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makethatelevenrings · 3 months ago

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Ubi Amor Ibi Fides (Where there's love, there's faith) // Lucius Verus x f!reader

summary: When he saw you that day, surrounded by a gaggle of children who begged you to tell them a story, he had no idea that the Fates had their own epic tale in mind of everlasting devotion. OR, contrasting vignettes of the past and the present through the eyes of Hanno and his wife.

word count: 13.2k

warnings: SPOILERS FOR THE MOVIE!! 18+, war, blood, death, allusions to rape and what happens to female prisoners of war, allusion to desecration of a corpse, historical inaccuracy (if Ridley Scott can do it, so can I!), smut, Lucius being Down Bad for this wife, mythology and religion (with inaccuracies), discussion of suicide, suicide attempt, grief, throwing up, Roman culture???, period-typical misogyny but like, make it feminist

“Tell me a story.”

Exhaustion clouded his voice and you turned away from your weaving to find him leaning against the roughshod mudbrick door frame. It was days like today that you cursed his stubborn nature. While he had been willing to let you help in breaking in the ground for the coming harvest, your husband sent you inside by midday when the sun was at its highest. Now, you were rested and chilled by the wind that eased its way through the small house, and he was completely depleted.

“Come.” You beckoned him with an outstretched hand. “Rest beside me and then I will tell you.”

He didn’t argue, for once, and took your hand in his. You drew him down to sit beside you, his head settling in your lap. Your fingers curled into the soft, downy hair at his temples and he relaxed with a sigh. While you wished you could continue stroking his hair, the weaving in front of you wouldn’t be completed without two hands. As you went back to your work, you began to speak.

“There were once two lovers by the name of Pyramus and Thisbe…” He huffed out a quiet laugh. You smiled at him, delighted that it made him relax even further. Most of your stories were the ones he had told you about from his childhood and you weren’t really in the right mind to come up with a fresh story.

“The parents of our two lovers refused to let them marry, but their love reigned strong through the thin crack in the stone wall that divided their property.” As you spoke, you embellished the story with extraneous details and dramatic gasps, eliciting quiet chuckles from your husband. He looked weary these days and not just from the labor in the fields. The Romans were creeping closer, and it would only be a matter of time before they came to your city. You woke up last night to a cold bed and found him standing at the doorway, staring out towards the sea. He knew what was coming. You both did.

“The gods looked favorably upon their sacrifice and changed the tree to its dark appearance to signify the devotion between them.” You ended the tale and stopped your weaving for a moment to gently trace your fingers along the edge of his features. You loved the sharp crest of his nose, the curve of his lips, and the bright blue of his eyes. His lashes were so long that they left shadows across his cheeks when he shut his eyes.

“I understand why he did it,” he said softly.

“Hmm?” Your hand stroked over his curls once more as you thought through everything you needed to get done tomorrow. You paused, however, when you felt his face turn to see you better and his lips brushed against your palm.

“I understand why Pyramus ended his life.” His calloused palm covered your own and he turned your hand over, his fingers sliding along yours and intertwining. “One can only imagine the pain he must have felt.”

A painful squeeze built in your throat and you felt an awful burning sensation behind your eyes. He sat up and gently cupped your face in one of his large hands, drawing your gaze up to meet his.

“Hanno,” you breathed. He smiled softly and leaned in to capture your lips in a sweet kiss. He was never one for words, always more inclined to act. Breaking apart, you pressed your forehead against his and breathed in the masculine scent of him tinged with soil, sweat, and something purely him.

“When death claims us, we go as one,” he vowed. “I cannot exist in this world without you.”

“As the gods see fit,” you assured him. “I will follow you wherever you lead.”

You wished this was a story.

It had been an easy day in the fields. You were sprinkling seeds in the ditches that Hanno dug earlier. The chickens clucked at you from their pen, begging for a bit more food as if they hadn’t been fed a hearty amount of grain earlier. After you planted these, Hanno would place the earth back over it while you worked on your herb garden.

