#touch starved roman

[kendallroygf]

no bc all previous intimate kenstewy moments have been stewy being the one to reach out to ken both physically and figuratively (there’s a friend card here if you want to play it etc) but you’re telling me…that kendall roy who generally has an aversion to touch. rests his head on stewy’s shoulder!!! with a smile on his face…so basically you’re telling me he creates further intimacy on his own volition. with stewy. with his best friend called stewy. insane

[lefaystrent]

Suspire

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Pairings: platonic LAMP

Summary: Roman's favorite weighted blanket is ruined.

Roman wouldn't say that he adjusts well. He merely finds ways to cope.

AO3 Link: click here

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It's just a blanket.

Roman is an adult. He has a job. He buys his own groceries, and he pays his portion of the rent on time. He keeps up with his student debt even when some months he hangs on by his fingernails.

It's just a single blanket.

Roman has other things in his life to be happy about. He has his paintings and keyboard. He has his dearest friends whom he lives with. He's active in his local theater community and often lands roles. He has a roof over his head, parents who care for him, a brother who he can stand sometimes. A car that works.

It's just a fucking blanket.

That's what he tells himself over and over as he stares vacantly at the ripped threads. The tear that had been snagged wide open, and the weighted material inside quickly coming outside. He holds it, remembering the marvelous weight on his shoulders, the pressure on his back, the comfort it gave him. The security and warmth. The way he will never feel it again. How he can't go back and fix it.

He can't afford another one right now. It's one of those tight month's budget-wise. And even if he could, it would not be this one.

Roman holds his blanket and unravels alongside it.

***

Roman wouldn't say that he adjusts well. He merely finds ways to cope.

He takes longer showers. The sizzling pinpricks of water cascade over him, beating down on his shoulder blades. It's too hot, close to boiling, but the burn is nice even if his skin begs him to stop. If he stands directly under, it's almost encompassing. It's almost enough.

He wears more layers. Roman tends to add a jacket over any attire anyway. What's another sweatshirt under? Or a scarf tied protectively around his neck? It doesn't matter that this too is overheating. His bones are brittle, and he needs to wrap them somehow. The skin is not enough. It bruises far too easily.

The most embarrassing thing he tries is wedging his whole body into or under anything that may work as a substitute. He tears apart his room testing this and that and wants to cry in frustration as he lays on the carpet with his entire mattress smothering him. He steals all the pillows in the house when he's sure the others are out, and he piles them up. But burrowing into them is too soft and leaves him more frustrated. He crawls under the couch one day and nearly has a panic attack when the front door unlocks and Logan walks in. He plays it off as having lost the remote. He can't bear to admit the truth.

That is, until he's left with no other choice.

***

Roman sits at the dining table working on an art project involving thousands of multi-colored beads. His desk in his bedroom simply isn't large enough, so here he is.

Patton enters the kitchen behind him, and Roman knows its him by the smell of his eucalyptus scented shampoo. Then he sees freckled arms emerging over his shoulders, wrists adorned in friendship bracelets, and they snake around Roman's collarbone. Roman's hands fix in mid-air, eyes going blank as Patton presses up against his back and rests his chin on the top of Roman's head.

"You're so creative," Patton praises, and that alone could usually keep him comfortably warm long into the cold night. But everywhere that Patton touches him, every press of muscle and firm flesh, it scorches in the most pleasant burn.

"I can't wait to see it when it's done," Patton says, and Roman can feel the hum of his voice, how it vibrates his scalp and dances down the back of his neck. A shiver shoots up his back, and Roman cannot dedicate his attention to anything else if he tried.

Roman takes too long to respond, too frozen in his posture.

Patton notices. "Kiddo? You okay there? Was I not supposed to see?"

As if the art piece means a damn to him in this moment. What matters to him with eye-opening crystal clarity is that Patton's arms are loosening and his weight shifts so that he's not leaning against him as much. The loss of that is an incomparable grief.

Roman drops what he's holding, uncaring that some of the beads clatter off the side of the table to skitter across the floor. His hands clutch at Patton's wrists and fold them back around his neck. He draws the blessed weight against him once more, and he keeps it there, scared to let it go. Scared to be exposed once more.

"Roman?" Patton's tone is careful now, wary that something is wrong. His head settles back on top of Roman's, but his face nestles into the side of his hair, the edge of his glasses barely grazing. His voice whispers at his ear, "Did something happen?"

Yes, something happened. Roman's favorite weighted blanket is ruined and he's acting like a child about it. The shame excavates a pit in his stomach. There are depths to it that he doesn't wish to look at, let alone express.

"Can you–" Roman begins, but there's a lump caught in his throat. His voice sounds foreign to his own ears, too small and full of trepidation. He swallows and blinks rapidly. "Can you stay? Like this?"

"Hugging?" Patton asks to clarify. Roman doesn't think he's mocking him. Patton would never mock. He wouldn't judge. Not this. Never this. Please don't judge him for this.

"Mmhm," Roman hums, because if he doesn't use words he won't sound so pathetic, yet he immediately fails. The vocalization comes out high-pitched and needy, and tears spring to his eyes unbidden. He doesn't dare blink his eyes now.

Patton doesn't answer at first, and Roman is enormously relieved that they can't see each other's expressions. Roman fears what he would see on Patton's face, and if Patton could see him right now? He doesn't think he could hold on to his composure.

"Okay," Patton says, voice flower-petal soft. "We can stay like this. However long you want. I don't mind."

Patton skims his nose back and forth over Roman's hairline. His hands spread out, palms covering the top if Roman's chest. His hold is a cradle, gentle and safe, and it holds him together and doesn't let him fall apart. The arms tighten around him, compressing, and Roman holds them right back.

***

Patton becomes his saving grace.

He is wonderful in that he needs no explanation. His affections are given freely, without cost, whenever Roman needs them or even when he doesn't realize he needs them. Patton starts to hug him more often and cuddle him during movie nights. He ruffles Roman's hair as he passes by, or he grabs him by the hand when he's excited. Sometimes he'll trail his fingertips over Roman's face in lazy lines that set his mind at ease.

It's exhilarating.

Roman can't get enough. The need never ceases, and Patton is just one person. He cannot always be at Roman's beck and call. Patton has work and outings he leaves for, same as everyone else. And when he's home, it doesn't mean he's available at all hours. Like the middle of the night for instance.

Roman stands at Patton's firmly shut bedroom door like a sad dog. His fists tighten into the thighs of his sweatpants. What did he expect really? That Patton's door would be wide open at two in the morning? That he'd spy light on under the door and get the courage to knock? Patton said he was there for Roman any time, but that doesn't mean Roman gets to take advantage and disrupt his sleep schedule just because Roman is too pathetic to fall asleep without his blanket.

Patton has done so much for him lately. He's good like that, a saint. Roman can't monopolize him. It wouldn't be fair.

Then why does he continue to stand there in the dark hallway? A damsel in distress waiting for his prince to save him? Or hoping the door will magically open and he receive some form of pity.

He's worse than pathetic. He's absolutely rotten.

A sliver of light illuminates the hall, a door squeaking open. Roman nearly jumps out of his skin and looks behind him where Logan stands in the doorway to his own bedroom.

"Roman?" Logan says, looking just as surprised. "I didn't think you'd be up this late. Don't you have work in the morning?"

"Heyyy, Specs," Roman gets out tremulously. He scratches at the back of his head, searching for some excuse. Think of something, damn it. "I uh, yeah. I've got work in the morning. Just...out for a stroll."

"A stroll?" Logan repeats. His brow raises and he's giving Roman that look that he gives him all the time, like he's stupid and not worth his time.

Roman crosses his arms and stares down at his bare feet. "Yeah, I can stroll where I want. What are you, the hall monitor?"

"I never claimed to be, nor would I want to. You live here; walk where you wish."

"Good, I'm glad we've covered this," Roman replies. He whips his head up when Logan breezes by him down the hall. "Wait, where are you going?"

Logan sends him a bemused glance. "I was going to make a light snack before bed. Why are you following me?"

"Don't try to distract me and just answer the question!"

"I did, Roman."

"Oh... well, answer it again!"

That gets an actual snort out of Logan. Roman shuffles behind him into the kitchen as if locked in a gravitational pull. He watches him pull out a loaf from the bread box along with a tub of butter from the fridge. Roman dithers there observing, reluctant to leave. Logan must accept that Roman has no intention of leaving him alone because he gestures to the bread. "Want some?"

Roman looks between the spreadable butter and bread. "Are you just eating buttered bread?"

Logan rolls his eyes. "No, I was planning to eat buttered toast with jam. But if you're not interested..."

"No, you can make me some," Roman swiftly interrupts while trying to make it sound like it's something Logan should be honored to do.

Logan extracts another slice of bread. He plugs up the toaster oven. "So, couldn't sleep?"

"And what if I couldn't?"

Logan sighs, "Not everything is a challenge, Roman."

Roman shifts self-consciously and mutters, "Not with that attitude, Gay Jude."

Logan smiles a little bit after he inserts the bread to be toasted. "Ah, The Beatles. Would you like to hear some interesting facts about them?"

Roman has nothing else to do so he shrugs. Logan enlightens him while they wait for the little ding. Roman snags the jar of crofters out of the fridge before Logan gets a chance, and Roman smirks victoriously at him but spreads the jam on Logan's toast in apology. They eat and drink water, and Logan asks if he's going to go to bed now.

Roman's brows crease. "Actually, why are you up?"

Logan adjusts his glasses, a tell that he's been caught doing something of mild embarrassment. "I was reading a novel."

"That good, huh?" Roman quips with a grin. He and Logan share a surprising amount of similar taste for literature, so Roman doesn't doubt that the writing is less than phenomenal if it's enough to keep his favorite nerd up into the wee hours of the night.

"I would tell you about it, but then you would chide me for giving you spoilers whether or not you intend to read it."

"Mm, I probably will," Roman agrees.

"Then if you don't require anything else, I really must insist we both go to bed. It will be difficult enough to rise later this morning."

"What if I did require something else?" Roman suggests before he can bite his tongue.

And Logan, dependable Logan who at least always hears him out, turns to him fully. "I am all ears, as they say. Which is a ridiculous saying; we only have but two."

Roman doesn't laugh or tease as he usually would. And maybe that tips Logan off more than it should.

"Roman?" he prompts. Because he's so smart, he deduces, "Does this pertain to why you're up so late?"

Roman's gaze strays. It's dark in the kitchen. They didn't bother turning on a light, letting the streetlight guide them from outside the kitchen window. It's too obscured for Logan to see the heat in his cheeks or how he picks nervously at his nails.

Roman gnaws at the inside of his cheek. "It doesn't...not have to do with it."

"You're being vague. That's not like you."

"You don't know what I'm like."

"And you've been defensive. More so than usual. You are upset about something."

Roman just about chokes on air. "What?! No. Nooo, I'm not."

"Was it something I did?"

That punches Roman in the gut. The concern Logan is giving him, it knocks his feet right out from under him and has the truth spilling from his lips. "No, Logan, I just want a hug!"

Roman is infinitely more glad than ever that it's too dark to see. His face is on fire, and he can't look in Logan's direction.

"Happy now?" Roman asks bitterly.

"Roman, if you wanted physical affection, all you had to do was ask."

"What."

He's enveloped in a strong embrace.

Oh. Ohhhh.

Hugs are different. Different people give different hugs. Roman knows this, he does. He's had hugs throughout his life. He's not like, touch-starved or anything. It's just– it's like a reminder. A reminder with all the force of a slap to the face.

He had been so focused on Patton's hugs that he never thought to ask the others. Why would he? He never really did before. Things have just been hard since he lost his blanket, his comfort item. It's not usually like this. Roman's not usually like this, so dependent or desperate for attention.

In Logan's arms, he feels all of that melt away. In fact, his whole body melts into the embrace. A rush of air coaxes out from deep within his lungs as Logan's arms secure around his back. One hand hooks behind Roman's head and pulls him into the crook of his neck. The scent of Logan's faded cologne and laundry detergent fill his nostrils. There's lavender mixed with something else he can't distinguish but is wholly welcome and soothing.

Logan rubs circles into his back, and Roman leans heavily into him. Roman's arms raise like anvils hang off them, and it's all he can manage to circle them around Logan's waist and hang on for dear life.

"Is this satisfactory?" Logan asks. Roman might would answer him if not for the fingers scratching patterns into his scalp. His toes curl in bliss, and his mind sinks into fog. He buries his face further into Logan's neck and shoulder as if he can crawl into Logan's chest and hide there.

"I'll take that as a yes," Logan muses and squeezes him gently.

Roman doesn't make it back to bed for a while.

***

Logan joins Patton in the free affection initiative. Roman wonders if he and Patton discussed this or if Logan is doing it of his own volition. Either way, there is a definite increase in Logan's deviated mannerisms around Roman.

He pats him more on the back. He holds his hand when they sit next to each other. And there's a couple times Logan goes so far as to kiss his forehead. That left Roman blustering and bumbling like an idiot for hours after, because who is this person dressed like Logan? Surely not his nerd. Still, he can't deny the giddiness it evokes.

Things get a bit easier from there. The more it happens, the more he can normalize it. The more he normalizes it, the more he doesn't have to feel ashamed, right? If someone like Logan would go to the trouble...he doesn't have to feel silly about it, right? He can still be taken seriously?

Roman aches less for his blanket. The pain remains, but it's bearable. He feels less likely to break down in a sobbing mess, and that's progress. Right?

Virgil suspects something is going on.

It was bound to happen. He never stops watching out for them or simply watching them. If Patton hadn't accidentally found out about Roman's predicament, Roman thinks that Virgil would have been the first to suspect. As it is, Virgil observes the way that Patton and Logan act around Roman, and it's just enough different than normal. Just out there enough for him to see.

"Are you guys dating?" Virgil blurts out of the blue one day.

It's just the two of them at home, chilling on the couch together watching TV. Roman figured Virgil was having a bad anxiety day from the noncommittal responses he's been giving and how he keeps biting at his nails. Obviously, there have been other topics plaguing his thoughts.

"Who?" Roman asks, because really, who? Roman is single and proudly on a quest to love himself. Virgil knows this. Or at least, he thought he did.

Virgil squirms in his seat like he can't find a comfortable position. "Nevermind, just forget it."

"Well now I really can't forget it."

