softened by the time of the Ancient Romans. Beginning in the Classical Greek period, her face acquired more human attributes. It started to be rendered with symmetry and youthful beauty in the following centuries.

Other Ancient Roman mosaics featuring the head of Medusa have been discovered throughout Spain. Medusa again comprises the focal point of an Ancient Roman mosaic in a 115–150 CE work found in Rome, where she can be seen sporting human curls and a snake around her neck. A 1st-to-2nd-century ornament from a chariot pole shows a young woman with curly locks (although a couple of snakes still peer through her tangle of hair).

In Ancient Greek mythology, Perseus killed Medusa to avoid being turned to stone. Medusa, in her early terrifying form, was used as a protective symbol — “an image of evil to repel evil,” Madeleine Glennon writes in a 2017 essay for the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The goddess Athena famously included a representation of Medusa’s severed head on her protective cloak or aegis. In Ancient Rome, her beautified image was still employed as a protective symbol, although the depiction shifted into a form more similar to a woman than a monster.

By Elaine Velie.

[thanyatargaryen]

Mutual Agreement (part III)

Marcus x f!reader (Lucius older Sister)

Rater M (just in case)

Warning (age-gap, mentions of death, mentions of possible abuse)

Marcus x f!reader

Part two

valerian= is a root that people use to ake tea and be able to sleep or relax

Somnus= Roman god of sleep

tribunes= lower rank from what lets say is a general of the ancient roman empire.

Laying next to Marcus for the first time in years was in a sense comforting and estrange feeling. Having your hands wrapped around yourself and shivering while thinking about the reason those men were in the villa and what they wanted or if they were looking for you or Marcus. Your mind was working faster than other times when you felt a hand on your arm making you jump. For this, there were a few lights around his side of the bed making the other side of the room pitch black. "You need to sleep, here are the drops the medic left for you. He said they are for you to fall asleep and rest."

"Thank you, i think i do need them. My head is running wild thinking about everything just happened." you said turning around and reaching for the vile on his hand. "I know it's hard to understand but since we don't know what was their motive to be here. Lay down and open your mouth, i will let the drops come into your mouth, the night is getting colder and is better for you to keep yourself warm." Marcus was trying to keep you comfortable and feel safe. you gave up and complied to what he was saying, you leaned back into the bed as he prepares the drops. You open up your mouth and a few drops fall into your mouth, you swallow and due to the strength of the valerian with a strong and slightly bitter taste with notes of vanilla just like when you used to drink it when your mother died and your maid gave it to you to be able to sleep.

Marcus noticed how your body became slightly languid into his pillow. For him it had been a dream to see you sleeping in his bed wrapped with his furs along with his arms. "Sleep well my lady." he whispered and kissed your lips lightly. Marcus got into a longer tunic to sleep next to you while thinking on how he was going to stop himself from hugging you. He placed his arm on top of his eyes as he laid next to you as Somnus took him into his sleep. The night was filled with both of your heads full of dreams.

You were standing looking at a woman who was facing away from you who was round with child as Marcus came into the main patio opening his arms and kissing the woman. you could smell the fruits and the grass around you giving you a sense of being there. At the same time, Marcus was dreaming the other side of your dream. He could see you round with his child and glowing, your hair flowing around your face and falling below your waist. As he nears your figure he wraps his hand around your wrist and kneels to kiss your growing belly feeling your child kicking and your smile growing bigger.

The dream died down and then the only thing you could see was your mother Lucilla and Goddess Juno. "My daughter, your devotion and longing will have fruits coming in the near weeks, i will send you to find a peacock feather. Your mother has talked a lot about you and how much you deserve my gift. I have taken you now under my protection and your reward is to have what you most want in a Rome where you will be safe. For that great change will start soon and your husband will be part of it." you couldn't say anything as your mother closed on you and kissed your forehead while Juno smile and disappeared with your mother.

Both of you had been moving through your sleep and ended up wrapped in each other's arms. your naked body tightly wrapped by Marcus and his arms keeping you into his chest while leaning his head into the top of your head. Both of you started moving as the sun rose and the heat came into the room waking you both up. You could feel the heat coming from his body making you feel comfortable and safe. He was completely aware now that he had you into his arms and kissed your head while pulling you tighter into his chest. As you open your eyes you are able to see his chest on your face and feel his hands on your back which then made you think about what Juno had said in your dream.

The door sounded as someone knocked it "Dominus, Atticus one of your tribunes brought a message for you. He said it was important for you to go into the training camp as soon as possible." you were completely startled and by the noice due to the drops; however, Marcus covered your body after kissing your lips and stood up while you stayed in bed halfway awake, smiling and grabbing his pillow to hug while you fell back asleep. Marcus was internally smiling and physically too as he rose and got dressed. As he came out from behind his dressing screen completely fitted with his armor he turned and saw you sprawled into his bed covered by the furs and you hugging his pillow making him smile as he walked up to you and kissed your lips, your cheek and your head as you laid completely asleep. "Rest well my love... at least this way i'm able to show you how much i care for you."

Marcus picked up his sword as gave orders to let you sleep and bring a tray of meat, bread and fruits for you as soon as you woke up. H e was happy to have you in his room as it should have been from the beginning. Before leaving he instructed the centinels to increase the numbers inside and outside the villa for your safety. He was concerned on what could have happened for Atticus to come here so early on his resting time. As he rode towards the camp he started thinking of what he could bring you to rise your spirits.

I hope you like this chapter and i want to thank you for your support, comments and rebloggs you give my work!!!

Im so happy i'll be watching Gladiator 2 for second time tomorrow.

[theromaboo]

HAHA you can NEVER escape from us. Roman history fans of Tumblr, attack!!

here i am, on my old laptop, reading historical rpf. i started as a joke and now i'm worried that i will start unironically shipping augustus/agrippa