You were capable of doing the hard, manual labor. Growing up, you would always help your parents through the entire process of planting, but Hanno was insistent on keeping his precious wife away from the heavy work. Rather, he encouraged your herb collecting and training with some of the city healers. You were grateful for him, truly. Most men would sequester their wives in their homes and work them to their deaths from labor, both of earth and child.

But Hanno was different.

He taught you to read, speak, and write in Latin. He would easily switch between Numidian, Phoenician, and Latin until you could respond perfectly. When he took breaks from tilling, plowing, and managing the harder tasks with the animals, he sat next to you at your garden and asked about the different plants. He was never cruel, never struck you or screamed at you the way you had heard other wives whisper to one another. In fact, Hanno was exceedingly kind to you and to anyone he didn’t view as a threat.

Which is why you thought this was a nightmare at first.

The horns of war sounded and you stood up straight to watch as the beacons erupted with fire at the top of the wall. Fear seized your heart and you stood frozen, transfixed, by the flames that licked the sky. Smoke curled off the top of them and the smell burned at your nose. You might have stood there all day if it hadn’t been for Hanno rushing out of the small house to your side.

“Come,” your husband instructed you. “We must get ready.”

He grasped your arm gently and it snapped you out of your reverie. Swallowing down your panic, you followed him into the house and to the small trunk he had made to hold your armor. The two of you silently donned your gear and were nearly finished when Jugurtha came to your door.

“My lord,” you greeted him with a slight bow. The chieftain’s face betrayed nothing, but you could see the worry in his eyes. Hanno and Jugurtha would be in the heat of the battle, directly in the path of the oncoming Roman fury. Would the gods listen if you sent them a prayer now? It felt as though they had decided to abandon you.

“The healers are gathering at Taklit’s house.” Jugurtha looked at the two of you, a hidden regret in his gaze. “We will come retrieve you once we have claimed victory.”

“Yes, my lord.” Your voice had softened as you realized how quickly this was all happening.

“I will join you soon,” Hanno replied. Jugurtha nodded and left, his imposing figure leaving an empty space in the doorway and in your heart. Needing a distraction, you turned and focused your attention on securing Hanno’s armor. As your trembling fingers finished tightening his armor, his hand enfolded around yours and he drew your fingers up to his lips. Hanno placed a delicate kiss on the tips of each finger. You searched his face to memorize every last detail, from the crinkles beside his eyes to the slight curve of his lip. Only the gods knew how this battle would end and the anxiety felt like it was going to swallow you alive.

“We go as one,” he reminded you. “I will not lose you.”

“Nor I, you.” His lips ghosted over yours and you leaned up, capturing him in a searing kiss. You poured every ounce of your devotion, fear, and worry into the kiss and he took it all onto his broad shoulders, shielding you from this world. His hand fisted in your hair and he pulled you impossibly closer so he could sink the weight of his devotion into every fiber of your being.

The gods had granted you this man as your husband. Perhaps they had not abandoned you yet.

“Be brave, my Hanno,” you whispered once you broke apart. He pressed his brow to yours and you breathed him in. “Be strong and be brave. And come back to me.”

The warm metal of his betrothal ring pressed into the skin of your cheek as he cradled your face between his hands. He kissed your forehead, his lips warm against your clammy skin. You savored the ring, this physical reminder of his tie to you, and touched the one that rested on your hand as a reminder of your tie to him.

“I will see you soon, my love.”

How bittersweet endings are, you thought to yourself as the walls of the city were seized by Romans. Men and women fell left and right from the parapets and you knew there was no help you could give them once their bodies hit the ground. Instead, you watched in horror as Roman soldiers grew closer and closer to where you were stationed and awaiting the wounded. You could see Hanno at the top of the wall fighting for his very life and your heart beat wildly in your chest at the sight of so many men around him falling in battle. Would he be next?

A cry of pain nearby alerted you to someone needing help. One of your people had been caught within the crosshairs of an archer and you rushed out of the house to grab them and drag them to safety. The child, only a mere babe, shrieked in agony as you dove to cover his little body when another arrow went sailing over your head. Even over the din of war, you heard Hanno scream your name.

