#this is just something ive been seeing all over the place so

[greenlighted]

it started with the bed.

by the time ron had woken up that morning he'd noticed harry's bed was already made and the other boy was nowhere in sight. harry's space in general looked tidied up, actually. the clutter he was used to seeing nowhere in sight. it wasn't unusual for harry to wake up earlier than him, but typically he left a bit of a trail behind him when he went off to wherever it was he went. he wasn't ever messy the way ron was, but his things were never tidy in a way that makes sense to anybody but him. a sock or two thrown about, school things dumped on top of his trunk, his gryffindor robes permanently living at the end of his bed when not in use.

he wouldn't have thought twice about it, really, if it weren't for the fact that the bed was made.

he's seen harry tidy up properly before, when whatever system he has going for him spirals out of control and he needs to reset. but making his bed has never been something he tries to keep up on. he can honestly say he's not sure if he's ever seen harry's bed made before once he's slept in it the first time after somebody else had made it for him.

he brushes it off to harry just being in one of his moods again, and starts getting ready to go down to the great hall for breakfast. he noticed harry's things in their dorm bathroom had been straightened up too and tucks the knowledge away for later.

once he reaches the great hall he immediately spots hermione's head of hair and beelines towards her, noting the lack of harry anywhere. also not an unusual sight, especially on a saturday.

harry never does show for breakfast, nor does ron see him later at lunch.

he doesn't actually see harry until midway though dinner that day, and once he does catch sight of him he can't help but stare a little bit. he doesn't look much different than normal, but his hair looks a little more put together than ron can ever remember seeing before, and he's got four books cradled in his arms, and his school bag slung over his shoulder. his shoes are tied properly and he doesn't look like he just rolled out of bed after a long night of not sleeping.

he glanced over at hermione sitting beside him and notices her looking at harry closely and feels relieved to know she thinks something is weird too.

"hello," harry says when he reaches them, ignoring the raised eyebrows hermione and ron himself were giving him.

"hi, harry," hermione greets him back easily, her head tilting slightly. "where have you been all day? this is the first time ive even seen you."

"i was in the library catching up on my essays."

neither one of them can help the surprise that flashes across the faces and ron sees harry look at them like he's confused. he was as bad at writing his essays as ron was, why was he so confused if they were surprised that he not only did his homework completely unprompted, but that he had spent all day doing all of his homework.

"the library?" ron asks, wanting to laugh. "didn't realize you knew where that was, mate."

"of course i know where the library is, it's not like i've never been there before."

"obviously, you've been there; it's not really your happy place though, is it?"

harry just looked confused again before shaking his head and starting to fill his plate. he grabbed a small spoonful of peas, which ron thought was odd since harry didn't even like peas.

"i just wanted to get it all done, why does it matter so much?" harry mumbles irritably.

"harry," hermione interrupts, "why do you have a book for ancient runes? you don't even take the class."

"one of the books i was reading for a charms essay mentioned some stuff about runes and it sounded interesting," he shrugs at her. "i didnt really understand anything it was talking about so i grabbed a beginner book."

while hermione was definitely the bookworm out of the three of them, harry did his fair share of reading too. ron's seen him with his face in a book more than once, but he'd never really seen him go out of his way to read. especially not about a completely new subject to him that he'd never shown an hint of interest in before.

he saw a similar confusion work its way through hermione and they both looked at each other.

"are you okay, mate?" ron asks hesitantly, looking at harry.

harry looks up at him then and his eyes widen just a little bit, looking a bit lost all of the sudden.

"im fine," he says, eyes quickly scanning the hall before looking down at his plate and scrunching his nose up at the peas there. "i guess i just lost track of time."

"you made your bed this morning, mate."

"harry made his bed this morning?"

harry looked offended for a moment before relaxing again.

"what's so wrong with me making my bed? isn't that supposed to be a good thing?"

"you never make your bed," ron pointed his fork at harry and sees hermione nodding out of the corner of his eye.

"you did your homework without me telling you to," hermione added, and this time it was ron nodding along. "you checked out a book from the library on a subject you don't take for extra curricular reading."

harry looked confused again, but his eyes darted down to the school supplies and books beside him and he looked ready to get defensive again so ron decided to ease the tension a bit.

harry was already in some sort of mood, so it wouldn't do any of them any good to work him up any more than he already is. he'd tell them eventually if something serious was going on.

"it's almost like you're possessed or something, mate," ron joked, glancing over at hermione and missing the way harry had paled at the words.

Possession fic but Harry has crippling ADHD (or whatever) and Voldemort's possession either through control or just reminding him of what he's supposed to be doing is making Harry so competent that people start to get suspicious.