Virgil groans and buries his face into his hands. "You. And Logan, and Patton. Are you guys dating? If you are, it's whatever. I just would think you guys would tell me."

Roman gives him a semi-horrified look. Not all the way horrified, because Roman is a catch, and his friends are equally catch-worthy, but that's just... that's not how they are together.

"No? Why would you think that?"

Virgil gives him a look. "What else am I supposed to think? You guys have been acting all weird. You can't deny it. I'm not crazy. Or blind."

"Weird how? No seriously, I'm being for real."

"You know. Like all soft? And touchy feely?"

Roman can't help but quirk a smile at how awkward Virgil is acting, as if it pains him to say something so sappy. It's easy to fall into his confident persona. He leans in closer. "Aww, are you feeling left out, Emo?"

Virgil shoves him away. Not with his hand but with his leg because he has to be extra. "Okay, if you're just gonna be a dick about it, I can just go to my room."

And the bravado rushes out as quickly as it arrived. He doesn't want Virgil to leave, and he certainly doesn't want Virgil to entertain the notion that Roman is making fun of him maliciously.

Virgil stays long enough for Roman to fall into contemplation. Virgil peaks up at him and sees Roman looking back at him, completely serious.

"What?" Virgil asks, and there's a bit of a snarl there. Okay, Roman probably deserves that.

"We're not dating," Roman says quietly.

Virgil doesn't believe him. Or at least, he's suspicious of what's not being said. "Then what's up with you guys? Something's going on, and I..."

And Virgil isn't a part of it. He's on the outside looking in. More than that, he thinks they're excluding him on purpose.

Impulsively, Roman says, "Can I ask you something? In all seriousness?"

Virgil's eyes peer at him in narrowed slits, cautious and curious. Roman can see his inner debate, weighing his options of pushing Roman or letting it go or maybe even getting up to leave altogether. It'd be fair; Roman is answering him with a question of his own. Roman isn't sure he would be so patient, in Virgil's place.

But Virgil is more patient than people give him credit for. He nods. "Shoot."

Roman averts his gaze now, suddenly jittery with nervous energy. "Actually, it's more a question of asking you to do something. Can I ask you to do something? And you not laugh at me? Or think I'm weird? You can say no, of course, I just–"

"Roman. Ask away. The worst I can say is no, and I promise not to give you shit for it if I do."

Despite himself, Roman needs a little more assurance. He holds up his hand. "Pinkie promise?"

"Really dude?"

"Virgil, it is a sacred oath."

"Okay, fine, whatever." Virgil threads their pinkies together. "I promise not to be a jerk if you don't."

"Deal," Roman agrees.

"Now, what is it you want to ask me to do?"

"Will you lay on top of me?"

There's no going back. There's no pretending that he misspoke, even as Virgil tilts his head as if he must have heard him wrong. When Roman doesn't budge, Virgil goes stock-still, eyes slowly blowing up wide.

"Uh....what?"

Roman huffs, more frustrated at himself than anything else. "Would you lay on top of me?"

"No, I heard that. I'm just trying to process."

"Then yes or no. You don't need to say anything else. Just yes or no."

And because it's Virgil, he very much has to say anything else. "What do you even mean though? Why?"

Roman groans and waves towards the couch. "Just– you know, I lay on the couch and then you lay on top of me. It's not that complicated, so don't overcomplicate it."

"I overcomplicate going to get a glass or water, Roman. You can't tell me not to overcomplicate you randomly asking me to lay on you."

"I thought you promised you weren't going to be a jerk?"

"I'm not trying to be!" Virgil swipes at his face, his own aggravation mounting. Roman notices that his cheeks are dusted a light pink. "I just don't understand how this relates to anything or why you want me to..."

Roman shrugs sort of helplessly, smile sardonic. "I just do. There's...no trick that I'm playing at, if that's what you're wondering. I want you to lay on me, that's all. Nothing more, nothing less. So would you? No wrong answer."

Virgil looks away a couple of times. He thrums his fingers over his knees, tap, tap, tapping. "I mean, I guess?"

"You guess?"

"Sure then. I'll do it, even if I think I'm the last person you would want to cuddle or whatever, but you'll explain after that?"

"Cross my heart." Roman mimes the motion over his chest.

Virgil stands up. He doesn't move far, just stands there gripping the hem of his hoodie while looking lost. "So..."

Roman scoots down on the couch to where he lays back with his head supported by the couch arm, his legs stretching out along the cushions. He shoves away the embarrassment, the shame, the voice in his head asking what the hell he is doing. Virgil watches him closely, eyes squinted and trying to figure out how to approach.

"Get in here, Emo," Roman calls, holding out his arms.

Virgil grunts and clambers over him. He takes too long to figure out where to put one knee, and Roman adjusts. He spreads out a leg to make room and guides Virgil down. The sides of Virgil's jacket hang over him like a curtain as Virgil hovers in the air, afraid to rest fully against him.

"I'll be heavy," Virgil warns. "You're not going to be able to breathe."

"That's fine, I don't need to," Roman says, half-joking. He's more fixated on tugging at Virgil's shirt to get him to close that last foot of space.

"I better not hear you complain then," Virgil says and finally, finally, drops down on Roman, letting his full weight settle on him.

It's everything that Roman has missed.

Roman can sense Virgil's body from head to toe. Their legs, hips, stomachs, chest, shoulders, all of it pinging across Roman's nervous system at every point of contact. Virgil's arms are folded on either side of Roman's torso, and he can feel the lean limbs against his sides like a harness. Virgil nudges his head stiffly under Roman's chin, and Roman wraps his arms around Virgil's back and holds him tightly to complete the full body hug.

He's sinking into the cushions. His muscles release weeks' worth of tension, letting go and relaxing. He's delightfully sandwiched under Virgil's weight, warmed in his closeness. The warmth is dizzying, like little bumblebees buzzing serenely and drowning him in honey, so sweet and cloying. Virgil's hoodie is a pillow under his palms, and Roman can see why he wears the garment all the time. Roman would wear Virgil all the time if he could.

"Is this it?" Virgil asks, seemingly unimpressed by the magic surrounding them. "Is this what you wanted?"

Roman squeezes more. Virgil wasn't wrong, he's heavy but in the most incredible, indescribable way. Despite the pressure, it's like Roman can breathe again. It's perfect, exactly what he's been craving.

"Hug me any tighter and I'm gonna bruise," Virgil remarks lightly, and something about the words or the tone is more than Roman can take. He breaks.

A shudder shakes him as tears spill over in wet streaks dripping down, salty droplets catching in his mouth. It's abrupt and overwhelming, and it's all coming back to him. The grief, the embarrassment, the shame, the desperate need. He can't stop it, can't hide it. Virgil is right here, and if he doesn't hear the whimper that escapes him, he surely can't ignore when Roman full-on starts sobbing.

"Princey?" Virgil says and sits up quickly. He pushes himself up off of him, and the soothing, wonderful pressure is wrenched away. The cold air bites at his skin in its place. Roman's cries devolve into hysterics, and he can't catch his breath to save his life. Virgil is gaping at him. He sees him in all his wretched ugliness. "Oh shit, what's wrong? Roman? Hey, hey, shhh, don't do that. Please, look at me, why are you crying? Talk to me Roman, I won't laugh, I promise."

Words are beyond him. Roman clings weakly to Virgil's shirt, tugging at him, begging him not to leave with actions and desperation alone. How can he convey his heart shattering to pieces? Or his skin eating itself alive? Or his bones splitting down to the marrow? A keening cry pierces his eardrums. It's a sorrowful weep from his own lips, a sound he didn't think he could make. A sound he's heard in the background for a long time and thought would go away if he ignored it.

"Hey, I'm not going anywhere," Virgil lets out shakily, miraculously interpreting Roman's crazed antics correctly. He stays over Roman, caging him in sweetly with his body. His fingers come up to brush the tears away using the cuffs of his sleeve. "It's alright, sweetheart. Just breathe with me. You're okay, you're okay. I've got you."

Roman is not okay, and Virgil's wild darting eyes share the same sentiment, but if you say a thing enough times, it'll come true by sheer force of will. And if Roman can keep pulling at Virgil, maybe he will go back to crushing him softly.

"What do you want? Do you want this? We can keep laying here. That's okay, Princey. You're okay. You're doing so good, telling me what you need."

Virgil lowers back on him, chest to chest. Roman would hug him in relief if he wasn't too busy turning his face to the side and trying to cover up. He stifles his gasps against the back of his hand. Virgil, thankfully, doesn't pull away his defense. He presses at his chest clumsy and earnest, rubbing his hands over his collar, massaging comfort into him and encouraging him to focus on the motion, to breathe together.

Roman listens to him and hangs on to every word as he talks him through it. Virgil never stops. He speaks far more tenderly than Roman is used to, and it's more astonishing than Logan's recent developments. If Virgil acted like his prickly self, Roman could manage to pull himself together. But Virgil is being lovely in his sweetness, watching him with dark eyes that are ferocious with compassion. It's a gaze that says he'll tear the world apart to keep him safe. Roman doesn't deserve him.

"I'm sorry," Roman whines. It's not enough to sum up his sorrow, yet it's all he has to give.

Virgil looks impossibly more bewildered. He shakes his head and goes back to wiping the tears from Roman's face, so careful in his handling. "Roman, you have nothing to apologize for."

"I'm sorry."

"No, listen to me," Virgil demands and cups his face, making him look right at him. "Obviously, something is going on in that big head of yours. If something is going on, if this has to do with what's up with you and the others, then that's okay, we can talk about it. I'm here for you, man. But if you're apologizing for crying all over me, then I'm gonna affectionately kick your ass. I'd rather you cry here with me than you do it alone or keep it bottled in. That's not healthy. If your brain is telling you that you're a burden to me or something stupid like that, I'll kick your brain's ass too. It can't be mean to you, that's my job."

Roman startles into laughter. It's a sad wheeze more than anything, but Virgil picks up on that. He gives a hesitant, hopeful smile as he brushes his thumbs over Roman's cheekbones.

"There's my Princey. Just keep laughing. I'm a real funny dude."

More wheezy chuckles. More reasons to adore his friend.

"I'm gonna give Patton a run for his money. I've got jokes for days. Wanna hear about belts made out of watches? It'll be a real waist of time."

Roman giggles and leans into Virgil's hands. He closes his eyes.

"And I'll keep going if you want me to. I can do this all day, Princey."

"I'm telling Patton you gave me emotional pun support," Roman murmurs.

Roman can tell by Virgil's voice that he's grinning. "Do it. I'm not afraid."

He opens his eyes again. Virgil moves one of his hands to tuck under his own chin so he can look at Roman more comfortably. The other hand combs through Roman's bangs, straightening them.

"You called me sweetheart," Roman points out in an awed tone.

Virgil doesn't bristle like he expects. If anything, he hunkers down further in his stubbornness. "Yeah? So what?"

"You don't...usually do pet names."

"What can I say? I'm full of surprises."

"Is it weird if I said I liked it?"

Virgil lightly flicks his forehead. "It's only weird if you make it weird, sweetheart."

Roman sniffles and wipes at his face to rid himself of any lingering wetness. Virgil allows him time to breathe and get his bearings.

"It's the weight," Roman finally admits. "The warmth and the pressure. I mean, why I asked you to lay on me. I had a weighted blanket, but it got ruined. So Patton and Logan have been helping out where they can. It's easier when they're touching."

Virgil doesn't stop petting at his hair, but he does frown while he parses through his words. "What do you feel like without it?"

"Without the touching and my blanket? Umm, exposed I guess? Anxious. Cold."

"When you don't have your blanket or someone touching you, do you think about it a lot?"

"What do you mean?"

Virgil shrugs, and Roman feels the movement and together with the hair petting, it's enough to have his eyelids flutter and threaten to close. "I mean, when you haven't had that in a while, does it consume your thoughts? Like you're longing for it?"

Roman remembers the night he stood outside Patton's door in the hallway.

All the time. He longs for it all the time these days.

"Yeah," Roman whispers.

"Dude, I think you're touch-starved."

That throws Roman for a loop. "But... I touch people enough? It's not like I'm going years without a hug over here."

Virgil boops him on the nose. "It's doesn't take years. Could just take weeks. Depends on the person I guess. Everyone needs things differently. I think you liked your blanket so much because you were using it to substitute touch. And now that you're starting to get touch more often, your body is trying to adjust. It's like going from eating bread crusts to a full course meal."

"But I..." Roman's mind drifts. Virgil's words resonate as he compares them to his memories.

Yearning, heartache, misery, clinginess, pressure, satisfaction, grief. Is this what's been wrong with him?

"I'm touch-starved?" Roman asks.

Virgil gives him a sympathetic smile. He pats at his head. "I think so. It's not so bad. We can help you."

"You will?"

Virgil snorts and adjusts his position so he's laying more comfortably on Roman, like he's bedding down for the long-haul. "I'm not moving from this spot until dinner at the earliest."

Virgil makes good on his promise. Their roommates come home to find them there, napping the afternoon away. When they wake to the smell of cooking meat, they drag themselves up from the couch and shake the blood back into their limbs. The four of them sit at the table that night to eat and talk.

Roman opens up.

And when he eventually has the money to spare, he doesn't buy a new blanket.

He doesn't need one anymore. He has them.

[tss-whumper]

I keep thinking about touch-starved whumpee Roman and caretaker Logan. Roman knows Logan doesn't like touch much, but then Logan hugs him after realizing Roman's touch-starved, and...Roman kinda breaks. Logan is steady and precise, and Roman is so so cold and confused and never wants to leave.

Anyway, no pressure to write this! (/gen)

I love how you write Patton & Roman bc it feels accurate to me, lol. Haven't been here in a while, but wanted to see how you were doing. Glad I returned to read some of your awesome fics!

Take care :D (/pos)

aww, thank you so much for all the kind words, anon!! i really appreciate the support. this idea looks amazing, and i'd love to write something with it. i hope this is what you were looking for!

---

Roman was cold.

He wasn't quite sure why. This had been happening for a few weeks now, Roman woke up and was cold. He ate breakfast and was cold. He even was cold while taking his hour-long hot showers. No matter what he did, he always felt like he was freezing from the inside out. It had only just recently gotten to the point where he was shivering every moment of the day, his teeth chattering whenever he was not talking.