A Roman soldier grabbed you by your hair and yanked you up off the ground, forcing your back to bend sharply and a shout to emerge from your lips. He drew his sword, placing it to your throat with the intention of drawing your blood, your life, out of you with one swift pull. Despite knowing it wouldn’t help, you shouted your status in Latin.

“Healer! I’m a healer!” Perhaps he would be merciful. Perhaps he would let you go. Your eyes sought out the top of the wall and you saw Hanno desperately fighting to get to you, but he was too far away. The blade knicked the soft skin of your throat.

Two things happened simultaneously. One, a general pointed at you from the crowd and yelled at his man to stop. Two, Hanno was shoved off the wall and into the sea, right where huge rocks clashed with the waves.

A scream escaped you. A wail. War makes widows, your mother had said. And here you were, one of them.

The soldier removed his blade and forced you up to your feet, shoving you back in the direction of the house. You scrambled to scoop up the child in your arms. If you could not save your love, maybe you could at least save a mother from grief.

The child died in your arms by the time you stepped into the healer house.

Numidia fell. Rome claimed victory and dominion over the land. Hanno was dead.

You busied yourself with tending to the wounded in hopes that you wouldn’t think about the fact that you were now under Rome’s control, a widow, and possibly homeless. What would happen next? Would they let you retrieve his body? Or would they throw him into a pile and burn it all along with the city itself?

A shadow fell over you as you tended to one of your own. You looked up to find the general gazing down at you. All at once, you were filled with hot rage and the deepest sorrow. You stood quickly, your hand reaching for a stray knife on the ground but he merely raised a brow. Right. What skill do you have against a Roman general?

“You’re a healer,” he said, not as a question. “And you speak Latin. How?”

“How do I heal or how do I speak Latin?” you spat. He remained stoic and you narrowed your eyes in suspicion. You would never reveal Hanno’s secrets. Not even under the threat of death.

“My husband is-” You stopped yourself and swallowed hard. “Was a merchant. He taught me so I could help him sell.”

“But you are a healer.”

You shrugged. “We do what we must.”

He studied you carefully and then nodded at one of his soldiers. A sudden bolt of terror struck you. Was this your future? To be a general’s plaything? A concubine? Some kind of bed warmer until he got back to Rome and disposed of you into the nearest brothel?

No. You were the wife of Hanno, a kind man and a good soldier.

“If you expect me to lay with you, I ask that you let me slit my wrists first so that I can die knowing I never let you take more from me than you already have,” you hissed. The soldier went to unsheathe his sword, but the general raised a hand to stop him. He took in your figure and the way you trembled with rage and grief.

“I need a healer,” he explained. “For my men. I will not touch you, for I am a married man, and you are a widow.”

He turned to the soldier once again. “Place her in chains and then put her in my room. Do not lay a finger on her, nor let anyone else.”

What choice did you have? If you defied them, you would be dead. If you went with them, you would have a chance to avenge Hanno before you died. Either way, you would join your husband in the afterlife. Going meant you had a chance to drag another life with you on the journey.

You dropped the blade and let the soldier lead you to the ships, not daring to look at the mass of bodies being piled up on the sand. Tears blurred your vision as you were hauled onto the ship. The keening wails of mourners raised above the fractured walls and you watched as smoke started to envelope the city. Just this morning, you had been thinking about spring planting and now you were a Roman slave.

What fresh hell was this?

The soldier clamped the heavy irons onto your wrists, connecting them together, and then attached two to your feet as well, forcing you into a shuffle as he then moved further below deck to a room. He tossed a thin blanket onto the wooden floor and pointed at it. You needed no words to explain that it would be your new bed.

When the door shut behind him, you fell to your knees over the chamber pot and promptly threw up everything in your stomach. An agonized sob tore from your lungs and you grit your teeth to silence the wail that threatened to emerge. You beat your fists on the hard, unforgiving wooden floor and wept silent tears, rocking back and forth in time to the crests and waves of the wailing mourners outside. Your people were subjugated. Your home was destroyed.

Your Hanno was dead.