[tightjeansjavi]

Et Auream - Act IV : Villain & Violent

A/N: this chapter is solely focused around Marcus and his deeply rooted trauma that I feel is not only important to his character, but also sets the tone for how he will act for the rest of the story. Before you read, please heed the warnings and remember that I am not responsible for the content that you choose to consume.

word count: 4.8k

Summary: Marcus is unaware at how much time has passed since his first meeting with Aurelia, and in his vulnerable state of mind, memories of his past begin to resurface. Pairing | Marcus Acacius x f!oc Warnings: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT! This chapter includes SA of a minor, loss of virginity, pedophilia, child murder, child abuse, child prostitution, enslavement, canon typical violence, alcohol consumption, mentions of whores, graphic depictions of violence, PTSD, trauma responses, hazing, minor character death, language, +18 minors dni! series master list

The Ludus Magnus

Marcus had no concept of how much time had passed since the night he first met Aurelia. It could have been days, weeks, months—for all he knew, which wasn’t much to begin with. The only time he was able to gaze upon the sun, and feel its warmth, was when he was in the Colosseum, and the only way he knew it was nightfall was through the sliver of moonlight that would trickle in through the cracks in the ceiling of his cell.

A small solace, a shred of comfort that was snuffed out when the evening hours would manifest clouds to cast shadows over the moon. He was used to the darkness, to the feeling of loneliness consuming him, and then she came into his orbit. And while their acquaintance was brief, he could not tear his thoughts from her even if he tried. 

“Rise and shine, scum,” Cato said from the other side of the iron bars. He wore a sneer on his face, and his tone was anything but kind. 

Marcus gave little regard to Cato and his distaste towards him. His mind was too preoccupied. He wordlessly rose to his feet, ignoring the dull strain in his back from sitting against the stonewall through the night. The lacerations along his shoulders and back had healed significantly, and there was no longer an uncomfortable sting when he would brush against a wall, or endure the weight of his armor. The freshly healed skin was just another testament that Aurelia’s existence wasn’t something he had conjured during his vulnerable hours. Infection did not spread through his body, and she was the reason he was still breathing, after all. 

The next time I am graced in her presence, I will ask her where she learned the ways of a medicus. 

“You look like shit, Acacius,” Cato pointed out with a wry grin. He unlocked the cell door, keys jingling before the door swung open against the wall. 

Marcus only grunted in response, still paying no mind to him. He crossed his arms over his chest and waited patiently for his ankles to be unshackled from the wall so that he could move somewhat freely. 

“Gone mute again, have we?” Cato said with a teasing hum. He walked into the small space, crouching down beneath Marcus’s feet and slipped a smaller shaped key into one of the locks. “You know, if it were up to me, I’d keep you chained here for eternity.” 

another wordless grunt slipped past Marcus’s lips,  his nostrils flared slightly. 

“Pinched a nerve, did I?” Cato cackled and twisted the key to the left, engaging the unlocking mechanism within it to release. 

“I can’t quite wrap my head around why the emperor's find you to be so…valuable,” Cato continued. “Why allow a traitor to live to see another day is beyond me,” he scoffed and unlocked his other ankle before rising to his full height. 

Marcus uncrossed his arms, holding his wrists out in front of him, waiting for the cold touch of iron to encase his skin, wordlessly. 

“It’s foolish, if you’d ask me,” Cato scoffed and placed the iron cuffs around Marcus’s wrists, securing them as tight as he saw fit. It was enough for Marcus to tense his jaw slightly from the sudden pressure. 

“Consider yourself lucky that you have never faced me in the arena, Cato. I’d drive my sword through that gaping mouth of yours in a heartbeat,” Marcus muttered under his breath. 

“I don’t doubt that for a moment, scum. Too bad you’ll never have the chance,” he bit.

“Nothing is permanent, Acacius. Remember that.” Geta’s charged words echoed in his mind. 

“Get moving, Acacius. We don’t have all morning, unless you want to miss out on breakfast,” Cato chimed in his ear. He moved alongside him, giving him a firm shove towards the opening of the cell. 

Marcus’s feet moved at their own accord, and the low growl of his stomach guided the way. The other cells had since been emptied, leading him to believe that he had already missed out on breakfast after all. 

Boisterous chatter could be heard down the narrow corridor and with another firm shove to his back, he was met with the many faces of the other gladiators scarfing down their piss-poor excuse of a meal. 

No one acknowledged him as he took an empty seat at the lengthy table. a clay bowl, containing mashed barley, beans and mixed grains was thrusted in front of him. His stomach growled, but he did not reach for the bowl immediately. 

He stared into the gray hues of nothingness, brows furrowed and lips pursed. A sour feeling washed over him, and his fists clenched so tightly, his knuckles turned stark white. It was happening again, the memories—

“What is all of that ruckus?!” Crassus, Marcus's Dominus, yelled into the thick night. The air was tinged in the stench of copper; bloodshed and the mortal cries of one of his boys meeting their brutal end. 

The grouping of boys, huddled around the fire quickly dispersed, revealing the violence that had ensued. The earth was soaked in rich crimson that flowed like the river of Tiberius. In the center lay one of the boys—what remained of him, and Marcus had fallen to his knees. His eyes were wild, his face stained in blood, his body shaking—trembling with unbridled rage that Crassus himself had never witnessed from him. 