And that was why Roman was where he was now: wrapped in a blanket, on the couch, in front of the fireplace. While all of the other sides were wearing tank tops and shorts, Roman was secretly wearing pajama pants underneath a second pair of pajama pants.

Roman was focusing on keeping warm, but the sound of arguing started to emerge from the hallway into the living room, causing the creative side to carefully listen in, as he tended to do.

"Patton, I don't want a hug. Get off me."

Logan was clearly losing his patience with the overly-affectionate side, and Roman watched from the couch as Logan's muscles tensed and his breathing grew more labored. It was not a secret that the logical side generally disliked physical touch, especially when he was not the one initiating it. The only thing he hated more than physical touch was not being listened to.

"Oh, Logan, stop being such a sourpuss!" Patton chided, "I'm just showin' my favorite logical guy some love! Hug me back, and then I'll let you go!"

Logan rolled his eyes, and they flashed with irritation as he reluctantly hugged Patton back. The paternal side squealed and let go of Logan, skipping out of the room to likely do the same surprise bear hug to Virgil that he had subjected Logan to.

Roman huffed softly from his spot on the couch. Once again, Patton hadn't even noticed that he was in the room. Recently, it had been like that more and more. Patton gave all his attention to all the other sides, but when Roman was around, he awkwardly shuffled away. Roman had tried to make amends from what happened in the past few episodes, going so far as to try and protect Patton from Janus, but it never seemed to be enough for him.

But that wasn't the important thing right now. Roman shivered, a bit cold in the room as he stood up and approached Logan.

"Hey, pocket watch, wanna watch musicals with special effects and try to figure out how they do them?" he offered.

Logan offered a small, tired smile.

"Sure, Roman," he said, "That would be lovely."

Together, the two sides went to Roman's room. Though most of the fans saw the clear animosity between Roman and Logan, the two were rather good friends off-camera. When there was nothing at stake for Thomas, they found good company in each other. Logan helped Roman listen to reason when he was being overly idealistic, and Roman helped Logan find hope and inspiration where there seemed to be none at all.

And best of all, they both loved to watch musicals with special effects and try to figure out how they were done. They giggled and kicked their feet and shouted like children when they guessed correctly.

Something about being with Logan made Roman feel as if he could be himself for a change. He didn't have to put on a performance that he was some grand, indestructible prince, simply because there was no point. Logan could always see right through Roman's acts. Logan knew that Roman was not really a prince, that he really was very sensitive. And though that was scary sometimes, it was usually refreshing, not needing to pretend. Especially because it was obvious that Logan knew how it felt to be put on that sort of stifling pedestal.

Roman was the only person who Logan felt safe to be himself around too, though not for the same reason. Logan struggled to be taken seriously by the other sides, often seen as a joke. Though Roman teased Logan, it was clear that Roman did not view Logan as lesser-than or pathetic. Roman listened to and respected Logan's wishes, especially off camera. He made Logan feel...listened to. And almost appreciated at times? It was something Logan was generally unfamiliar with. But with Roman, it tended to be abundant.

"Roman? What's going on?"

Roman blinked, and looked over at Logan. He clutched his blankets closer to himself as he felt a terrible chill come over him.

"N- no- nothing," Roman stammered between his chattering teeth, "I'm just cold is all."

"Cold?" Logan asked sharply, extremely concerned, "It's eighty degrees in here, and you have two blankets on. I'm surprised you aren't overheating."

Roman was not expecting that level of worry from Logan, who was usually so level-headed.

"Um...I dunno," Roman shrugged, "I'm just cold. I don't know what to tell you. It's been like this for a few weeks now. I figured my room just had a draft or something."

Logan felt Roman's forehead. Roman shivered, subconsciously leaning into Logan's gentle and warming touch. Logan's fingers delicately brushed the hair away from Roman's forehead.

"You don't feel feverish or unwell," the logical side mused, "You don't seem to be sick at all. But I can't think of any other reason why you might feel like...this."

Logan paused when he saw how Roman reacted to his touch.

"You're so warm," Roman murmured, an almost delirious smile on his face, "I've never felt anything warmer, not in all my life."

Logan did not think he was particularly toasty. He frowned a bit, and put his other hand on Roman's shoulder. When the creative side practically keened into the touch, Logan realized what the problem was, the pieces of the puzzle coming together in his head in one immediate snap.

"It's touch," he realized, "Roman, when was the last time somebody touched you?"

"Three weeks ago," Roman said, as if he had the time and place memorized, "When Patton petted my head after I did the dishes."

"So you've gone three weeks without being touched..." Logan mused, "And you're cold. And the moment I touch you, you're warm."

Logan decided to try something else. But when he leaned in to hug Roman, the creative side quickly pulled away.

"Logan- please, you don't have to do that," Roman said quickly, "Patton said I need to work on my selfishness and pushiness. I- I don't want you to hug me if you don't want to. I know you don't like touch. I'll be fine. It's just a little cold."

"Roman."

Logan's voice was so sharp that Roman looked up from his rambling in surprise. Sure, he was used to Logan sounding stern, but this was more than that. His violet-blue eyes blazed with an intensity that Roman rarely saw from his friend. Logan was considerably vexed.

"I mean-"

"Roman."

"I didn't mean to-"

"Roman."

"But I just wanted to-"

"Roman!"

Roman ceased.

"I understand what you intended," Logan said, with an awkward chuckle, and warmth seeped into his tone, making him sound almost friendly. "And I know I've expressed that I'm not particularly fond of physical affection. But this is different. You need me, and...honestly, it's not the touch that I dislike. It's the suddenness of being touched without permission. When Patton surprise hugs me, it...makes me nervous. When Remus elbows me out of nowhere, or when Virgil ruffles my hair, it just unnerves me. I like hugging my friends, Roman. I like it when I get to decide when it starts and ends. Does that make any sense?"

Roman couldn't hide the bright grin that formed on his face.

"It makes sense," he reassured, but a shiver ran through his body, causing him to let out a whimper as he hugged himself in an attempt to preserve body heat.

He rushed to put the blankets around himself again, but Logan stopped him gently. And then, he pulled Roman into the softest, gentlest, warmest hug that Roman had ever experienced. The prince's doe-like brown eyes went round as saucers. And then, he hugged Logan back, with the same gentle strength that Logan exhibited.

And they hugged for a good, long time. Until Roman stopped shivering. Then, Logan got to initiate exactly when it was time to pull back. The two sides looked into each others eyes for a long time. And Logan did not for a moment expect to see tears shining in Roman's.

"Roman...what's the matter?" Logan asked, quickly bringing a hand to Roman's cheek to swipe away the glistening tears.

"I don't know- I- I-" Roman whimpered, "I've never felt so warm. This feeling, it's- it's not bad, but I'm just- I'm so overwhelmed..."

He sobbed and sobbed, and Logan pulled him close, allowing Roman to sob into his shoulder. Logan did not show it on his ever-neutral face, but his heart clenched whenever he heard his dear friend's cries. Roman was a crier, whether he was happy, sad, or angry. But despite how common it was to hear and see, Logan still never quite got used to it. Logan just hated to see Roman look so confused and lost. The creative side had never looked more like a child than he did in that moment.

"It's alright, Roman," Logan hushed gently, "It's alright. I've got you. And I want this. I know you're a lot colder than I am. But being here with you, I've never felt so warm either. It appears we have that in common. So relax. Please. I want you here. I...I love you, Roman."

"I..." Roman's breath caught in his throat.

God, how long had it been since somebody said those words to him with such sincerity and sureness?

How long had it been since somebody said them to Logan?

"I love you too," the creative side replied, the words coming out his mouth as easily as water poured through a stream.

There was much more hugging, and staring, and hugging, and staring. The touched-starved prince and the typically emotionally unavailable teacher both felt more alive when they were together. It was such a beautiful feeling they shared, something that could not quite be described or otherwise replicated. All they knew was that together, in that room, surrounded by blankets and all by themselves, Roman and Logan felt trust.

"To think," Roman laughed, in higher spirits already, "The solution was right here this entire time!"

"How absurd of me to be so dense!" Logan cried out, "To have only noticed this now, I'm very ashamed of myself."

"Don't be," Roman reassured, "I couldn't be more grateful for you, Logan."

"And same to you, Roman," Logan said, "If you ever need some warmth from me again, you can always ask. Alright?"

Roman beamed and nodded enthusiastically.

"You got it, teach! he said, "And the second you want it all to stop, I'll pull away. Okay?"

Logan sighed softly, and the smile that grew on his face was so wide and free that it surprised him. To think. Having the choice. It was nice to have a physical relationship that did not feel conditional.

"Okay," he affirmed, adjusting his glasses. "It's a deal."

[bumb1e-vee]

Virgil couldn't stand it. Though it wasn't their fault (never their fault those two were perfect). They were the perfect mix of logic and passion and Virgil just whishes he was able to be included in that love that the two of them share. It hurt, his arms ached and burned when he saw them cuddle, tears pricked at his eyes when he watched them share sweet nothings during movie nights, his heart felt like it was being squeezed in an iron fist when the two of them held hands. It hurt the worst when they sat right beside him.

He couldn't help it, after he saw the two of them together, he ran up into his room, locked the door and started sobbing on the floor, not even making it to his bed. He had gone downstairs for a snack, and when he was in the living room he saw Logan and Roman making out on the couch. It made his heart shatter (the pieces of his heart always chipped away the more he saw the two of them together like that), and his eyes prick with tears that he managed to keep at bay until he was alone in his room, skin stinging with phantom touches, not knowing the feeling of loving touch (He wishes he could be between the two of them on the couch, smothered in those sugary sweet kisses he watches them indulge in).

But Virgil knows better than that, he knows better than to wish for such things. He knows better than to know that he's worth their love (he wants to be, so desperately, he wants nothing more than to be worthy of them). Logan and Roman were the perfect match, logic and creativity, brains and passion, and who was Virgil to think he deserved a spot in love with them, he had a perpetual storm cloud hanging over his head. He'd only put a damper on the perfect happiness the two of them had.

He picked himself up off the ground and got into the shower, that way his sobs could be masked by the running water and the playlist he chose to put on. A bunch of breakup and unrequited love songs used to put salt into his wounds.

(How could he listen to anything else, his heart was screaming in pain?). Virgil sat in the shower until the water ran cold and the playlist had played out at least three times. His eyes were red rimmed and his skin was wrinkled as he pulled on a tee shirt and a pair of shorts. It was only about 5:30 at night, well before dinner, but Virgil didn't see himself going to dinner with the others. (He didn't want to face the other two and sit across from them to see them so in love). It didn't matter that much he decided. He pulled out his phone and opened tiktok, the endless doom scrolling was about to begin, and he could at the very least distract himself from the growing hole in his heart.

[sssleepless]

let’s watch horror movies and make out

[cryobabiess]

Can you write a fic where the reader came to the palace as a new and untouched slave and is really beautiful (also her body). And like Caracalla and Geta want her but she is sassy and refuses but the second they touch she is really shy and acts innocent because she is a virgin but they didn‘t know?

Inter Duos Deos

pairing: Geta x Reader x Caracalla Tags: Light nsfw, implied threesome, dubcon

AN: Reader is named after the gorgeous Sherouk Farid 👀 Enjoy!

It is a miracle by your god that you've kept your virtue intact considering your unfortunate circumstances. The Roman army was civil enough to transport the female prisoners of war on a separate ship from the men. You quickly understood this not as an act of mercy, but of preservation.

A general dressed in leather regalia had grabbed you by the flesh of your arm, separating you from the other women being rounded up like cattle. He inspected you with an intrusive eye, hardened gaze lingering on the linen tunic falling off your shoulders. He forced your jaw open and ran his finger along your gums and the flesh of your cheek.

"This one appears to be in good health. No signs of disease, and quite the sight. Bring her to Palatine. They should find good use for her there. Atilius will deliver her."

They brought you to your conqueror's palace, where you were cleaned and perfumed with incense and oils. The servant girls offered wisdom as they plated your long hair into ornate braids. In hushed whispers, they warned against looking the Twin emperors in the eyes and urged you to keep your head down; do not show fear, for they will revel in it. Back home, amongst the grain fields where you laboured, there was talk of the two holy sons of Rome and their lust for blood and war; it was only a matter of time before they exercised their divine right and sent their men to the shores of your humble village.

As you stood before the great god emperors Caracalla and Geta, with hair and robes spun from gold, you thought they looked more human than what the rumors described.

"My lords, It is my greatest honor to present the spoils of yet another successful campaign!" An older man with thick black kohl lining his eyes pushes you towards the center of the throne room, gold bracelets chiming with his enthusiastic movements.

You discreetly glance at the twin emperors through your eye lashes only to see the elated grin of Caracalla, who eyes you like a starved animal. His aquamarine irises travel the length of your body, lingering on the round of your hips. The servants dressed you in nearly transparent chiffons and delicate gold jewelry, as per Caracalla's request.

"Such beauty you've brought us, Atilius! And to think you found it amongst savages." He jovially exclaims, leaning back against his seat.

"From where does she hail?" The taller brother, Geta, stands from his gilded throne and descends down marble steps. His dark gaze, though equally as ravenous, is more calculated than his brother's.

"From a small conquered village south of Aegypti. And salvaged from a grain field, none the less! Like a jewel plucked from dirt."

"Does she have a name?" Geta inquires.

"Is she pure?" Caracalla interjects.

You speak before your handler speaks for you.

"I am named Sherouk." You declare the name your father gifted you with pride and meet Geta's domineering gaze. He startles at your confrontation, his once pleased grin straightening to a hardened line. Atilius raises his palm to strike you, but Geta catches his hand before it makes contact with your cheek.

"Leave us, Atilius." He commands, unbothered by your words. Your handler looks at you with unease before dutifully retreating from the throne room.

"How bold! She will make for interesting nights. I want to be the first to taste her, brother." Caracalla laughs, sufficiently entertained by your futile resistance.

"I should sooner die by the blade on your hip." In the mere seconds it took to say the words, outrage erupted in the throne room. Caracalla stood from his seat in an instant, fingers hovering over the dagger sheathed at his belt as he strides across the marble floor. Geta holds the space between you and the spurned emperor, his palm colliding with Caracalla's chest.

"Peace, Caracalla, peace."

"Why do you permit her to insult us?! Allow me to grant her dying wish!"