Oh Thisbe, you thought as hot tears coursed down your cheeks. I understand. I understand. I understand. If I cannot shoulder this burden, then let the gods strike me down so that I may join him in peace.

“Tell us a story!”

The voices of children bubbled up over the crowd and Hanno looked up from sharpening his sword to find a woman surrounded. The kids eagerly mobbed her, their little heads bobbing up and down as they pleaded for her to tell them a tale. A basket balanced precariously on her head, but she seemed as though there was no worry about it falling.

But the thing that Hanno noticed the most was that she was completely and utterly beautiful.

“Who is that?” Jugurtha smiled at the young soldier’s question. He saw the way the woman captured his gaze. He knew that look in his eyes.

Jugurtha said your name quietly and explained how your family used to live on the outskirts of the city so they could accommodate a larger farm, but recent skirmishes in the area had wounded your father and drew you behind the walls of the city. Hanno had met your father before and made a mental note to visit the man and see how he was healing. Perhaps he would bring some fresh fruits from the merchants.

Jugurtha must have caught onto his train of thought because he called you over. The gaggle of children followed closely behind and you laughed, a sound that Hanno delighted in hearing.

“Are you interested in a story too, my lord?” You said in greeting. Jugurtha grinned and gestured for you to sit.

“You’ve been hard at work. Take a moment to rest and tell the children a story.”

With careful hands, you reached up and lowered the basket to the ground. Hanno could see it was full of various types of plants and fabrics. He had a million questions swirling around in his head. What did you do to pass the time? Where were you staying? Did you like it here? He stayed silent, however, as you slowly lowered yourself onto the ground. Your dress pooled around your legs and the coins on your shawl clinked against each other. What would you look like bare? He banished the thought as soon as it appeared.

“Come.” You beckoned the children to sit around you and gathered one of the youngest into your lap. The child reached up and played with the ends of your veil and you smiled down at her before beginning your story.

“Long ago, there was a queen of Numidia by the name of Kahina. When invaders came to Numidia to conquer us, she stood strong and fought them off with all of her might. Kahina was brave and smart, using both her strength and her mind to push the invaders back.” You launched into a tale filled with drama, some comedy, and even a bit of romance that had the kids shouting and cheering with glee. Hanno even stopped cleaning his weapons to sit and listen. He was enraptured by the way you kept the kids engaged as you weave your tale. The child in your lap started to drift off and you didn’t even hesitate before drawing her closer into your arms and cradling her.

“Queen Kahina is a reminder to all of us,” you declared. “That each of us has the power to stand up for ourselves, to do what’s right, and to be proud of who we are.” You gazed out onto the sea of little heads bobbing their agreement and then looked up to lock gazes with Hanno. For a brief moment, it felt like everything in the world went still. He scarcely knew he was breathing until Jugurtha nudged him. You tore your gaze away and offered a brilliant smile to the children. Clapping your hands together, you shooed them back towards the gathering of homes.

“Your mothers are probably wondering where you’ve gone off to. Now, go home and do some chores to help her out.”

“Oh, but we want another story!” One boy cried out. You huffed out a laugh and shook your head, your veils moving like buttery silk across your skin.

“Only if you finish your chores for the day. I will ask your mother and you know I will. Now, off with you!”

The children dashed off, leaving you with the sleeping babe in your arms. You slowly started to rise, intent on not waking her, when Hanno spoke.

“Here, let me carry your basket.” He stood and took the wicker basket from the ground so you wouldn’t have to worry about carrying both child and items. You regarded him warily at first and Jugurtha had to hide his smile behind his hands.

Truth be told, you were one of the most desired women in the city. You were also one of the least trusting. Your mother desperately tried to set you up with suitor after suitor, but none met your standards. Your father laughed off your mother’s attempts and said that the gods would lead the right man to you. You were older than most women to be unmarried, but you remained steadfast in your belief that the right man would come someday.

And perhaps today was that day.

Jugurtha offered you a short nod to express his approval of Hanno and your suspicious expression melted somewhat. You turned and started to walk towards the village. When you realized that the handsome man with blue eyes wasn’t following, you glanced back at him.

“Are you coming or not?”