“My, my,” he clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “You have been holding out on us, Acacius.” 

Marcus snapped his head in the direction of Crasuss’s voice. His grip around the hilt of his sword did not falter, nor loosen. His facial expression turned from anger to confusion when he tore his gaze from his Dominus and looked down at the boy's corpse. His chest rose and fell rapidly, lips parting at the gruesome sight of the boy’s mangled face, and empty eye sockets staring up at him. 

“Peace, Acacius.” Crassus took a cautious step towards him, and the rest of the boys huddled behind him; they too were frightened.

Marcus stumbled to his feet, movements uncoordinated, knees shaky and unbalanced. His sword, dripping in congealed blood and flesh tissue hung heavy at his side. 

“Drop the sword, boy,” Crassus said sternly. 

“He killed him,” one of the boys whispered. 

“No, he—annihilated him,” another chimed in. 

“The sword, Acacius. Drop it.” Crassus was becoming impatient. 

Marcus’s bloodstained knuckles tightened reflexively around the hilt. His death grip was the only tangible feeling that was keeping him grounded, but the gravity of his actions began to sink into his conscience. 

“He’ll kill us all,” another boy shuddered, his voice trembling, and the rest murmured in agreement.

“Acacius, you are testing my patience, boy. I will ask this of you one last time. Drop the fucking—” 

His grip suddenly loosened and the sword fell to the sand with a dull thud as Marcus stumbled back, turning to flee, but a calloused hand reached out, gripping  his armpit and stalled his movements. He cried out, crying for his mother, for anyone—but no one came to his aid. His body went lax in Crassuss’s grip, slumping in his arms, finally. A well-known pressure point was activated with a firm hand and forced Marcus into an unconscious state. 

None of the boys moved from their protective huddle when their Dominus addressed them directly, “Clean up this mess,” he barked out an order with a pointed glare in their direction. 

They scattered like flies being swatted at and he let out a huff, lifting the dead weight of Marcus into his arms. 

When Marcus awoke, hours later, he was in an unfamiliar room. He shot up in a daze, eyes wide and stricken with confusion. He whipped his head around frantically for any sign as to how he ended up there. 

“Peace, Acacius,” a familiar voice addressed him from the opposite end of the expansive room. Crassuss’s back was facing him, and it appeared that he was writing something on parchment before he turned around in his chair, clasping his hands against his chest. 

Marcus struggled to form words, his mouth opened and closed but no sounds came out. He warily glanced down at the blanket that draped his body before he grasped its unfamiliar softness in his palms and threw it off in a haste. 

Crassus sighed through his nose, standing to his full height. “I need you to relax, boy. You aren’t in any danger, I assure you.” 

Marcus did not trust him, and why should he? He had no reason to. “Why am I here?” 

Crassus ignored his question and walked towards him. His footsteps were cautious, but determined. “Do you remember what happened?” 

Marcus shook his head and glanced down at his hands briefly. His knuckles were still stained in blood, although dry now. “Whose—whose blood is this?” his voice trembled. 

“Ah, so you don’t remember anything? How…fascinating,” Crassus mused. “I have trained many boys to become fierce gladiators, Acacius, but you, now—there’s something special about you.”

“Special?” Marcus echoed with uncertainty. 

“Indeed,” Crassus continued. “Your rage. What was it fueled by? A dozen boys, just outside these walls, are fearing for their lives because of you, and that very rage that you displayed.” 

Marcus’s face constricted as he racked through his brain for the answers to what took place hours ago. “Is…he dead?” 

Crassuss’s lips tightened into a thin line and he crossed his arms over his chest with a pointed look that had Marcus curling in on himself. 

“I-I-I didn’t mean to—I swear! I never intended to kill him, Dominus.” 

“No?” The question was rhetorical. “His face isn’t recognizable, Acacius. You gouged his eyes out as if you were scooping yolks from an egg. I’ve never seen so much blood spilled from one body.” 

Marcus winced from his words and he turned his chin into his shoulder out of shame and guilt. His hands wrung nervously in his lap. 

“Do not hide your face from me, Acacius. You have nothing to feel shame for. I imagine he deserved it. In fact, I’d go as far to say that you were merciful.” 

“I am not violent, Dominus. It is not in my blood,” Marcus bit back, feeling as if he were a cornered beast that had been prodded with a spear one too many times. 

“Oh,” he sighed. “But you are. Detest it all you wish, but your violent heart will only lead you to greatness. The false lions will torment you no longer, Acacius. Not when they fear for their own eyes to be gouged from their sockets,” he stopped at the foot of the bed, offering Marcus his bejeweled hand. “Let us get you cleaned up.” 