Fear strikes you then. You hold your head high, close your eyes, and prepare to feel the cut of a blade, but it never comes. Instead, you feel the feather-light touch of a pair of hands ghosting over your shoulders, cold metal rings brushing down your exposed breasts and the supple curve of your womb. You gasp at the foreign sensation, your body tightening and your sex awakening. You open your eyes to see Geta's arrogant expression. His fingers dip lower, pushing past the thin layers of your dress to glide through the folds of your cunt. Caracalla's rage is replaced with curiosity as he watches his brother raise a single digit to his mouth to taste your essence. A shaking breath escapes you along with your feigned bravery. Desire takes hold.

"Ah, I understand now." Geta exchanges a knowing glance with his brother. Your facade of strength has been compromised.

Intrigued by your obvious arousal, Caracalla positions himself behind you to take greedy handfuls of your tits, his thumbs plucking at your hardened rose-bud nipples.

"Is it true, brother? That a bitch that guards riches barks the loudest." Caracalla rests his chin on your shoulder as he kneads your tender flesh in his hands. You can hear the smile in his voice.

Geta takes your face between his palms, caressing your flushed cheeks.

"Sweet Sherouk," His low voice is as saccharine as molasses, but false. "what riches do you guard?"

[pascaloverx]

STARVE

Summary: You lost your husband some time ago while he served as a gladiator for Emperors Geta and Caracalla. General Acacius saved you from becoming an object of pleasure for the emperors. Since then, he has taken you as his mistress. In your free time, you became a disciple of Ravi, the healer, dedicating yourself to tending to wounded gladiators. All seemed to be in perfect harmony until Hanno, a gladiator driven by a thirst for vengeance, crossed your path.

Author's Note: And the gods said: Starve will be a multi-chapter fanfiction (I hope readers will follow it all the way through). Without further ado, the characters belong to Ridley Scott's Gladiator II universe, though there will be significant deviations from the film. Historical accuracy regarding life in the Roman Empire may not always be strictly observed, so I hope you can overlook that. Yes, this story revolves around a love triangle, but I will strive to satisfy everyone. This fanfiction will include adult content, violence, and potentially coarse language. Enjoy! preview two

ONE

A starry night, as though the gods themselves had blessed the heavens. You stand in the place where you often meet General Acacius to maintain appearances. He will spend the day attending to Emperors Geta and Caracalla alongside his wife, Lucilla. Meanwhile, your day will revolve around the gladiators—or, more precisely, their wounds. You have been summoned to tend to the gladiators who will participate in that day's opening of the games—battles they will wage against one another or against beasts. Your thoughts are divided between Marcus Acacius and Hanno, the gladiator you strongly suspect harbors intentions of avenging his wife’s death at Acacius's hands.

"Mea domina, you are here," General Acacius murmurs as he approaches, though his complexion appears unusually pale. He is dressed in a tunic that conceals most of his body, with a laurel crown adorning his head. The lateness of the hour and the absence of natural light obscure your view, but as he draws nearer, you notice a wound bleeding on his arm. You rush toward him, your concern overcoming any formality. Without hesitation, you expose the area of his injury, removing the fabric to inspect it. His skin is feverishly warm beneath your touch.

"Who did this to you, Acacius?" you ask, a wave of anger surging through your body, mingling with an overwhelming sense of concern. "By the Gods, you should have come to me sooner," you say, your voice laced with frustration as your fingers graze his fevered skin, causing him to shiver under your touch. You guide him to a nearby bench, urging him to rest. Knowing him well, you suspect he has concealed his injury from everyone, unwilling to reveal any vulnerability. Fortunately, all are accustomed to you tending to him—it is, after all, one of your roles as his lover.

"I did not wish to trouble anyone, least of all you, Y/N," Acacius replies, his tone steady as he attempts to mask his discomfort. "A gladiator loosed an arrow at me—it must have struck me somehow. Macrinus certainly knows how to select skilled men for his arena." His voice retains its commanding timbre, though his actions betray his weariness. He pulls you closer by the waist, resting his head against your abdomen, as though seeking solace in your presence.

"General, we must go to the place where Ravi keeps his instruments. I must tend to your wounds and return you, whole and well, to your wife," you say, holding Acacius' face in your hands, as if willing him to remain conscious. His deep brown eyes meet yours, their gaze uncharacteristically tender.

"But this is my time with you," he whispers, taking your hands in his and pressing a kiss to each. "And I have told you, you need not address me as General. Our relationship has long surpassed formalities," he says, his voice softer now as he finishes kissing your hands. A fleeting thought tempts you to lean down and kiss him, but before you can act, the sound of approaching footsteps interrupts. Guards arrive, accompanied by Lucilla and Ravi. You instinctively want to withdraw from Acacius, but his unconscious state forces you to hold him upright.

"Take my husband to his quarters. Ravi is here to see to his treatment," Lucilla commands, her tone dismissive, her gaze avoiding yours entirely. The guards comply, carrying the now-limp Acacius away.

"Y/N," Lucilla addresses you, her voice sharp and deliberate, "from this moment forward, Ravi will be responsible for Acacius' care. I trust the gladiators will suffice to occupy your attention." Her words, though polite in form, carry an unmistakable message: your role as Acacius' lover is nearing its end. Vulnerability washes over you, but you lower your head in acknowledgment, as if understanding her decree. Without another glance, she follows the guards to accompany her husband.

Ravi approaches, carrying his instruments and tools. "I need you to go to Macrinus' gladiator and tend to his wounds. Macrinus has already informed the guards of his gladiator's need for treatment, so you need not fear," Ravi instructs, already preparing to attend to Acacius himself. Fear is far from your mind. The only sentiment stirring within you is anger, directed at the one who dared harm Acacius. You nod in silent agreement and gather the necessary supplies to treat the gladiator, your resolve firm as you set out to fulfill your task.

The guards grant you entry without hesitation, their expressions indifferent. Inside the dimly lit cell, you find Hanno—his body marred by fresh wounds, his face pale but defiant. He appears battered, as though every ounce of strength has been drained from him. Anticipating the state you might find him in, you came prepared with tools to clean his wounds, at least superficially.

"The lovely healer graces me with her presence once more," Hanno mutters, his tone laced with a mix of sarcasm and faint amusement. A strained smile flickers across his lips as he clutches his abdomen, evidently in pain. "I suppose you're here to finish what the guards so generously began." His voice is hoarse and weakened, yet it retains a biting edge.

A chill runs through you as you step closer to him, fully entering his cell. The air feels heavier here, and his piercing gaze follows your every move. "They must have hurt you for what you did to General Acacius," you state, your voice measured as you kneel, setting down your tools. The mention of Acacius draws no sign of remorse from Hanno; instead, he seems emboldened, inching himself nearer to you with deliberate subtlety. As you settle beside him, his proximity becomes undeniable, his rugged presence filling the confined space. Though weakened, there’s an unsettling calm in his demeanor, as though he is testing you, seeking something unspoken within your resolve.

As you begin to cleanse his wounds, the facade of the formidable gladiator crumbles beneath the weight of his pain. Low, anguished groans escape his lips despite his efforts to suppress them. It becomes clear that he is suffering deeply, though he clings to the last vestiges of his pride.

"Ah, here we are again," Hanno murmurs between strained breaths, his voice laced with an uneven mixture of sarcasm and torment. "You, seizing the opportunity to inflict more pain under the guise of tending my wounds, and I, striving to focus on your beauty to mask just how much it hurts."

A flicker of anger rises within you, mingled with a reluctant pity for the state of his battered body. "Flattery will not grant you any special treatment," you reply sharply, leaning in closer to examine his injuries more thoroughly. "I warned you not to harm Acacius dishonorably. I thought you might exercise restraint, but I was mistaken."

With deft movements, you remove the upper portion of his tattered garment to gain better access to the worst of his injuries. He offers no resistance, watching you with an unsettling mix of amusement and interest, as if savoring the attention. "I do recall saying I would take your request under consideration," Hanno says nonchalantly, as though the matter were trivial.

Frustrated by his flippant attitude, you press a tender wound more firmly than necessary. He lets out a guttural cry of pain, his composure faltering for a moment. "Forgive me," you say with a mocking smile, your tone cold. "I must have forgotten to take your suffering under consideration."

He meets your gaze, a faint, knowing grin curling his lips as if he derives some twisted pleasure from your defiance. "If you wish to exact vengeance, then take the dagger you’ve hidden and drive it into my heart," he says, his voice low and steady, despite the evident strain. "It is the only way to shield your precious General Acacius from my wrath." Hanno leans closer, his piercing blue eyes locking onto yours, the proximity of his battered form unsettling. His observation of the concealed blade leaves you momentarily stunned, your grip tightening as the tension between you hangs heavy in the air.

"Is that what you believe I should do—kill you?" you ask, a faint trace of amusement in your tone as you marvel at Hanno's audacity. He leans closer to your face, his gaze sharp and provocative.

"If protecting him is your goal, then yes," Hanno replies, his voice steady, his eyes fixed upon yours with an intensity that borders on insolence.

You smile, intrigued by how easily he speaks of his own demise. "General Acacius is a wise and seasoned warrior. He will know how to deal with you," you say, leaning in as if accepting the challenge his very presence seems to demand.

"If you think I seek an honorable battle with Acacius solely to shield him," you continue, your voice steady and measured, "then you are gravely mistaken. Look at yourself, gladiator. To achieve vengeance, it is not merely strength or skill you require. A true fighter knows which battles are worth fighting." Your hand moves deftly to clean a wound near his neck, blood still seeping from it. He winces slightly but does not pull away, his sharp blue eyes never leaving your face.

"The way you speak, it seems as though you've developed an affection for me, healer," Hanno remarks, his tone soft but probing. "If that is the case, why carry a dagger?" He gently grasps your arm, his grip firm yet careful, as if urging you to give him your full attention.

"Because the wife of General Acacius made it clear before the guards that I will no longer tend to his care. For many of the men here, that declaration is as good as an invitation to see me as their sport," you reply, your gaze unwavering as you meet his eyes.

For a moment, something shifts in his expression—a flicker of understanding crossing his features. "I see," he murmurs, his voice lower now. "Then show me. Show me how you would wield it to defend yourself." Though puzzled by his request, you reach for the dagger and position it as you would in a moment of self-defense, your stance steady and deliberate. His eyes follow your movements with a keen focus, his lips curving into a faint, almost approving smile as he observes your resolve.

"You’re holding it incorrectly," he says, taking your hands, still clutching the dagger, and guiding them to a precise spot on the left side of his chest. "Here. Strike here on any opponent—more than once, if need be—and you’ll increase your chances of survival," he instructs, his voice steady, his grip firm but not overbearing.

You had never considered the necessity of knowing how to fight; before Acacius, your late husband had always been there to shield you. But now, an unsettling vulnerability lingers, heavy and unshakable.

"You place too much trust in me," you murmur, your gaze locked with his. "I could hurt you with this dagger right now."

His lips curl into a faint, genuine smile, weak but without hesitation. "Honestly, I wouldn’t mind if you did," Hanno replies, the tension between you thickening.

You drop the dagger back to its place, snapping yourself out of the moment. "Turn around. I need to apply an herbal salve to the wound on your back so I can retire to my quarters. It has been a long day," you instruct, watching as he complies without protest. His physique, sculpted as one would expect of a gladiator, does not escape your notice. But before your thoughts can wander too far, you refocus, applying the salve with care. He grunts softly at the touch, his pain audible but restrained.

"I could teach you how to defend yourself," Hanno murmurs as you finish tending to his wounds. Once done, he turns to face you, his expression expectant.

"Are you certain you wish to help me, knowing my loyalty lies with General Acacius?" you ask, genuine curiosity laced in your tone.

He lifts a hand to your face, his touch gentle as he caresses your cheek. "Something tells me you need help, and I want to offer it. General Acacius or not, this is about you," he emphasizes, pointing at you, "and me," he finishes, gesturing to himself.

You hesitate, uncertainty flickering in your eyes, but the sincerity in his gaze stirs something within you. Perhaps it would be wise to accept his offer. "Very well, gladiator," you reply, taking the hand that had touched your face and grazing it softly with your fingertips. "Teach me what you know, and I promise to mend you each time you require it."

[prettyfilmz]

QUALITY TIME • ROMAN REIGNS

author’s note: we're here with the third installment of the love language series with none other than our OTC roman reigns!! this piece definitely takes a more sensual turn than my previous two but it fits tbh I think y'all will love it. we have two more parts left of this series, up next is something special!!😝

plot: after a long awaited return from being on the road, you and roman spend some much needed quality time together after putting the kids to bed.

warnings: 18+ (MDNI), porn w/smidge of plot, reader is black, soft dom! roman reigns x sub! fem reader, daddy kink, dirty talk, praise, oral (both receiving), riding, slight hair pulling, creampie, small aftercare at the end.

word count: 1.2k words

the soft glow of the bedroom lamp cast a soothing warmth in the master bedroom, where you lay, your dark eyes gleaming with anticipation. you were anxiously awaiting for some alone time with your husband, whose 3 month absence had left a void in your large home. now, with your twin daughters tucked in, you finally had him to yourself after a day full of family activities. roman had read them eight bedtime stories, each at their pleading request, before slipping away and entering your shared room, his powerful presence claiming the room like he was still in character.

with a tired yet irresistible smile, roman closed the door behind him, his gaze lingering on you as he joined you in bed. “finally, I get my time with you,” he murmured, his deep, velvet voice laced with tenderness. “I’ve missed you.”

you could feel your pulse quicken as he pulled you into his arms, encasing you in his body warmth and the scent of santal and cardamom from his cologne.“I’ve missed you too, ro,” you whispered sincerely. “It’s been too quiet without you, aside from the girls.”

as roman leaned in, his lips met yours in a hungry kiss which sent shivers down your spine. your bodies gravitated toward each other like magnets, the dry spell from his absence finally coming to an end. his large hands gently cradled your face as he lowered you onto the pillows, his weight held you still as he hovered over you, kissing a path down your sensitive neck, savoring every inch of your soft sepia skin.

“you’re so damn beautiful, mama,” he whispered huskily, his lips brushing against your collarbone, inhaling the vanilla perfume you wore just for him. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you while I was gone... I would've came home sooner just to do this.”

a soft moan escaped your glossed lips, fingers threading through his long hair as you surrendered to his touch. “well…you’re here now,” you breathed, your voice shaky. “It’s just you and me, baby. let’s make up for lost time, hm?”

roman’s dark eyes glinted with lust as he ventured lower, his kisses trailing down to your generous curves. with delicate care, he pulled down the straps of your silk nightgown, exposing your breasts. he didn’t waste any time, his mouth closing around your taut brown nipple, his tongue swirling with small flicks.