Hanno scrambled to catch up and quickly joined your steps, a smile cresting on his face as he asked you about how you were settling into the city.

Hanno cried when his mother sent him away. He sobbed when he fled his hiding place, cried on the boat crossing, and sniffled away into his sleep the first few days of living in Numidia. But he had never wept like he did when they tossed him into the hold of the ship with a Roman brand on his shoulder and a ring that felt infinitely heavy on his finger.

The last thing he saw before plunging into the sea was the blade sliding across your neck. Stuck between the two worlds of consciousness, he saw flickers of a wheatfield stretched before him and, for a moment, saw the outline of your body amongst the stalks. He reached out, his hand passing through where you stood, and then you disappeared from his grasp.

Coming to, he rushed from the sea and towards the city, but two Romans stopped him. He needed to find your body. He needed to see that you were buried properly. He was never as devoted to the gods as you were. You kept idols on the hearth and prayed regularly, but he only found himself turning to the gods at a time like this. But, right now, he found himself praying to Viduus, Libitina, and Proserpina.

Let her soul cross, Mercury. Bring her to the Fields of Elysium. Please. Tell her I will meet her on the other side.

He was forced to kneel next to Jugurtha, stripped of his armor and weapons, and watched as they loaded body after body into a pit. Jugurtha’s gaze never left the growing pile, even as he asked the question that Hanno dreaded.

“She’s gone,” he said, his throat raw from screaming your name across the battlefield. Did it hurt? He wondered. Was it instant? Did you feel pain? His sweet wife who dedicated her life to healing and helping died in such a brutal manner. His hands curled into fists as rage filled his veins. You were supposed to die at an old age, tucked in his arms and surrounded by your children. That’s what he planned that day so long ago when he walked you home, basket in his arms and a babe in yours. You dropped the child off with her mother and he refused to let you take your basket back, instead carrying it to your small house where he checked in on your father, met your mother, and charmed your whole family.

He craned his neck to see the dead lying a few feet away in hopes of catching a glimpse of any sign of you but there were too many dead. Too many lost. He saw the man he had bought silk from two days earlier. The midwife in the village. So many of the soldiers he had helped train.

Hanno glanced beside him and saw a fellow healer who was weeping openly. He leaned closer and asked if she knew anything about what happened to you.

“They took her,” she wailed. “They took her.”

Any grief that remained calcified into pure, hot rage. They took your body? For what sick purpose? To desecrate your corpse? To taint you with their hatred and their delusions of power, even when you were already dead? He started to rise, intent on seeking out your corpse and draping himself over it so that he would still be holding you when they killed him. Jugurtha stopped him with a shaking hand around his wrist.

“I’m sorry,” the leader lamented. “But not like this. This is not how you will die.”

Hanno’s eyes fixed on the man standing in front of the soldiers, in front of the keening mothers and children, in front of the men he had defeated and stripped of their armor to expose their humiliation. Hanno remembered the way he pointed directly at you, encouraging the soldier to keep the bloodshed continuing, and knew what Jugurtha meant.

He was going to kill him, and then he would reunite with you in the afterlife.

“Tell me a story,” Lulit encouraged as the two of you picked herbs from outside the city. The two of you rode out early this morning to gather herbs not grown in the village gardens. Lulit was with child and Jugurtha insisted on a guard coming with you and you glanced over at the man asleep at the base of the tree that the horses were tied to.

You paused for a moment to consider which tale you should tell. Recently, the only stories that came to mind were romances. Your face burned at the thought, but you knew why they were the only things that floated to your memory. A certain blue-eyed man had consumed every waking thought of yours and it was driving you mad.

He was a consummate gentleman and always found ways to visit your family. He started helping your father get his new trading business up and running in the city. He brought your mother fresh wheat to bake bread. He carved toys from wood and willow reeds for your siblings.

Hanno was the man of your dreams. He was exceedingly kind, handsome, and funny. He was sincere and wasn’t putting on some kind of face to impress you. He was just truly nice to everyone he met. You saw him once helping one of the elders bundle their wheat harvest and carry it into their house. Jugurtha had already come by and assured your parents of Hanno’s good nature.