Marcus eyed his outstretched hand warily from where he sat. The same hand that would beat him repeatedly for insubordination, was now being offered for a different reason. He wasn’t sure what to make of it—any of it, really. He wished that his mother was there so that he may confide in her during his times of peril. He yearned for her motherly embrace, her soft-spoken words. 

“Take my hand, Acacius,” Crassus commanded. 

With reluctance, Marcus raised his own hand. His fingers visibly trembled, but Crassus paid no mind to his apprehension as he lifted him from the bed with little resistance. 

The tepid water acted as little comfort for Marcus, who sat on his knees along the tub. He quickly washed the dried blood from his hands and between the crevices of his knuckles under the watchful eye of Crassus. 

“Get all the way in, boy.” his tone was clipped, and the cold sound of it caused Marcus to flinch. 

“I—I don’t want to,” he whispered in a pathetic plea. 

“Didn’t ask what you wanted, now did I?” 

“No, Dominus,” he said defeatedly. His hands shakily moved towards the hem of his tattered tunic, hesitating before he slowly lifted it over his head and shoulders. His muscles had not yet formed, and his posture was rigid and sheltered. 

“All of it, Acacius,” he sounded annoyed, and his patience was wearing thinner by the second. 

Marcus squeezed his eyes shut and blindly reached for the loose knot of his subligaculum. When he pulled the knot free, he hastily climbed into the tub, nearly falling face first because he was so afraid. 

Water splashed along the rim of the tub, turning a deeper shade of pink from the remnants of blood being washed away. He instinctively wrapped his arms around his knees, pulling them protectively to his chest. 

Crassus stalked around the tub and crouched down so he was more level with Marcus. His hand reached towards his face, knuckles brushing the softness of his cheek where crusted blood still remained. “ever had anyone tell you that you have a pretty face, boy?” he sneered. 

Marcus shied from his unwanted touch, gnawing on the inside of his cheek to distract himself. He kept his eyes focused on the end of the tub. 

“I thought so,” Crassus said with a hum. “not only is it a pretty face, but a fuckable one, too. I imagine you could easily pocket extra coin with a face like that.” 

“I…don’t understand what you’re saying, Dominus,” Marcus whispered with uncertainty. What was he insinuating? His crude choice of words fell foreign to his innocent ears. 

“Ah, a virgin too? I have plenty of clientele that would gladly pay generously to lie with the likes of you, pretty boy.” 

“Acacius?” 

Marcus blinked rapidly, eyes darting to his left and then his right. He had been clenching his fists so tightly, that his blunt nails had left angry red marks in his palms. 

“Acacius.” The familiar voice to his left broke through the blockage in his brain. Cinna, a fellow gladiator, was the only one left at the table outside of Marcus. His eyes were as blue as the sea, or the sky on a clear day. It was a stark, yet beautiful contrast against his dark complexion. 

Marcus swallowed the heavy lump in his throat and finally released the tension in his fists. The bowl of porridge in front of him remained untouched and had since gone cold. 

“Are you quite alright, Acacius? You have yet to touch your food.” Cinna sounded genuinely worried. 

“I’m fine, Cinna,” he released a breath he didn’t realize he was holding and rose from the table. 

“You should really—”

“I said,” Marcus enunciated. “that I was fine.” Despite the empty feeling in his stomach, and the unease in his mind, he stalked off to the armory to get suited up for another grueling training session. Perhaps during that time he could clear his mind, finally. That, of course, was wishful thinking on his part. 

 When the iron cuffs around his wrists were removed, he flexed his fingers at his sides, tapping them against the hem of his tunic. His armor was soon fastened, and a sword was thrust into his hands. He tested the weight of it in his palm, like he always did, but something felt off when he stared at his reflection in the steel. Empty eye sockets stared back at him, and his palms felt clammy. He blinked as hard as he could before opening his eyes again and his normal reflection returned. 

“Get moving, Acacius. You’re already late as it is,” the armorer muttered. 

When Marcus stepped into the arena, he expected to be greeted by the sun, but instead was met with a gray, cold sky with clouds stretching to the heavens for miles. His sword fell heavy at his side, and when he looked up at the emperor’s viewing platform, he could make out the faces of Geta and Caracalla staring back at him. 

Geta gave him a curt nod of acknowledgement, and tipped the rim of his chalice in his direction before his attention was stolen by a feminine hand wrapping around his bicep and pulling him back down to his throne. 

The rest of gladiators had already begun to spar, their swords of steel clashing loudly. Marcus stood there, dumbly. His jaw ticked, and his ears were ringing. He was not focused, and when Cinna’s familiar hand clasped around his shoulder, he whipped around in confusion. His eyes were wide when they landed upon striking blue ones. 

“You are not well today, Acacius,” Cinna said in a low soft tone. 

“I—I’m fine,” Marcus insisted and brushed his hand from his shoulder. 

“Where are we going, Dominus? The hour is late, and I am quite tired,” Marcus trailed behind Crassus, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. 