“oh, fuck,” you gasped, arching into his touch as pleasure coursed through you. his hands molded to your breasts, teasing them while his mouth gave attention on your hardened peaks, pulling moans from deep within you.

“mhm, get comfortable, baby,” he purred as he descended further, his hands guiding your deliciously thick thighs apart. “I ain’t close to being done with you.”

your breath hitched as his warm breath ghosted over your glistening core. he didn’t tease for long like he usually did, his tongue skillfully flicking over your swollen clit, swirling and tasting you as if he were starved. his fingers joined the rhythm, sliding inside your tightness, drawing out sweet, breathy moans as he played your body like a fine instrument.

“right there,” you cried out, your fingers gripping his long hair as waves of pleasure crashed over you. “I’m gonna… cum.”

he chuckled darkly, the vibrations sending you even closer to the edge. “cum for me, baby. make a mess on daddy’s face.”

that was all you needed to hear. your body trembled violently as your orgasm ripped through you, your thighs clenching around his head, your cries echoing in the room. roman didn’t stop until you were quivering, your body spent, his tongue lapping up every drop of your sweet release.

when he finally pulled away, he climbed up your body, his lips brushing against yours, allowing you to taste yourself on his tongue. “almost forgot how sweet you taste,” he whispered, humming with satisfaction.

you smiled devilishly, fingers tracing the intricate tribal ink on his chest. “and I almost forgot how good you taste.” you purred, sinking down his lower body.

your fingers slid down his abs, tugging at the waistband of his sweatpants to reveal his thick, eight inch piece of flesh that ached for you. without hesitation, you took him in your hand, stroking him slowly. his breath hitched, and he groaned, tangling his hands in your curls as your lips enveloped around the brown tip of his cock, savoring the taste of his precum as you drew him into the warmth of your mouth.

“shit, baby,” roman moaned, his grip tightening around your thick coils as you worked him down your throat. “that’s my good girl…suck it just like that.”

you peered up at him through your thick lashes, your brown eyes full of mischief and as you took him deeper in your throat, gagging around him as your hand began stroking in time with your mouth. his body tensed, the pleasure building in every thrust of his hips as you took him closer to the edge.

just when you thought you had him where you wanted him, roman tugged you off him, his eyes glazed with lust. “there’s only one place I wanna cum pretty girl,” he growled, pulling you onto his lap, your body straddling on top of his.

with one smooth motion, he lined up his cock—heavily coated with your saliva—to your throbbing entrance and thrusts into you, filling and stretching you completely, a gasp escaping both your lips at the perfect fit. roman’s hands gripped your ass, guiding you as you bounced on him, your bodies moving in sync. his lips found your neck again, whispering against your heated skin, “you riding me so good, baby. she’s just gripping on daddy huh? take that dick honey, it’s all yours.”

you mewled in response, your pussy tightening around him as he caressed all the right spots, your nails digging into his broad shoulders. “ugnh fuck…need….more,” you pleaded breathlessly.

roman obliged and began to thrust up into you, his pace relentless, his hips snapping against yours with powerful, deliberate thrusts. his body worshipped yours like the moon casting it’s light over the ocean, rising and falling in sync with your movements. you felt yourself spiraling closer to your orgasm again, your breath catching as he brought you right to the brink.

“please,” you cried out, your voice barely a whisper as your climax approaching. “please don’t stop I’m gonna cum.”

roman’s grip tightened as he thrust deeper, on the brink of his own release. “cum with me, mama,” he encouraged, voice shaky with need. “be my good girl and make a mess with daddy”

your body shattered into pleasure, your walls clenching around him as your orgasm gushed on both of your thighs, your high pitched moans echoing in the room. roman soon followed, spilling his thick warm into you with a deep groan, his body slightly trembling as he buried himself inside you one final time.

breathing heavily, you collapsed into his arms, your bodies still intertwined as the aftershocks of your rendezvous lingered. roman’s lips brushed your forehead, his voice now soft and full of affection. “I love you, beautiful. you are my everything, y’know.”

“I love you too,” you whispered back, stroking his beard with your fingers as you both drifted into a peaceful, satisfied sleep.

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[hidden-behind-the-fourth-wall]

For Rome - Chapter 1

Summary: A weary Roman General, Marcus Acasius, sets out to find the so-called "Angel" his soldiers speak of—a woman with a gentle touch and an even softer voice. What he discovers is far more extraordinary than he ever imagined.

Pairing: General Marcus Acasius x F!Reader

Warnings: a description of injuries (I'm not a doctor or do not have any medical education so apologies), nothing here yet. English isn't my first language so all mistakes are mine for which I apologise.

Words: 6K

The life of a soldier was never an easy one, but the life of a Roman soldier? It was a crucible of steel and blood. General Marcus Acasius knew this better than most. War had carved its lessons into his flesh and seared them into his soul. He had lived through campaigns that churned the earth with rivers of blood, watched comrades fall like broken reeds, and seen hope flicker and die in the eyes of too many men. This was not a life he would have wished upon his worst enemies—let alone himself.

And yet, here he was. Bound by duty, chained to Rome’s legacy, and crushed beneath the weight of serving not one, but two emperors whose names would forever leave a bitter taste on his tongue.

Two boys drowning in power they neither earned nor understood. They were spoiled by their station and cruel in their ignorance, wielding authority like a child might a blade—clumsy, reckless, and devastating. Marcus had long since lost count of the orders he had executed on their behalf, justifying them under the banner of Rome. Yet he knew the truth. He had not fought for Rome in years. He fought for their whims, their games. And the cost? Endless bloodshed. Endless grief.

The screams haunted him most—the keening wails of mothers clutching lifeless sons, the choking sobs of widows, the silent, hollow-eyed children whose futures he had stolen with the sweep of a sword. He had grown sick of it all. Sick of blood-soaked glory, of starving masses, of men reduced to mere tools in the grotesque machinery of imperial ambition.

Perhaps that was why he found himself here now, in the shadowed underground of the subcity. The stench of rot and despair clung to the narrow alleys, and the skeletal frames of the impoverished haunted every corner. It was a place forgotten by the sun and abandoned by Rome, yet it thrummed with whispers.

Whispers of you.

An “angel,” his soldiers had called you. At first, he had dismissed their reverent tones as the drunken ramblings of battle-weary men. What could an angel possibly look like in a place like this? But the way they spoke of you lingered in his mind, drawing him down into this forsaken part of the city.

It was not the talk of your beauty that intrigued him. He had seen beauty before—false and true, fleeting and eternal. What struck him was the way his men, hardened and stoic, described your hands, your voice, your presence. They spoke of the way your touch could ease pain, how your smile softened the sharp edges of their suffering, and how your words, simple and kind, could light the darkest of days. They described you with an almost childlike awe, as though you were something beyond their comprehension, something Rome itself could not tarnish.

Marcus wanted to scoff at their adoration, but the weight in their voices told him otherwise. Could someone like you truly exist in this ruined city? A city bloated with greed, corroded by power, and built on the bones of the desperate? He needed to see for himself.

You were said to help those Rome had cast aside—the soldiers, the beggars, the orphans, and the broken. While the wealthy insulated themselves from the rot, you faced it head-on. Even Lady Lucilla, a shrewd and guarded aristocrat, spoke of you with an uncharacteristic fondness. “A stubborn creature,” she had called you with a rare smile. “She takes only what she needs, no more, even when I insist. She’s maddeningly selfless, like a fool chasing the wind.”

It was those words that lingered as he descended into the subcity. They painted an image of someone unyielding, someone who refused to be swallowed by the darkness around her. Someone who, perhaps, could remind him of what it meant to fight for something greater than power.

The streets grew narrower, the air thicker. His boots crunched against the broken cobblestones as he approached the small gathering place where you were said to tend to the sick and weary. His heart, hardened by years of war, beat faster, not with fear but with something he couldn’t quite name.

The room was not what he expected.

Makeshift beds lined both sides of the narrow space, occupied by men, women, and children in various states of weariness and healing. Yet, unlike the countless barracks and field hospitals Marcus Acasius had seen in his lifetime, this place radiated an unusual serenity. The faces of the sleeping bore no trace of the gnawing fear he had come to associate with suffering. It was as if some invisible spell had been cast here, lulling their troubled souls into a rare and precious peace.

He inhaled deeply, preparing for the sharp sting of blood and rot so common in places of injury and despair. Instead, the air was clean—remarkably so. It smelled faintly of herbs, maybe lavender, and something subtler, something soothing. It reminded him of the private quarters back at his villa, of the rare nights when he could sleep without the shadows of war pressing against his chest. A ridiculous thought, he chastised himself.

And then, he saw you.

You stood with your back to him, entirely focused on the child sitting on the small, battered chair in front of you. Marcus had made no attempt to move quietly—he was a soldier, not a thief—but you hadn’t turned at the sound of his boots on the stone floor. It wasn’t fearlessness; it was trust, an unshakable calm that marked every movement of your hands as you adjusted the sling cradling the boy’s injured arm.

The child couldn’t have been older than eight. His tear-streaked face glistened under the dim light, and yet his lips curved into a smile—soft, hesitant, but undeniably genuine. A smile on the face of an injured child. Marcus stared at the sight, unmoored. He had never seen such a thing before. In the chaos of war, even when children were treated, their screams and sobs were met with indifference, their pain an afterthought. But here, this boy laughed—a pure, light sound that bounced off the walls like a small rebellion against misery.

“General.”

Marcus turned to his right, startled from his reverie. One of his men lay in a bed nearby, his head wrapped in clean bandages, his arm in a sling not unlike the boy’s. He bore the marks of battle but looked far better than Marcus had expected. There was color in his cheeks, and his voice, though tired, carried a note of gratitude. “I didn’t expect to see you here, sir.”

With a quick wave of his hand, Marcus silenced the man’s attempt to rise and salute. Before he could reply, a burst of laughter drew his attention back to you.

The boy was laughing again, his small body shaking with mirth. From where Marcus stood, it seemed you were scolding him, your finger jabbing lightly into his tiny chest. But the smirk tugging at the corners of your lips betrayed you. Whatever you were saying, it was no reprimand. It was a game, a tease, an effort to pull the child out of his fear and into the safety of his own joy.

You lifted the boy off the chair with ease, steadying him as his bare feet touched the floor. His brows knit together as you handed him a small cloth bag, but his frown vanished the moment he peeked inside. His wide, shining eyes spoke volumes. To him, whatever lay within was a treasure.

“Food,” the soldier beside Marcus murmured, his voice low as if sharing a secret. “She always sends them off with something to eat and a few bandages, in case they need more later.”

Marcus turned to him, his expression unreadable.

“We soldiers don’t take the bags,” the man added, his lips curving into a faint smile. “It’s our way of helping her, in a sense.”

Marcus’s gaze shifted back to you, just as the boy flung his arms around your waist. The child’s face pressed into the fabric of your tunic, and for a moment, Marcus expected you to flinch, to recoil from the dirt and grime clinging to him. But you didn’t. Instead, you wrapped your arms around him, holding him as though his small embrace was a gift you treasured.

The light in your eyes was unguarded, pure, as though you had managed to unearth something sacred in this forsaken world. And in that instant, Marcus understood. It wasn’t just the calm you brought to the room or the kindness in your actions. It was the way you saw them—not as burdens, not as broken things to be fixed, but as people.

His gaze landed on you then. You had paused in your work, looking at him with a flicker of curiosity. For a moment, your eyes studied him, piecing together who he might be. Then came the realization, settling over your face like a shadow. Marcus braced himself, expecting anger, distrust, or even fear. He was, after all, the embodiment of the Rome that so many here had suffered under—a man of war, destruction, and discipline.

But no such emotion crossed your features. What he saw instead was recognition and something that startled him even more: worry.

You moved toward him with a grace so natural it seemed deliberate, your steps soft and careful, as though you were wary of waking the injured souls around you. Not that the child’s laughter hadn’t already done so—it rang through the space like a bell, impossible to ignore. Yet your gentle tread felt like a habit born not of necessity but of respect.

“General Marcus Acasius,” you greeted him, your voice low but warm, your lips curling into a soft smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. The worry lingered there, quiet but unmistakable. “Whatever brings you here? I hope you’re not injured?”

Your voice was something else entirely. It carried a tenderness he had not heard in years. It reminded him of a mother soothing her child after a nightmare. No wonder his men had spoken of you the way they had; he could see now how easily they must have fallen under your spell.

“Nothing to worry about,” he replied, surprised at the gravel in his voice. “Just a few bruises—annoying more than painful.” He didn’t know why he admitted it out loud. Perhaps it was the way your eyes held his, unwavering and full of quiet concern, or the way your tone invited truth without demanding it.

“I can take a look at them, if you’ll let me.”

You stepped closer then, as if reaching out to touch him, but your hand hesitated mid-air before falling back to your side. It was almost imperceptible, that moment of pause, but Marcus saw it. It wasn’t fear. It was something else—an acknowledgment, perhaps, of who he was and what he carried. You were cautious, yes, but not timid.

Your attention shifted to the soldier in the nearby bed, and the smile on your face broadened into something softer, brighter. “Emascus,” you murmured, moving to his side. Your hand brushed gently against his forehead as you checked his temperature, your touch featherlight. “You’re not running so hot anymore. That’s a relief.”

The soldier nodded, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

Marcus watched the exchange, a strange mixture of emotions stirring in his chest. Gratitude was chief among them—gratitude that someone cared for his men in a way he no longer could. Your hands, your voice, your presence—it was a balm for these battle-weary souls. But beneath that gratitude was a deep sadness. It pained him that such care could only be found here, in the forgotten corners of Rome, among those cast aside by the empire he had given his life to defend.

Your voice drew him from his thoughts.

“Would you be so kind as to wait for me in that room there?” you asked, gesturing toward a door at the end of the corridor.

For a moment, Marcus didn’t register that you were speaking to him. When he did, his brows lifted in surprise. There was an unexpected firmness in your tone—not commanding, exactly, but resolute. Though your words were phrased as a request, there was no mistaking that you fully expected him to comply.