He had started to teach you Latin and how to read and write Phoenician and Numidian. He told you stories from other empires and listened intently when you told him tales your grandmother had told you. The gods had indeed brought the right man, the perfect man.

“Psyche was one of three daughters of a king and a queen of a far away land. She was renowned for her beauty and praised among the land as the second coming of the goddess of beauty. Her admirers would bring offerings and gifts to her, angering the goddess, who decided that Psyche must be punished.”

A thorn caught on your finger and you let out a hiss of pain as you brought your finger to your lips, sucking the blood away. You began to continue your work and your story when a horn trumpeted across the sky.

The sounds of war.

Your heart leapt into your throat and you immediately looked to Lulit. Her face had drained of color and she traded a worried glance with you. In the time you had lived here, the horns had never sounded.

“We need to move.” Despite being asleep moments earlier, Hanno was already leading the horses to the two of you.

“Who is it?” You knew better than to stall, especially when he wore such a serious expression. He helped you climb onto the back of your horse and paused for only a moment, one of his warm palms resting on your skirt-covered thigh.

“A small war party, by the looks of it. Nothing the defense can’t handle. But we need to get out of the way before they attack. There’s a forest just a few paces away, but we need to get moving.” He ensured that you and Lulit were secured before he climbed onto his own horse. Dust grew in the east and you felt your worry build with it. Hanno tugged at the reins of your horse, urging you to follow. You urged your horse into a gallop and kept close to him, but you still looked over your shoulder to gauge how close the marauders were.

“Hanno.” Your voice carried a warning and he looked back to see a rider closing in on them. He let out an expletive and pointed to the trees that were nearing with every step.

“Go! I’ll find you.” He slowed his horse and fell in line with you, his bright eyes meeting yours. “I swear to you.”

You swallowed against your rising panic and he sent you a reassuring smile before he turned his horse around and rode off in the direction of your pursuer. You looked back to watch as he drew his sword with expert ease.

Focus, you chastised yourself. You need to focus.

Lulit silently followed you as you led the way to the forest. Once the trees began to cloud your vision, you looked back and saw nothing but dirt and sky. He would be okay. He had to be.

Dismounting, you grabbed the reins of your horse and led her further into the forest until you came to a clearing with a good underbrush. You tied the horses and instructed Lulit to dig out some of the underbrush so she could lay down and rest while you brushed out the horses.

“Are we in danger?” she asked. Were you? You had no clue. But you set your shoulders and covered her with the blanket she kept on her saddle.

“Hanno would never let anything happen to us,” you told her. You settled down onto the soft grass next to her. “Let me continue my story. While Psyche’s sisters married, she found herself still unmarried and that worried her father who consulted a seer. The seer predicted an awful outcome for the beautiful daughter, one of a brutish husband in the form of a dragon who came to claim her and whom the gods feared. But truthfully, the goddess of beauty had been so enraged by the people’s devotion to Psyche that she sent her son to enchant her with a hideous creature, but instead found himself falling in love with her.”

Lulit curled up onto her side, cradling her growing belly with her hands as she listened raptly to your story. You spoke of the trials the lovers endured in their pursuit of one another, but as you began to wrap up the story, you found that she had drifted off to sleep.

A branch cracked nearby and you flinched. There was a small knife in your saddlebags that you used for foraging and silently, you crept over to your horse and retrieved it. The leaves rustled and you spun to face whatever beast dared to come close. You held your knife aloft and pointed it in the direction of where the noise was coming from. Oh, you were not brave. You were a farmer’s daughter and a healer. The most you knew with a knife was how to butcher an animal.

“You need to adjust your thumb to the other side,” Hanno said in greeting as he stepped through the forest and into the clearing. “It will give you better control.”

With a ragged sigh of relief, your shoulders fell from their tensed position and you dropped the knife onto the grass below. He stooped to catch it and studied the small blade with a hint of a smile. Droplets of blood stained his face and you carefully examined him for any sign of injuries.

“I am unharmed, my little warrior,” he teased. He rose and handed you the knife once more. “And I will make sure to teach you how to use that.”