“We are going to meet some of my very good friends, Acacius. You’ll be my cup bearer for the evening,” Crassus stated plainly, and he did not slow his steps so Marcus could keep up with his pace. Marcus frowned at this and took longer strides so he could keep up with him. He opened his mouth to argue that his sleep was more important, but one sharp look over Crassus’s shoulder had him swallowing his words just as quickly as they had manifested. 

“You’ll be on your best behavior, Acacius. Wouldn’t want to upset me, now would we?” 

“No, Dominus,” Marcus whispered and absentmindedly scratched at his arm. He looked over his shoulder, towards the distant flickering lights of the villa before facing forward. He kicked at a stray rock with the toe of his sandals, but Crassus did not notice, nor care. 

At the entrance to the town's brothel, Marcus was involuntarily glued to Crassus’s side. There was an array of people filtering in and out of the bustling establishment, and Marcus’s curiosity was getting the better of him as he looked up in wonder at each passing face. 

“You will speak only when spoken to, boy. Do you understand?” Crassus addressed him sternly. 

“Yes, Dominus.” 

His arm was tugged roughly inside and although it was too dim to see much of anything, he heard a plethora of sounds. To his innocent ears, he believed that people were wailing in pain and anguish, but one glimpse of bare skin on flesh moving rhythmically behind a sheer curtain had his cheeks burning from the sight. He looked up at his Dominus, expectantly, hoping that he would have the answers, but Crassus continued to drag him along with little regard. 

“How old is he?” a woman, twice Marcus’s age asked from her makeshift throne of pillows. Her eyes were enticing, and her movements fluid when she rose from her lax position. 

“Thirteen,” Crassus said with a grin. 

“A virgin, yes?” her question left a sour taste in Marcus's mouth, but he didn't dare speak up.

Crassus nodded and released his firm grip on Marcus’s arm finally. 

“I expect you’ll pay well for him. He is well mannered and docile, as long as he’s nowhere near a sword,” he chuckled. 

She simply smiled and reached for her chalice of wine on the nearby table, snatching it up with ease. She approached Marcus who was wringing his hands together nervously. She came to a halt in front of him, crouching down so she was more level and brought the rim of the chalice to her painted lips. “You do have quite a pretty face.” 

“T-thank…you?” Marcus wanted to be polite as his mother raised him to be. He eyed the contents of her chalice suspiciously, and his nose turned up from the nauseating sweet aroma that emitted from it. 

She looked up towards Crassus, her smile turning into a knowing, wry grin. “Payment is on the table, Crassus. Half to start, and the rest to follow…depending on how your boy performs.” 

“Oh, he will perform to your standards, Domina Vinicia, I am certain of this.” 

“Good.” her grin stretched across her lips and she took another sip of her wine before offering it to Marcus. “Ever had wine before, boy?” 

Marcus shook his head and took a step back, but Crassus’s hand was there to stop him and instead nudged him forward. 

“No, I have not,” he answered quietly. 

“Well, tonight will be a night of many firsts for you,” Vinicia said with certainty in her saccharine tone and she nudged the glass into his hands. He stared down into the reflection of claret, contemplating his decision for a moment before hesitantly bringing the rim to his lips. The small, meager sip he took turned into a larger one when Vinicia used the bridge of her pointer finger to tip the bottom of the chalice forwards, forcing Marcus to drink more of the scarlet liquid. 

He sputtered frantically, his eyes blurring with tears as he tried his best to quickly clear his airway, but most of the wine had ended up down the front of his tunic. He profusely apologized for creating such a mess, in fear that he would be punished. 

Vinicia’s cat-like grin did not falter, and she brought her hand to rest against his jaw, ceasing his movements when she brushed away a stray drop of wine from his lips. Marcus let out a sound of protest, but his words were muffled when her painted lips pressed softly to his. 

“Crassus,” she said suddenly and pulled back slowly from Marcus’s bewildered face, “you have yet to disappoint me, friend.” 

“W-w-wait—” Marcus tried to interject, but Vicinia was already rising to her feet and pulling him further into the room. “What do you call this one?” 

“Acacius.” 

“Acacius,” she echoed.

Marcus looked back at his Dominus, digging his heels into the intricate rug beneath his feet, but Crassus did not move from his spot to help him. 

“Peace, Acacius. There is nothing for you to fear,” Vicinia said sweetly from above. Her grip on his arm was far gentler than Crassus’s had been. The last thing Marcus saw before multiple pairs of hands, both calloused and soft, reached out from the darkness, was Crassus disappearing behind the door. 

Their voices were soft in his ears like a soothing lullaby. Their hands, feminine and masculine, pulled him further into the darkness. They were not like monsters that lingered in his nightmares, with sharpened claws and long, narrow teeth. He could not see their eyes, but their teeth gleamed through the darkness, stained in claret. Their breath on his skin reeked of sweet wine, and he hated the stench of it. 

“Peace, pretty boy. We’ll take good care of you.” 