“I like my patients to have an ounce of privacy while I take care of them,” you continued, your smile returning, this time with a hint of mischief. “If you allow it, my lord.”

Something in your tone almost made him laugh. He hadn’t been spoken to like this in years—not with such quiet authority, not by someone who seemed utterly unshaken by his presence. You didn’t seem to see the weight of his title, only the bruised man standing before you.

His lips twitched, amusement threatening to break his stern facade, but he merely nodded and turned toward the door. He left the soldier in your care and entered the room you had indicated.

The space was small but neat, with a wooden bench against one wall and a table holding an assortment of salves and bandages. It smelled faintly of herbs, the scent even stronger here than in the main room. As he sat, Marcus felt a strange sense of anticipation, as though crossing the threshold of this room had marked the beginning of something he couldn’t yet name.

He leaned back, his gaze drifting to the door as he waited. For the first time in years, he wasn’t thinking of battles or emperors. Instead, his mind was filled with you—your quiet confidence, your steady hands, and the unexpected strength in your voice.

He hadn’t even noticed when his eyes closed. The stillness of the room wrapped around him, lulling him into an unfamiliar calm. It was unlike him to let his guard down. Years of war had taught him to remain vigilant, always aware of his surroundings. Yet here he was, letting his defenses crumble in the quiet warmth of this strange place.

The great General Marcus Acasius, lulled into a fleeting peace by a mere slip of a woman. He almost chuckled at the absurdity of it. Somewhere in the heavens, the gods were surely laughing.

When he woke, the room was darker than he remembered. The soft glow of a single candle now lit the space, casting flickering shadows across the walls. He blinked, his eyes adjusting, and realized the other candles had been extinguished. The lone flame illuminated a desk cluttered with papers, small jars, and bundles of herbs.

You sat there, leaning over a parchment, your brow furrowed in concentration. The light caught the curve of your cheek and the faint smudge of ink on your fingers. There was an endearing focus to the way you worked, your nose scrunching slightly as if deep thought required such a gesture.

A strange thought crossed his mind—you looked almost...adorable.

“Why didn’t you wake me?”

His voice was rougher than he intended, and he regretted it when you jumped, startled by the unexpected sound. Your hand flew to your chest, but the alarm faded quickly, replaced by that familiar, calming smile.

“You seemed like you needed the rest, my lord,” you replied, standing to light the other candles. The room grew warmer, brighter, the flickering light chasing away the shadows and revealing more of the space. You moved with practiced ease, each motion deliberate yet unhurried.

Moments later, you handed him a cup of wine. “It may not be as fine as what you’re accustomed to, but my father always said it’s good manners to greet a guest of high rank with wine rather than water.”

There was a playful lilt to your voice, a teasing cheerfulness that felt out of place yet oddly welcome. It caught him off guard—not just the tone, but the fact that you spoke to him as if he were merely a man, not a general burdened by the weight of Rome’s empire. There was respect in your words, yes, but also a grounding quality that made him feel human, rather than the untouchable figure most people treated him as.

He took a cautious sip of the wine, raising a brow in surprise. It wasn’t the finest vintage he’d ever tasted, but it was far from the worst. Given your introduction, he’d expected something barely drinkable.

His surprise deepened when he noticed you pouring yourself a cup of water.

“I prefer to keep my wits about me,” you said, catching his expression. “A clear head is important, especially if someone comes in need.”

But when he didn’t respond, still staring at you with mild bewilderment, you reached for his cup and took a small sip of the wine yourself. The casualness of the gesture startled him. You drank as if it were the most natural thing in the world, then placed the cup back in his hands with a smirk.

“See? I’d make a terrible healer if I poisoned my patients.”

“And since when am I your patient?” he asked, his tone caught between amusement and disbelief. Few dared to address him so directly, let alone with such nonchalance.

“Since you admitted your bruises,” you replied, settling onto the edge of your desk with an easy grace. You leaned forward slightly, your gaze locking with his. “Speaking of which, will you let me see them? I might be able to make them less...annoying.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, almost forming a smile. The way you quoted his own words back at him carried a lightness he hadn’t felt in years.

For a moment, he simply looked at you. In a world that demanded so much pretense, you were refreshingly unguarded, completely at ease in your skin. There was a peculiar strength in your openness, a quiet defiance of the world’s harshness that left him disarmed.

And against all odds, he found himself nodding.

“Let me help you with this,” you said softly, gesturing to his armor.

Your tone was steady but not commanding, leaving the choice entirely to him. Marcus hesitated for a moment before nodding, a small gesture that carried more weight than you realized. You hadn’t moved an inch until he gave his permission, a restraint he found rare and striking. You valued dignity, it seemed—not just your own but that of others—and in a world like his, where power often crushed such considerations, it felt like a delicacy.

Your hands, though small, moved with confidence. It wasn’t the first armor you had removed, that much was clear. Yet there was a care in the way you handled the clasps and buckles, as if you weren’t simply working with steel but touching him directly. That thought made Marcus uneasy, though not unpleasantly so. You were a mystery, a curious creature that didn’t fit into any category he knew.

When you finally peeled away the layers of armor and his tunic, leaving him in his undergarment, your sharp intake of breath didn’t escape him.

“Those look a bit more than just annoying bruises,” you chided, your voice carrying both concern and a quiet reprimand.

Marcus felt strangely exposed—not just physically but in some deeper, more vulnerable way. He had been treated by healers before, but those were men, soldiers like himself, who patched him up with brisk efficiency and little ceremony. This was different.

Your fingers brushed over his scars and bruises, light and careful, yet purposeful. Some of the older wounds bore the telltale signs of sloppy care: reddish bandages, poorly healed scars, and swelling around the stitches. Your grimace deepened as your gaze settled on two scars that had become infected.

He watched your face, noticing the way your lips pressed together in frustration, your brows knitting with disapproval. It wasn’t directed at him, though. That much was clear.

“You don’t look too happy,” he said, his voice laced with dry humor.

You sighed, your fingers continuing their examination. He winced when you pressed gently against one bruise, testing for deeper damage. But when your hand moved to the large bruise near his ribs, the pain was immediate and sharp. Marcus flinched, a curse slipping through his clenched teeth as his hand shot up to grab yours, stopping you from pressing further.

“Forgive me, General,” you said, your tone clipped, “but at least now I know you do feel pain. You’re just a complete moron for ignoring it.”

“Excuse me?” Marcus exclaimed, genuinely taken aback. For the first time in years, someone had spoken to him with such boldness, and he wasn’t sure whether to be offended or impressed. “Do you care who you’re speaking to?”

Your expression didn’t waver. In fact, you seemed entirely unbothered by his title or his irritation. “You can sentence me to death for my words if you wish, my lord,” you said, your voice firm but laced with a frustration he could only describe as maternal, “but it doesn’t change the fact that you have multiple broken ribs. And you’ve neglected them. Not to mention whoever last treated your wounds should be stripped of any right to practice medicine. Two of these scars are infected, and I’ll need to reopen, clean, and stitch them properly.”

You glanced up at him then, and his breath caught. The anger in your eyes wasn’t for him—it was for his neglect and whoever had failed to care for him properly. There was something about that look, fiery and determined, that melted something in him he hadn’t realized was frozen.

“So you can do whatever you wish with my head,” you continued, your tone softening slightly but still resolute, “but only after I’ve taken care of you, my lord.”

Marcus stared at you, speechless. No one had ever cared for him enough to risk their own well-being for his. You had to know the danger of speaking to him this way, yet here you stood, unwavering.

And, to his surprise, he didn’t mind. He found that when it came to you, he didn’t care about his status or authority.

“Where do you want me?” he asked at last, the faintest hint of amusement in his voice.

You blinked, caught off guard for the first time. Your reaction was subtle—just a few moments of hesitation—but it was enough to make him smirk. A small, childish triumph stirred in his chest, a victory that felt sweeter than any battle he’d won.

You were good. Really damn good. It didn’t take long for Marcus to understand why his men preferred you over the hardened healers in the camps. Your hands were smaller, gentler, moving with a precision that was both calming and mesmerizing. But it wasn’t just your touch—it was the way you talked him through each step, explaining what you were doing as though giving him a measure of control. It was a strange thing for him to find comfort in, but it steadied him in ways he didn’t expect.

When the time came to reopen his infected scars, you hesitated. Your expression faltered, guilt flashing across your features like a crack in the calm façade you wore. “Brace yourself,” you said softly, almost pleading. And when the scalpel touched his skin, you winced, as though the pain you inflicted was your own to bear.

It hurt, of course, but it was nothing Marcus hadn’t endured before. Yet the way you worked, with such care and purpose, made it impossible to look away. Your movements were swift but deliberate, your focus unwavering. You cleaned each wound with an attentiveness he had never experienced, as though the scars on his body were more than just marks of survival—they were something sacred.

“You’re better behaved than your men,” you teased as you began cleaning the second wound.

Marcus raised a brow, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Oh?”

“I remember Euthris once proposing that a kiss would make him feel better,” you said, a grin tugging at your lips.

He chuckled, the sound surprising even himself. He had known women who would have slapped a man for such a comment without hesitation. And yet here you were, laughing about it.

“I do apologize for my men,” he said, his tone warm, amusement lacing his words. Truthfully, he understood the poor soldier’s sentiment. He surprised himself by realizing he wouldn’t mind a kiss from you either. But he was no longer as bold as he once had been—age and experience had tempered him. “I assume he left thoroughly disappointed?”

You shook your head, a playful glint in your eye. “I kissed his cheek to thank him for donating his food bag to someone else.”

Marcus blinked, taken aback by your words. His expression softened as he processed them. Perhaps his men were flirtatious, even bold, but they were also honorable.

“They’re good men,” you continued, your voice quieter now. “I’ve noticed the way they leave their bags behind, or how they slip coins into places they think I won’t see. They could spend those coins on something for themselves, but instead, they choose to help. You should be proud of them, my lord.”

“I don’t believe I’ve had much to do with their actions…” Marcus began, but his words faltered as you began stitching the reopened scar.

Your apologies came soft and quick, almost teary, as the needle pierced his skin. He wanted to tell you it was fine, to reach out and brush the concern from your face, but he remained still, letting you work.

“I didn’t know about your existence,” he said after a moment, his voice quieter now. “I came here because I overheard my men talking about you during one of their drunken nights.”

You flushed at that, your laughter turning awkward and small.

“They spoke of an ‘Angel,’” he continued, his eyes fixed on your face. “And I had to see for myself.”

“You must be disappointed then, my lord,” you whispered with a hint of humor, turning to the next wound. Again, you apologized softly when the needle broke through his skin.

“I never had an image in mind of what an angel might look like,” he said. His voice dipped, becoming almost reverent as he reached up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. The movement was instinctive, unplanned, and when your body froze beneath his touch, he hesitated. Had he crossed a line?

“But if someone were to ask me now,” he continued, his hand retreating slowly, “I would give them your description.”

Your breath hitched, and your wide eyes lifted to meet his. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the air between you thick with something unspoken.

You had heard of General Marcus Acasius. His name carried weight, whispered among soldiers and citizens alike. He was a formidable force, a man whose strength and cunning had turned the tide of many battles. But more than that, he was spoken of as a good man—merciless in war but fair, unwavering in his duty.

When he had walked into your space earlier that day, the first thing you noticed was how unfairly handsome he was. You had wondered, fleetingly, how a man like him could ever be sent to a battlefield. But now, as you stitched the last wound and felt the weight of his words sink in, you realized he was more than his reputation. He cared for his men, even as he neglected himself. He spoke without arrogance, treated you with respect, and carried a depth that made you want to know more.

“Forgive me, my lady. It seems I’m as ill-behaved as my men,” Marcus chuckled, the sound warm yet apologetic. His gaze dropped to your hands, which had frozen mid-motion after his words and touch. You swallowed hard, regaining your composure, and quickly returned to stitching the last wound.

When you finished, your voice was soft, almost hesitant as you asked him to remain lying down. If the room hadn’t been so quiet, he might have missed it entirely. Without waiting for a response, you turned to your table, busying yourself with a small bottle and herbs.

The smell that wafted from your work was unlike the harsh medicinal odors he’d grown accustomed to—sharp, biting scents that clung to battlefields and camps. This was different, a subtle and soothing aroma that seemed to fill the space with peace. He found himself breathing it in deeply, drawn to its unfamiliar comfort.

“You have nothing to apologize for, my lord,” you said after a moment, your voice steadier now. When you turned back to him with a medium-sized bottle and a piece of gauze, he noticed the faint flush on your cheeks. His lips curved into a small, unbidden smile, his ego growing slightly at the sight.

“Rather than ill-mannered,” you added, a shy smile tugging at your lips, “it was quite charming, I must admit.”

Marcus chuckled again, his gaze resting on you as though you were some kind of art—something rare and unexpected in his world of violence and chaos.

“But I am no lady,” you continued, meeting his eyes briefly before glancing away. “I’m just a girl from the lower classes, trying to carve out a place for herself in this cruel world.”

“You are the reason my soldiers are still standing,” he replied, his voice steady and sincere. “If anyone is worthy of the title, it’s you.”

His words took you off guard. There was a weight to them, a charm so effortless it almost felt unintentional. “Not to mention,” he added with a faint smirk, “you still haven’t told me your name.”

Your reaction was almost comical—your hands paused mid-action, and your mouth opened as if to reply, only for you to close it again, too embarrassed to speak. Marcus couldn’t hold back the laugh that burst from him. It was deep, genuine, and so free of burden that it surprised even himself. He hadn’t laughed like that in years, and you, caught in the sound of it, found yourself smiling despite your flustered state.

Finally, you managed to stammer out your name. The way he repeated it, soft and deliberate, made your heart skip a beat.

“I…” You cleared your throat, willing the warmth in your cheeks to fade. “I’ll apply this oil to the bruises on your ribs, then wrap them with bandages. I assume you won’t accept the bandages from me.”

When he nodded, the smirk on his face grew, earning a roll of your eyes.

“Fine,” you said with mock exasperation. “But I insist you take the oil and use it before bed each night.”

He hesitated for only a moment before accepting the bottle. He knew well enough he couldn’t find anything like it elsewhere. But as you began to pull your hand away, his fingers closed gently over yours, stopping you.

From beneath the folds of his armor, Marcus retrieved a small leather bag. Without hesitation, he placed it in your hand. The weight of the coins surprised you, and you immediately began to shake your head.