“Are you sure you’re alright?” He could easily be lying. Father always brushed off your mother’s worries so as to not incite her own anxieties. Hanno raised his arms from his sides and slowly turned so you could see that he was indeed unharmed. His sword hung from its scabbard and you could see that blood still lingered on its surface.

“Are we safe?”

His eyes darkened and he stepped closer, his hands hovering over your waist. He searched your face for something, you weren’t sure, but dipped his head into a nod. “Aye. I would never let anything happen to you. To you or Lulit.”

“Then rest, soldier. Let me clean your sword.”

He looked as if he wanted to argue, but determination furrowed your brows and Hanno reluctantly unstrapped his sword from his side and handed it to you. This was a task you had witnessed your mother perform before when your father took on anyone trying to attack the farm. Blood was not a foreign thing to you, even if Hanno appeared to want to protect you from it.

You took a rag from your saddle pack and sat down by a tree. Hanno joined you, his back against the bark and his eyes studying the treeline for any disturbance. Slowly and methodically, you ran the rag over his blade and ensured that every last drop of blood and gore was cleaned from it. He searched your face for any sign of fear. Fear of what? Of him? A man who so willingly charged into danger to protect you engendered no fear from you.

“There,” you declared. “Good as new.”

He gratefully accepted the blade from you and placed it back in his scabbard. The sun was starting to set and the glow between the trees created a halo of light around you. He reached up and tucked a stray strand of hair out of your face before curling his knuckles against your jaw and stroking his thumb over your cheek. You let your eyes flutter shut and leaned into his palm, savoring the rough drag of his calloused fingers against your soft skin.

You loved him. Oh, the thought made your heart race and you surged forward. He caught your waist in his calloused hands and let his lips meet yours in a breathless kiss. Hanno groaned against your touch and you pulled away, thinking he was hurt with some injury you hadn’t seen, but he merely cupped your face and pulled you back in so he could nip at your lips and soothe the slight sting with his tongue. You whimpered at his touch and kissed him once again, moving your hands down to trace along the hard lines of his chest. Your hand moved lower and Hanno quickly pulled away from you, one of his hands catching yours and tangling your fingers with his.

“Not yet,” he panted against your cheek. “Not yet.”

Dawn was breaking when you awoke. Your head rested on a blanket that you recognized as Hanno’s while your own draped over you, protecting you from the bitterly cold nights of Numidia. Your soldier sat wide awake and alert beside you and you could tell, from the fatigue weighing down his eyes, that he hadn’t slept a wink through the night. A silent sentry, guarding you and Lulit from any unseen danger.

The blanket fell from your shoulder as you began to sit up and he instinctively reached over to drag it back up your shoulder, bathing you in warmth from both the outside and surging through your insides at his tenderness.

You woke Lulit and the three of you rode back to the city, barely making it in time before a search party headed by Lulit’s husband went out. He wept when he saw his wife and swept her into his arms. Two men offered to take your horses to the stables to care for them and you graciously accepted. Hanno refused to leave your side until he deposited you at your doorstep.

It was still early but you knew your parents would be awake, both from their anxiety and their history as farmers. Your mother let out a shriek when she saw you approach and ran from the doorway to hug you. Hanno squeezed your hand once and made to step away, but you kept your fingers tightly entwined with his.

“I believe you have something to ask of my father,” you explained. His brows raised in surprise and you offered him a shy smile. As your mother ran back to the house to exclaim of your return, you raised your clasped hands so you could press a kiss to his dirt-stained skin.

“Are you sure?” His hesitation had nothing to do with you, but rather in his belief that he was not good enough for you. You laughed and started to drag him in the direction of the house.

“You foolish man.” A boyish grin lit up his face and he followed you inside.

“What happens to me once we reach Rome?”

General Acacius looked up from the letter he was writing and turned to face you. The floor barely made a comfortable place to lay your head, but he had at least given you blankets and removed the chains from your legs. They only went back on when you were on the deck, thanks in part to your failed attempt to jump overboard and sink into the sea.