Caracalla, grinning from ear to ear, was acutely tuned into what was taking place in the arena below. His brother, too distracted by his current vice, had not noticed Marcus’s distress, but the younger emperor took notice of it immediately. “Brother,” Caracalla said in a sickly, sing-songy tone. “Leave me be, Caracalla,” Geta clipped back, his words muffled as his lips were pressed against the juncture of the whore’s neck. Her nimble fingers threaded through the back of his brassy curls, giggling wildly when his teeth scraped her pulse point. Caracalla released an annoyed huff through his nose before he rose to his full height. His own whore was disinterested in the gladiators training, and she was far too busy observing her cuticles to notice that he was no longer at her side. He took a few confident steps to overlook the balcony, resting his gold-clad forearms against the stone railing. He peered down at the arena, paying no mind to a scuffle that broke out between four gladiators that had taken the training session a little too seriously.

“What a bunch of animals…” he chuckled in amusement to himself and raised his chalice of wine to his lips, taking a generous sip. He smacked his lips together and looked over in the direction of his praetorians standing by and awaiting his command. He contemplated his next decision only fleetingly and pushed his weight off of the railing, spinning around to face his guards directly. The glint in his eye was enough for them to read and understand what he would ask of them next, and they followed him wordlessly to the hidden stairwell behind the entrance of the viewing platform. Caracalla strolled right past his brother without the eldest emperor catching wind of his departure. Marcus and Cinna were still engaged in an intense conversation, and Marcus’s sword had yet to leave his side. His attention was drawn to the sudden circling of praetorians entering the arena. The sudden intrusion caught the attention of the rest of the gladiators who laid their swords down as quickly as they had been raised. Every one of them bowed in Caracalla’s presence, all but Marcus. Marcus could feel every hair on the back of his neck stand up when the group of praetorians parted in the middle revealing a smirking Caracalla to his eyes. He took a step back, fingers flexing along the hilt of his sword. “Acacius,” Caracalla said in an authoritative tone, his eyes filled with mirth. “Has my brother not yet taught you respect in the presence of your emperor?” he cocked a brow. Marcus’s lip curled upwards into a snarl, but despite his defiance, he reluctantly bowed. “That is better,” Caracalla chuckled and took a step towards him, stopping just under a foot away from him. “However, I'd much prefer you on your knees.” he snapped his fingers once, and two praetorians approached Marcus immediately. In truth, Marcus was not looking for a fight and had already begun to lower himself towards the ground when two pairs of hands forcefully shoved him down. His sword was wretched from his hand and tossed out of his reach. “You look quenched with thirst, Acacius,” Caracalla said with a wry grin. “How about some wine?” “I am not thirsty, your highness,” Marcus responded through gritted teeth. “No?” Caracalla walked closer, till he was towering above him. He raised his chalice of wine above his head and tipped it forwards, dumping the remaining contents directly over Marcus's head. Scarlet droplets coated Marcus’s cropped hair, dripped down the sides of his face, over his lips, neck and the crevices of his armor. The second he tasted the all too familiar sweetness on his tongue, he panicked. The stench was overwhelming and sent Marcus writhing in the praetorian's restraints. He yelled wildly, thrashing like a fish tangled in a fishing net, or a helpless rodent entangled in the coils of a snake.

Caracalla had not been expecting such a visceral reaction, that even he was left feeling stunned at the sight of Marcus reacting in such a crazed manner. He looked over his shoulder in the direction of the viewing platform to already find his brother staring back at him in bewilderment. Caracalla snapped his fingers once more and the Praetorians released their hold on Marcus, but the damage was already done. “What is the meaning of this?!” Geta’s voice boomed through the arena, echoing loudly in Marcus’s ringing ears. He was no longer thrashing wildly, but his breaths were coming out in rapid puffs and a layer of perspiration coated his face and neck. “Just having a bit of fun is all, brother,” Caracalla responded with a biting grin. He crossed his arms over his chest at his brother’s fury-filled approach. When Geta was within arms reach of his kin, he raised his hand towards the heavens as if he was about to strike Caracalla’s painted cheek, but he refrained, remembering the role he had to play. “Get him some water!” He barked out an order to his own praetorians that stood in a protective circle around him. “Who would have thought that the ever-so great and brave Acacius could break so easily,”  Caracalla said in amusement under his breath. He brought his hands to rest behind his back, his smirk only intensifying when he locked eyes with a trembling, terrified Marcus. Geta shook his head, biting the soft flesh of his cheek to keep himself from stooping to his brother’s level. He crouched down in the sand so he was more level with him. The other gladiators, except Cinna, had dispersed. “Don’t fucking touch me,” Marcus said in a biting tone, barring his teeth. He reeked of wine, sweat and something– “Gods!” Caracalla cackled. “He’s pissed himself!” His jeering laugh sent Marcus’s cheeks burning, turning as scarlet as the droplets of wine that speckled his skin. “Cinna, is it?” Geta said suddenly, peering up at the man standing nearby. “Y-yes, your highness,” Cinna stuttered out, quickly bowing.