“I cannot accept this,” you said firmly. “I won’t—”

“You can,” he interrupted, his tone leaving no room for argument, “and you will, my dear.” His smirk softened into something warmer, his voice quieter as he added, “You’re doing an incredible job—not just for my men but for everyone who comes to you. If not for yourself, then take it to help them.”

You looked down at the bag, then back at him, your throat tightening as the emotions you had kept at bay finally broke through. Tears welled in your eyes, spilling over before you could stop them.

“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “From the bottom of my heart.”

Marcus, sensing your discomfort at showing such vulnerability, simply nodded and looked away, giving you a moment to collect yourself.

Steeling yourself, you poured some of the oil onto the gauze and began to gently apply it to his bruises. Your touch was soft but deliberate, your movements careful as you worked. The warmth of the oil seeped into his skin, its soothing scent filling the space between you.

As you finished and prepared the bandages, Marcus watched you with quiet fascination. He hadn’t expected to find someone like you in a place like this—someone who treated others with such care and dignity, no matter their station. He couldn’t help but admire you. There was a quiet strength in everything you did, a resilience that didn’t demand attention but couldn’t be ignored. Yet, alongside that strength, you carried a gentleness that was rare in a world like his—a softness that didn’t falter, even under the weight of the pain and chaos you confronted daily.

“I want this oil to be gone in three days,” you said at last, your voice steadier now, though the lingering care in your eyes hadn’t wavered since he first saw you. “Every night, it should be applied.”

You looked at him then, something sterner flickering behind your gaze, and for a moment, he saw the fierce determination that lay beneath your calm exterior. “And please,” you continued, the words firm but kind, “do not overwork yourself. Those ribs need time to heal, and they won’t get it if you keep pushing yourself.”

He smiled at that, a quiet acknowledgment of your concern, and nodded. His eyes never left you as you worked, wrapping his torso with bandages. Despite the size of your hands, your touch was confident, and your movements were precise. To his surprise, when you finished, he found himself able to breathe a little easier.

“The dressing of broken ribs is crucial for your health,” you explained, as though anticipating the thoughts running through his mind. “Even if it hurts a little, it needs to be done tightly enough to provide support.”

You glanced up at him, your smile gentle but teasing. “My biggest concern was that one of the ribs might puncture your lung. And, well, no one wants that.”

He chuckled at the light humor, his chest rising and falling more easily than it had in days.

“I won’t waste your hard work on me,” he said sincerely, his voice warm with gratitude. There was something in his gaze—a softness, an intensity—that made your breath catch for just a moment.

You nodded, stepping back and surveying your work with a satisfied expression.

“Do you need help dressing?” you asked, tilting your head slightly.

Marcus moved his arms tentatively, testing the bandages’ hold. To his relief, the sharp pain had dulled significantly. “No, I think I’ve got it,” he replied, shaking his head with a small smile.

“Good,” you said, turning back to tidy your workspace. “I want to see you again in three days for an inspection.”

He pulled his tunic over his head, watching you as you worked, your movements fluid and purposeful. He couldn’t help but notice the care in even the smallest gestures—the way you arranged the jars, the precise manner in which you cleaned your tools. His gaze lingered, and a soft smile touched his lips when he realized how intently he was observing you.

You continued speaking without looking at him. “Of course, if you decide not to take my head before then.”

At that, Marcus frowned. But when you turned to him with a playful smirk, his confusion gave way to quiet laughter.

“And who would take care of my soldiers the way you do?” he replied, his tone gentle but sincere.

Your expression softened at his words, and you rolled your eyes in mock exasperation. “Three days, General,” you murmured, turning to leave.

As you disappeared into the hallway to check on your other patients, Marcus remained where he was, his mind lingering on the sound of your voice and the way you had looked at him—not as a general, but as a man. He was already counting the hours until he’d have an excuse to see you again.

[demigoddessqueens]

love n’ lustful kinks

HEADCANONS FOR THE Gladiatorii MEN

PAIRINGS — Gladiators [Lucius, Acacius, Macrinus] & Emperors [Geta, Caracalla] x female reader

Tags {super 18+, smut, NSFW}

Masterlist 12

Lucius

Sweet and fiercely protective, he never wants to be separated from you for long, even still nestled inside you when he’s soft

Marcus Acacius

A man ravaged by separation and is very much touch-starved, always has you closely wrapped in his arms to where he can see your face as you cry out his name

Macrinus

A man in charge who makes it known to others, who always has you dressed in finest Roman garments, fond of marking you with lovebites where all can see

Geta

Entirely unpredictable but absolutely adoring towards you, in his own way. Can be rough or gentle between the sheets with you

Caracalla

A man who lets his frustrations with Rome and his brother melt away when he’s with you,Mrs you on top or pinned beneath him as he fucks through the stress

[gremlingottoosilly]

AUGH Autistic loser König meeting Autistic loser Wifey!!! Not loser as in creepy, she just doesn’t really socialize with people or even want to learn how, and he finds her in the trash can and goes “mine now :-)” and she honestly doesn’t find this too unagreeable

He infodumps about the Roman Empire? I’m infodumping about the Mariana Trench and the Hadal Zone. He tells me to stay inside because he doesn’t want me seeing anyone else? Fine by me, I hate people and prefer to stay indoors and do my own thing. He needs cuddles and fucking? Im touch starved and Hypersexual, get your tall Austrian ass over here! We’re perfect for each other 🥰🥰🥰

This is literally Konig's dream girl! He can roar about wanting a 10/10 Instagram girlboss model with everything going on smoothly because he "doesn't want to deal with her problems," but he would fold for a loser gf who can support the conversation about nerdy things and who needs him just as much as he needs her. Your relationships are going to be very codependent and kiiiinda unhealthy, but no one cares! Konig and his gf(future wifey, he is just not sure about the rings yet) who absolutely adores him, and he just wants to have you all to himself! It's so good that you're so chill with everything, he adores this about you! You're his prettiest adorable girl who is going to sit on his lap like a good pet and choose the figures you are going to display. Even if it's from fandoms he doesn't know about, Konig will listen to your rambling and add stuff that he wants to...your house is going to look like it was decorated by a bunch of kids with too much money, but, honestly, Konig never felt so complete after spending his overgrown paycheck on something. He isn't even jealous when around you - although his loser nature makes him ask dumb questions like "would you love me if I was a worm immigrant who can only speak Serbian", he knows that you love him just as much as he loves you. It is quite funny how he works around not letting you go thought - at first it was bad weather, then it was about bears in the area, then - he was mumbling about not wanting to let you go, so you just let him place his head on your lap and push his face in your tummy because he obviously needs comfort...and you not notice exactly how much of your panties he already took.

[sentientsky]

“A History of My Brief Body,” Billy-Ray Belcourt

gomens final fifteen is the roman empire for depressed, touch-starved queers <3

[incognit0slut]

This scene is my roman empire. As much as we all agree that early season spence is a sub (let’s be honest he’s such a twink) but I do believe he’ll actually surprise you because LOOK AT THAT KISS!!! The man is so touch starved he’s kissing like it’s his last fucking meal

Like I wonder if he didn’t stop himself how far would they actually go

[aurae-rori]

Wanna ask if you have any headcannons for aventio modern au

( cause I am obsessed with modern aus)

hellyeah brother i'm here to serve the masses

hcs about ratio:

still a doctor still has 8 phds

knows about student debt and hates it with a burning passion

has a duck keychain that he puts on his keychain with all of his keys like the keys to his house

once crushed a soda can in his hands during his student years bcs he was that fucking mad about the homework questions not being stated in a clear manner (he just like me fr)

has several duck plushies in his bed and theyre all named after either greek philosophers or roman politicians

can speak latin fluently and mutters curse words and creative expressions in latin during the classes that he teaches because he is that pissed off

used to be a full time doctor, but decided to turn to teaching instead after some time

hyper-empathy due to childhood neglect (he just like me fr)

eyebags that he covers up with makeup, he still has those from his student years and cant fucking get them to leave no matter how many hours he sleeps for

enjoys occasionally a rum & coke

really likes lattes and london fogs

had a british accent once because he travelled to the uk and picked up on it, when he came back he was mortified

fucking loves ducks so much he has a camera roll dedicated to duck photos

he got to pet a duck once he was happy for the rest of the week thats how much he loves them

massive nerd & dork

undiagnosed autism with a side of gifted child trauma

really likes jazz and lofi it calms him down fast and makes him happy

wrings his hands when he's really happy

touch starved

makes really good soup

hopeless romantic

more mentally unstable than you think he is. he is actually suffering from burnout but doesnt want to let people around him down.

doing his best. sometimes on the weekends he just nestles into a cocoon of blankets and refuses to leave. texture....

cannot not wear socks he will die without them

cat magnet for some reason??? all neighbourhood cats are at his doorstep even when he and aven already have three. ig hes just cat dad now

aventurine hcs:

still has those glasses, his eyes are more sensitive to light too

really fucking likes fluffy stuff he loves the fluffy he loves the fluffy he-

big fan of sheep and peacocks

eternally terrified that ratio secretly hates him even when they start dating

bpd & adhd & probably autism (ALL BPD HAVERS FUCKING WIN WITH THIS ONE!!!!! I SEE YALL)

masks so often its insane

used to smoke and drink heavily, but has started to lay off ever since he met ratio

still an adrenaline junkie and still has his stupidly good good luck

really likes coffee too, coffee addict, has horrible eyebags, a shitty sleep schedule, and overworks himself half to death

cant fucking cook what the hell is a kitchen

very fond of stelle/caelus and sees them as his surrogate younger siblings. stelle taught him how to play video games and now he plays with them whenever his thoughts get really bitchy to him

horrible at relying on other people but is slowly unlearning that

can do a backflip (why? idk)

high pain tolerance

has a collection of sheep plushies that his friends bought for him

numby and him get along really well. he and topaz still have that sibling esque relationship.

i think he still works for the ipc in this au but its not as bad as it is in canon

starved of touch and does not really know what a healthy relationship is before ratio comes along

loves blankets he has like ten blankets on his bed at once idk why

once poured monster energy into coffee and then drank it. he suffered the consequences. even good luck can't save you from that

listens to generic pop (lie. he actually loves indie guitar)

MENTAL ILLNESS REP IN THIS MAN

accidentally big brothered some kids. help how does he deal with affection

buys stuff for stelle and caelus too. he buys them sheep plushies. they will defend said sheep plushies with their lives. they buy him racoon plushie in return. he does not cry.

his fingers shake so bad sometimes (PTSD goes hard)

motor skills can and will die on him occasionally

unhealthy coping mechanisms but hes getting better guys

he does relapse occasionally but hes putting in effort. finally got his ass to therapy thanks to ratio :)

second cat dad. he loves his cat children he will die for his cat children.

the cats like laying next to him as he eeps if ratio isnt there. they purr and help him with his nightmares.

(ily people w bpd you deserve this rep!!! enjoy :3)

them together hcs!!!!

ratio already had background information on bpd due to his psych degree beforehand but did more researching into it when he realized that aven had bpd because he wanted to support his partner as much as he could :)

ratio is big on physical touch but aven needed some time to get used to it and he was very big on it

aven really likes spoiling the absolute shit out of ratio and likes getting him gifts because sometimes he doesn't know how to word how much he appreciates ratio

aven likes to wash ratios hair for him and visa versa, non sexual intimacy always fucking wins

ratio still worries about aven and doesn't like him gambling all the time, aven makes an active effort to better himself for him even if it's really hard

at the start it was really fucking shitty between the two of them but eventually aven started to learn how to properly and safely communicate with ratio and ratio learned how to phrase his thoughts in a way that wouldn't trigger something, and although they both make mistakes they are doing their best for one another and generally have a good impact on one another's stages of healing (im not projecting im not projecting i-)

aven will hold ratio in his arms and tell him that he's good enough when the thoughts get really bad

they love cuddling, who's big spoon and small spoon switches regularly because they both like being held and holding the other

aven will stop by ratio after his classes and take him home when hes too tired

ratio shuts down sometimes and aven messes with his hair and just stays with him until he reboots

they kiss <33333333333

they cuddle so much they hold one another going to bed

ratio likes giving aven little headkisses and peppers his face with them

they are gay and in love and healthy actually

they were never toxic yaoi never will they be. they are healthy.

they get married <333

this is so much more than what you asked for probably but here you go.

[pencilpat]

You couldn't take the headcanon of Roman being physically warm and glowing a little like a ball of light and Remus radiating cold like a corpse and having a persistent aura of darkness around him from me if you tried.

Something about them both using their powers of creativity to subtly influence the way Thomas & the other sides perceive them. Warm and welcoming vs fear-inducing and Wrong.

Kid Remus finding it funny to put cold hands on people for a reaction, so he made it permanent to fuck with the other dark sides (heat-seeking creatures) when they were all together as friends, and being vibrantly dark whether he used to want it or not just by merit of how Thomas views him and his role. Roman doing the opposite way back when for the light sides because Patton and Logan both used to love how bright and comfortable he could be and compliment how much like a little star he was.

The twins balancing the temperature of a room every time they're there together, and maybe using it for perfectly temperatured cuddling back when they got along. They belong fitted together but neither of them will ever want that again.

Roman being horribly touch starved so he tries to incentivize people to touch him vs Remus being painfully touch averse and trying to get people to NOT.

Roman slowly getting colder and dimmer the more upset he is but forcing the warmth to stay because maybe it'll make someone comfort him since he's useful as a heater. Remus slowly warming and staring to shimmer when he's happy or excited but trying to keep cold so that he doesn't have to deal with the prospect of any piece of him being likeable.

[pascaloverx]

STARVE

Summary: You lost your husband some time ago while he served as a gladiator for Emperors Geta and Caracalla. General Acacius saved you from becoming an object of pleasure for the emperors. Since then, he has taken you as his mistress. In your free time, you became a disciple of Ravi, the healer, dedicating yourself to tending to wounded gladiators. All seemed to be in perfect harmony until Hanno, a gladiator driven by a thirst for vengeance, crossed your path.