Geta nodded, turning his attention to his guards. “You will escort Acacaius and Cinna to the thermae. Allow them as much time as needed, and leave them both in privacy. He has been humiliated enough.”

“Yes, Caesar,” they responded in unison.

Caracalla pursed his lips into a tight line, fighting the urge to roll his eyes at his brother’s softness. He turned his nose up in disgust at the stench of urine permeating the air. “Fucking freak,” He said under his breath, loud enough for Marcus to hear it. He turned swiftly on his heel and walked away from the scene as if it never happened. His praetorians trailed behind him obediently.

Marcus did not utter a cry of protest when the two guards on either side of him suddenly lifted him from the sand. Geta gave him a reassuring nod, one that was met with a blank stare of confusion. 

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[aventurineswife]

hi hellooooo ive never sent in a request to anyone before so i hope im doing this right but i rlly love ur writing and ur works so i wanted to approach u with my little idea and see ur take on it :)

how do you think aventurine and ratio would go about celebrating their anniversary with their partner? would it be through nice gifts, something more heartfelt, or maybe spending the day alone with them? rlly interested to see what you think !! again i really love your writing and would love to see your ideas :) might start requesting things regularly if i have any more ideas heheh

Surprise Anniversary! <3

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Ratio x Reader, Anniversary Celebration, Fluff, Romantic Gestures, Personalized Gifts, Sentimental Moments, Playful Love (Aventurine), Intellectual Love (Ratio), Domestic Bliss, Light Angst (Healing Undertones).

Warnings: Mild emotional vulnerability, Implied deep emotional scars (Aventurine), Mention of intellectual themes (Ratio).

A/N: Writing this after a married ratio fic, honestly fits so well 🤭

The moment Aventurine woke up, his eyes glittered with mischief as he smiled at you. "Darling," he purred, brushing a lock of hair from his face, "you didn’t think I’d forget today, did you?"

Aventurine lived for the grandiose, and your anniversary was no exception. The day began with an invitation—a card sealed with golden wax, summoning you to a private casino event he'd arranged. When you arrived, the room was aglow with golden chandeliers, and every surface sparkled with decadent decor that screamed luxury and sophistication. At the center of it all, Aventurine waited, dressed impeccably in his fancy roulette-themed attire, his peacock feather earring catching the light.

The event was filled with games tailored to your shared memories. One table featured trivia about your relationship, where every correct answer granted a custom prize he had designed just for you—tokens of love disguised as chips that he playfully wagered throughout the day.

“You always keep me on my toes, my love.” you teased as he presented you with the final gift: a heart-shaped roulette wheel, spinning with vibrant gemstones. Each gem, he explained, symbolized a significant moment in your relationship.

Finally, the two of you ended the day alone on a balcony overlooking the city. Aventurine, ever the charmer, held your hand and whispered, “Life’s a gamble, my darling, but betting on us has always been my safest wager.” The sincerity in his voice melted through his playful façade, and he kissed you under a canopy of stars.

Ratio wasn’t one for extravagant displays, but his anniversary plans were no less profound. When you woke up, you found a small, handwritten note on your bedside table:

"Meet me in the study at noon. - V."

The study, one of his favorite places, had been transformed. Bookshelves that usually housed tomes of academic knowledge now displayed mementos from your time together—ticket stubs, photographs, and little trinkets he had quietly preserved over the years. A large chalkboard stood at the center, covered in meticulously written equations. As you approached, you realized it wasn’t math—it was a timeline of your relationship, each formula symbolizing a shared moment.

Ratio stood nearby, his hair swept to one side, his alabaster sculpture absent to reveal his face fully. “I thought it was time to teach you something,” he said with a rare softness in his tone. “An equation I can’t solve alone.”

He handed you a piece of chalk and invited you to complete the final step. Together, you wrote an expression symbolizing your future—a life shared, balanced, and ever-growing. Ratio’s eyes glimmered with emotion as he said, “This is the only theorem that matters to me.”

To end the day, Ratio surprised you with a private dinner, the table surrounded by projections of your favorite constellations. As you dined, he spoke of his admiration for your support and how you inspired him to push beyond his self-imposed boundaries. “You’ve always been my muse.” he confessed, his voice steady but filled with unspoken gratitude.

As the evening came to a close, Ratio gifted you a bracelet adorned with tiny owl charms, symbolizing wisdom and protection. “So that no matter where I am,” he explained, “a part of me is always guiding you.”

[errorwarblesrr]

Okay I gotta rant, I'm going to state rn this post is neither pro or anti Zelink.

I wish people could stop arguing over the canonicity of BOTW/TOTK Zelink. Idk I've seen a lot of arguments on it, like both sides are trying to checkmate each other. It's annoying.

I remember back when articles twisted the words of Zelda's VA, and a bunch of people were rude about it. Both sides. Then, when she clarified what she actually meant, there was a whole fit about it.

These games are about player freedom. Nintendo also wants Link, this one especially, to reflect the player. They want to keep it ambiguous and up to interpretation, yes we know Zelda loves Link but we in fact still don't know how Link feels about her.

Even stuff that can be used as evidence still have some ambiguity to it, for example Link's old house. It can be used as evidence for both sides and be up to interpretation for whether they are or aren't living together. On one hand this was Link's old house and Zelda lives there now, Zelda has his hairband, she says he always remains by his side, he can sleep on her bed, the table is set for two, and she has to hide the new tunic. On the other hand no one recognizes the house as Link's anymore it's only referred to as Zelda's house and his belongings are gone outside of the champions picture, there is one twin sized bed with one pillow and it's also important to note couples in this game sleep in seperate beds, Link can get a house in Terry Town, people talk to him as if he also doesn't normally go there, and there's an npc that Zelda isn't one to turn people away from her house so Link has permission to visit. There is room for interpretation and to come up with different reasonings for both sides.

This isn't me confirming or denying this Zelink but to show there is strong evidence for BOTH sides because it is meant to be ambiguous and up to interpretation.

There's also Link just not emoting for any cutscene he is in with her. I believe this is so you can interpret him feeling whatever you want him to feel (though personally I would rather him emote). He doesn't show any emotion when he learns the truth about her, when they reunite, or when the sages pledge to serve her. This is a stark contrast to the Zelinks that are pretty much canon like in Skyward Sword and Spirit Tracks. In both of these games there are very clear feelings for one another with Skyward Sword even having a romance theme for them. These Link's will emote and show how they feel in the moment with Zelda.

The point is it's tiring to see arguments on it. Civil discussions are fine, but heated debates are pointless. Aonuma says he wants people to see themselves in Link, and Aonuma also wants things to be open-ended and up for interpretation (like botws placement in the title). I haven't even touched on people hating on other ships (like miphlink and what not). I just think we should all be mindful, you know? You ship this Zelink? Great! You don't? Also, great! Both can coexist because, at the end of the day, neither is canon.

[s0fter-sin]

soapghost

[mariemariemaria]

Does anybody else feel like mental health awareness has done very little to help them in material reality

[pens-and-paperbacks]

Endeavor is almost a perfect allegory for what the society in the mha universe does to people who can't be heroes or use their quirks in a way to benefit society, which is cast them aside or pass them over without over giving them a second glance until uh-oh! Suddenly they're worth being noticed because they're a threat.

He apologizes to his family, which is good! If you're a bad person and did terrible things, the first step in your own transformation and atonement should be to acknowledge what you've done and to apologize to those you've wronged. Great!

Thing is, Endeavor set off a chain reaction with his abusive, neglectful and downright irresponsible choices that it damaged everyone in his family for life.

I don't think someone who causes one of their own children to literally go up in flames, crying because they're finally getting attention from their father and family in the very end, ever deserves to be forgiven.

[skunkes]

very often ill see bears following my nsfw account and ill end up looking thru their profiles as i check for ppls ages in bio and theyre 99.9% bear4bear. That one anon lied to me.

[opens-up-4-nobody]

...

[widevibratobitch]

took a bunch of clothes to my mom's to wash them since my washing machine is still down and she said 'ill do it dw about it' and threw my favourite white top in with the colours. i no longer have a favourite white top :)

[kohakhearts]

well folks its been a good two months of denial but i am finally ready to admit that the reason everything sucks is because of major depression relapse. if i werent so depressed id make this everyone elses problem by projecting it on to blorbo but alas

[gibbearish]

anybody else like. dislike the concept of putting the ways youre privileged in your bio in general

[lostandbackagain]

life as someone who feels unreasonable social justice guilt about everything sounds exhausting.

not being able to post that you like something without adding a 900 word disclaimer that the creator ran a stop sign once and you don't condone that so you're separating the art from the artist.

can't post a song by a black singer without a " *I'm white so lmk if I'm listening to this wrong."

posting that you're headed to therapy and having to add that it's a mark of your privilege that you can afford it and that it's effective for you.

apologizing for posting your meal because there might be someone out there that doesn't like it.

like. it seems like a lot of (especially young) leftists have bought into the right wing scaremongering about the big bad communist hovering over your shoulder getting ready to scream CANCELED if you don't make sure every problematic loophole has been closed and it's not only making dumb leftist stereotypes real and centering the wrong party in social justice topics but it's just. so sad to see people living like they think they're going to get in trouble for being alive

[bugdogg]

if i ever seem brave for some of the stuff i admit on here, just know its cause idk how to keep shit to myself. i cower at the thought of judgement and then proceed to expose my whole ass to tumblr anyway, because i dont have a working filter

[fappellmoan]

things have not been normal. im so tired.

[strwbrymlkshake]

I don't think I've ever been in a relationship this healthy before I don't know what to do 💀