Author's Note: And the gods said: Starve will be a multi-chapter fanfiction (I hope readers will follow it all the way through). Without further ado, the characters belong to Ridley Scott's Gladiator II universe, though there will be significant deviations from the film. Historical accuracy regarding life in the Roman Empire may not always be strictly observed, so I hope you can overlook that. Yes, this story revolves around a love triangle, but I will strive to satisfy everyone. This fanfiction will include adult content, violence, and potentially coarse language. Enjoy!

two four

THREE

Something ominous looms on the horizon. For days, you have been meticulously avoiding both Acacius and Hanno—a strategy that, while effective thus far, has been anything but easy. The rumors reaching you suggest that Hanno has been pestering Ravi incessantly, demanding your presence once more. Ravi, clearly exasperated, has taken to openly complaining about being forced to mediate between your "amorous entanglements," as he puts it, since your self-imposed distance began.

You had thought your withdrawal would carry no real consequences, yet this morning proved otherwise. A messenger from the emperors arrived at your doorstep, summoning you to attend the games at the Colosseum. Apparently, Emperor Geta himself wishes to extend his gratitude for your exemplary work in tending to the gladiators—his and his brother's greatest source of entertainment.

"If you wish, I could say you are unwell," Ravi murmurs as the two of you make your way toward the Colosseum.

"I cannot risk displeasing the emperors while my standing with Acacius remains fragile," you reply, touched by Ravi's unwavering support.

"You should consider mending things with one of the men in your life, for your own sake," Ravi suggests, his tone serious, ever the wise counselor.

"Hanno remains tethered to the memory of his late wife, while General Acacius refuses to release me from our former arrangement. It seems there is no simple resolution," you respond, your voice carrying the weight of your predicament, as the imposing silhouette of the Colosseum looms ever closer.

"It would be far simpler if you weren’t so stubborn. General Acacius may no longer be the ideal choice, but you and Hanno share more in common than you’re willing to admit," Ravi says with an irritating air of wisdom.

"It would be far simpler if you ceased your obstinance. General Acacius may no longer seem ideal, yet you and Hanno share far more in common than you are willing to acknowledge," Ravi remarked, his tone laden with that infuriating wisdom he so often wielded. However, the truth stands—your union with your late husband was forged more upon the bonds of friendship than the fires of passion. Before his commitment to you, he was entangled in an affair with Emperor Caracalla. That, above all, is the most profound distinction between yourself and Hanno. You grieve the loss of a cherished companion who became your husband by circumstance, whereas Hanno mourns his wife, who was, perhaps, the great love of his life.

"I shall take your counsel into consideration, my old friend, yet I beg of you to help me survive at least this day," you say, casting an apprehensive glance toward Ravi. He halts before you, placing a gentle kiss upon your forehead.

"Years ago, I vowed to your husband that I would care for you, and I shall not falter now. May the Gods watch over us," Ravi murmurs solemnly, his voice a quiet prayer as the two of you resume your path toward the arena, where the gladiators are already assembling for the commencement of the games.

Your gaze instinctively searches for Hanno, betraying a desire you would rather not acknowledge. His eyes, almost alight amidst the throng of gladiators, lock onto yours, his expression that of a man consumed by fury. You and Ravi did not take the same path as the gladiators, so it would not be prudent for you to approach him. Yet, from afar, you watch him with a quiet intensity. The courage you lack to bridge the distance is overshadowed by the boldness he possesses to close it himself.

"I shall give you a moment," Ravi murmurs, stepping aside as if sensing the gravity of the encounter. "Do not forget—Hanno may not leave the arena alive today. Be mindful to show kindness, for this could be your last exchange with him." Before you can fully process Ravi's warning, Hanno reaches you with surprising swiftness, all but sweeping you away with his commanding presence.

Hanno swiftly seized your waist with firm hands, nearly lifting you off the ground, and guided you to a secluded corner. His fury was unmistakable, reflected in the dominant grip he maintained on your waist, his hold firm enough to suggest he had no intention of letting you escape. "Have you lost your senses?" you demanded as he pressed you back against one of the great columns of the coliseum.

"I could not allow you to slip away from me again," Hanno replied, his voice low but resolute, his eyes scanning your surroundings with the precision of a predator ensuring no one dared approach.

"Our separation was necessary," you say with some difficulty, the closeness of Hanno's body to yours a maddening temptation that clouds your thoughts.

"Your master forbade you from interacting with me, and you simply obeyed, didn’t you?" Hanno says in a low, furious tone. His anger is not just visible but palpable, almost suffocating.

You seize his face with your hand, your nails pressing dangerously close to his neck. "Say once more that Acacius is my master, and I shall tear your throat out," you threaten, your voice laced with an inexplicable fury. Yet, Hanno seems to relish this, for he steps even closer, his lips curling into a wicked smile.

"I missed you, healer," Hanno replies, his eyes holding an unusual tenderness just moments before he claims your lips in a tumultuous kiss. It is as though he is consuming you, devouring you with his kiss, seeking to capture you entirely while his hands map your body with desperate reverence.

If the two of you were caught, it would mean your undoing, the end of both your lives. Yet, some part of you whispers that it would be worth it. In truth, if death awaited you for this, a kiss alone would not suffice. Each second his tongue dances with yours stirs a longing so deep it borders on madness. You yearn for him to take you, right here and now, for the feel of him within you seems the only desire worthy of risking everything. "Do not die today, gladiator," you murmur against his lips as they part, allowing you both to catch your breath.

"It will not be I who dies today, healer," Hanno says, his voice steady, before capturing your lips once more, this time with tenderness rather than desire. His grip on you tightens, as though he wishes to sink his hands into your very being, to keep your body close to his for all eternity.

"I only hope you can forgive me for what I am about to do," he murmurs, his breath warm against your ear. Before you can respond, one of the gladiators calls his name, and he steps away. An unease settles in your chest, fear creeping in as you wonder what he might be planning. Yet, the weight of your obligations presses against your thoughts—you must make your way to the emperors without delay.

"For what reason is the healer present here?" Lucilla, seated beside Acacius, questions sharply as you approach the section where they, the emperors, and other guests await the spectacle.

"The healer is my guest, Lucilla," Emperor Geta interjects swiftly, extending his hand toward you in expectation. Dutifully, you step forward and kiss it. Moments later, Emperor Caracalla mimics his brother’s gesture, and you lean in to kiss his hand as well.

As you rise, your gaze catches the familiar figure of Dondus, the small monkey, bounding toward you with recognition in his bright eyes. Memories of the time you were compelled to remain near the emperors, so Caracalla could indulge his desires with your late husband, flood back unbidden. "He still remembers you," Caracalla exclaims, his voice carrying an unusual note of delight as he grasps your hand.

"It is an honor to be here," you reply evenly, though the weight of his touch stirs emotions you work hard to suppress. Behind your composed words lingers the haunting memory of the cold efficiency with which Caracalla and his brother had ordered your husband's death—right here in this very arena.

"We have been separated by the misfortunes imposed upon us by the Gods, but I believe a new chapter is now opening for us, as your skills as a healer have not gone unnoticed. Hands as talented as yours deserve to care for the well-being of emperors, my dear," Geta declares, his gaze lingering on you with a fervent intensity that borders on desire. You struggle to mask the fear swirling within you, wondering what fate the Gods have in store for you next.

The weight of his words settles heavily on your chest, but before you can gather your thoughts, General Acacius rises abruptly and moves toward the two of you. Your hand lightly grazes the fabric of his attire, halting his approach. "Is there a matter of concern, General?" Emperor Caracalla inquires, his tone laced with an air of amusement, as his fingers idly stroke Dondus, who appears entirely at ease in his presence.

"There is no matter of concern, Emperor Caracalla," General Acacius responds, his hand firmly clasping yours against his chest beneath the folds of his vestment, his piercing gaze directed at the two emperors with the weight of an unspoken warning.

“Our most illustrious general appears perturbed that we extended an invitation to his mistress to grace these games in our company without first seeking his counsel,” Emperor Geta declares with an air of calculated provocation, his words laden with mockery. The faintest smirk curls his lips, as if relishing the tension he seeks to sow.

"Ah, brother, such concerns would trouble him only if he were entangled with her. Yet rumors abound that they no longer seek solace in each other's embrace and that she is no longer charged with tending to the wounds of our noble General," Emperor Caracalla remarks, his words clearly meant to provoke. However, his statement seems to have unsettled Lucilla, who shifts restlessly in her seat.

"Brother, remember that we ought not lend credence to idle gossip," Emperor Geta interjects, rising with an air of authority. "If our esteemed General Acacius insists that we disregard his lover, let him convince us that their bond remains intact. Otherwise, let him return to his rightful place beside his wife, and allow my brother and me the honor of tending to the fair healer." As Geta’s words echo, Acacius turns his gaze toward you, his eyes locking with yours in a silent exchange. Without hesitation, he pulls your face toward his, as though intending to kiss you before the eyes of all assembled.

"Do not sacrifice your marriage for me," you murmur, your voice trembling as the weight of the moment threatens to bring tears to your eyes. The inevitability of what you feared is now unfolding before you—Acacius can no longer shield you.

"You are worthy of such a sacrifice, mea domina," General Acacius murmurs near your ear, his hand gently caressing your face. His touch carries a tenderness that momentarily threatens to weaken your resolve. Yet, you grasp his hands, steadying yourself, and move them away from your face, refusing to yield to the moment. There is a depth to your bond with Acacius, a connection forged in unspoken understanding, but you cannot bring yourself to jeopardize him.

"Perhaps it would be wiser to let the healer decide where she wishes to remain," you say, your voice steady, masking the longing within you to leave this place with Acacius. Turning toward Emperor Geta, who now sits observing the exchange with keen interest alongside his brother, Caracalla. Without hesitation, Geta seizes the opportunity, pulling you onto his lap with a self-assured ease that leaves no doubt of his authority.

Your gaze meets that of General Acacius, whose displeasure grows ever more evident. His clenched fists and the tension in his posture betray the storm brewing within him. "I believe the games are about to begin, dear General Acacius," Emperor Geta states with a sly smile, his hand firmly resting on your waist to solidify his claim. "It would be most appropriate for you to take your seat and enjoy the spectacle." His words carry a subtle provocation, a challenge cloaked in politeness.

Acacius lingers, his body taut with restraint as though weighing the consequences of striking an emperor in defense of his pride. Just as the tension threatens to boil over, Macrinus approaches, his demeanor lively and oblivious to the undercurrents. "Ah, are we all ready to witness the might of my beast? My gladiator returns to the arena today!" Macrinus exclaims, his excitement cutting through the charged atmosphere like a blade.

Acacius hesitates, his head tilting as though he is torn, unwilling to move from your side while you remain seated on Emperor Geta’s lap. Yet, Lucilla intervenes, her steps measured as she approaches her husband. She takes his hand with a quiet resolve, guiding him back to her side. A flicker of disappointment stirs within you, faint but undeniable. What else could you have expected? Acacius has always belonged to her, to duty, to the empire. He has never truly been yours.

The tension lingers only a moment longer before the spectacle claims everyone’s attention. The gates to the coliseum creak open, and the gladiators march into the arena. Yet something is amiss. Their faces are obscured, smeared with what appears to be blood, masking their identities. For those with inattentive eyes, it becomes nearly impossible to distinguish one from another. But not for you. No, Hanno’s eyes—those piercing, tempestuous eyes—are burned into your memory like the sharp point of a blade embedded deep into flesh. Even amid the chaos, they find you, unyielding and unforgettable.

"Macrinus, what are the gladiators scheming?" Emperor Caracalla asks, his words slurred as he drinks from his goblet, already appearing too inebriated to speak coherently.

"My esteemed Emperor Caracalla, I have no knowledge of their schemes, but I trust it is all in service of your entertainment," Macrinus responds, his gaze fixed intently on the gladiators below. He observes them with a sharpness that contrasts Caracalla's indifference, his expression unreadable.

Your eyes instinctively seek out General Acacius, silently willing him to understand that something is amiss. He meets your gaze, his brow furrowed as though catching the silent warning you convey.

"You seem unsettled, healer," Emperor Geta murmurs into your ear, his voice sending a shiver down your spine. "I am not accustomed to watching gladiators face one another, Emperor," you reply, steadying your voice. "I am more familiar with mending their wounds when they survive." The truth, however, weighs heavier on your mind—Hanno is planning something, and whatever it is, it may cost Acacius his life. A fate you cannot allow.

"Do not fret," Geta coos, lifting your chin with a deliberate gentleness that feels almost mocking. His eyes search yours, a predator relishing his control. "Guards, increase vigilance near the gladiators!" he commands suddenly, his voice sharp and resonant, slicing through the murmurs of the spectators.

"Emperor, it may not be wise to leave yourself so unguarded," General Acacius interjects, his tone firm yet controlled as he observes the guards dispersing to obey Geta's orders.

"And what greater protection could Rome offer than you, General?" Geta retorts with a smug smile, his grip on you tightening slightly, as though to assert his dominance. The tension is palpable, yet it is quickly eclipsed by the spectacle unfolding in the arena. The gates groan open once more, and three lions emerge, their emaciated forms a testament to their hunger. Their roars echo across the coliseum, a feral sound that sets the crowd alight with excitement. The gladiators ready themselves, their movements deliberate, each one measured and precise.

Your heart tightens as Hanno shouts to the other gladiators, "Remember our plan! Our enemy lies far beyond the arena!" Surely, he is plotting something, yet his precision in leading the gladiators against the lions is extraordinary. It is as if Hanno is channeling his spirit animal, his movements instinctive and deliberate.

Blood is everywhere—some gladiators brutally slaughtered by the lions. Two of the beasts have already been defeated when a revolt begins, chaos erupting as the third lion aids the gladiators in breaking through the arena gates. Suddenly, the tension in the air thickens. Panic spreads as the guards scramble to escort the emperors away from the scene.

Caught in the fray, you find yourself swept along with Emperors Geta and Caracalla, fate conspiring against you. In the madness, you lose sight of Acacius amidst the swarm of guards and gladiators. The tumult escalates into full-blown chaos until a voice pierces through the din, crying out, "Protect the Emperor!"

Before you can react, you feel the sharp pain of a blade slicing through your skin—or perhaps plunging into it. You cannot tell. Dazed, you glance down to see your blood staining your garments, and when you lift your gaze, you meet the eyes of your assailant. Hanno's eyes. You are certain.

The attack meant for Emperor Geta has struck you instead, delivered by the very man who has awakened feelings you dare not name. Tears well in your eyes as you feel your strength waning, your consciousness slipping into darkness.