“My wife will find a place for you in her house,” he explained. You scoffed and picked at the dried blood under your fingernails. You spent your days stitching up and tending to the wounds of Roman soldiers and spent your nights curled up on the floor of this room, dreaming of bright blue eyes and a crooked smile.

“Why? Couldn’t you just drop me off at the nearest brothel and let them rip me apart?” His compassion, minimal at best but still present, confused you. To him, you were barbarian scum. A conquered people. Prisoner of war, spoils, an artifact of his military prowess. He winced at your accusation, knowing that it was true for many military campaigns that the women were subjugated into the slave trade and forced into prostitution. The general refused to meet your eyes and you savored what little bit of power you held over him.

You could picture it now. You would demure yourself and behave in his wife’s house until you found a chance to slit her throat and leave him with the same raw, empty feeling that consumed you.

“You have skills that would be useful,” he muttered. “Your husban-”

“Don’t you dare speak of him,” you hissed. “My husband was a good and kind man. You do not deserve to speak of him.”

“He taught you well,” he continued on. “Lucilla could use someone with your skill set.”

The name made you pause and you tilted your head to the side, brows furrowing as you mentally ran through your memories. “Lucilla, daughter of Aurelius?”

He regarded you with suspicion. “Aye. How do you know of her?”

“Everyone knows of Marcus Aurelius,” you retorted. “I’d be a fool not to.”

A sudden knock on the door drew his attention away from you and he rose to answer it. General Acacius left the room to sort out some sort of issue and left you alone with your thoughts. You drew your knees up to your chest and rested your cheek against your folded arms. If you shut your eyes, you could see his face. If you thought hard enough, you could feel him in your dreams. The rough stubble of his beard. The high plains of his cheekbones. The crooked smile he gave you when he made you laugh.

Lucilla, daughter of Aurelius, you ran the words over and over in your head. Aurelius. Aurelius.

You could only hope that Hanno would forgive you if you delayed your joining with him in the afterlife for a little bit longer.

He slept fitfully on the ship and in the cages. He dreams of your eyes, your laugh, your smile, and wakes with your name on his lips in a strangled cry that he buries into his bicep and lets only a few tears leak out onto his battered skin.

He has nightmares most nights and the lack of sleep fuels his rage. Dark circles take hold under his eyes and weariness leaves red rims around his blue pupils, making him appear as the wild barbarian they purport him to be. His muscles ache and scream and bruises litter his torso. He bites a monkey back and savors the burning anger that courses through his veins. The crowds cheer and shout and applaud his fury, but he pays them no mind. All he focuses on is going back to his cell and dreaming of you once more.

Killing men has never been an issue for him. He was raised a fighter, even in Numidia where he helped Jugurtha lead their forces. He fought in skirmishes and battles. When he met you, it brought another reason to keep the fight going. He refused to let a single person pass into the gates of the city when you were seeking protection inside. He had failed you, and every new scar on his body was merely penance.

Ravi chastises him for the way that he seeks out injury, but the man doesn’t refuse to help him. In an opium-fueled haze, Hanno tells him quietly that his wife was a healer. She was exceedingly kind and gentle. Too gentle for him. He was scared he would break her with his brutish nature, but she was also enduringly strong. A stray tear slips down his cheek and he tosses the opium aside in favor of feeling the pain and knowing that it pales in comparison to the ache in his chest. His grief builds and compounds into this sickening version of him that he cannot recognize. The blood of other men stains his skin, no matter how hard he scrubs in the baths. Even when the iron-thick substance is gone, he can still see it.

Macrinus brought the finest courtesans by his cell, but he refused them everytime. Once, the girl shared a similar hair color as you and he invited her into his cell, but merely let her rest on his cot while he sat at his desk and sketched what he could remember of your face on thin papyrus.

When he looked into the stands and saw your murderer seated with his mother, his rage calcified into his heart. With every kill, he pictured your pale face crying out for him. With every breath, he reminded himself of his failure to protect you. His mother had the audacity to reason with him.

“Do you have a family?” Lucilla asked.

He says your name with the reverence afforded to the gods and then hisses out that you were dead and taken from him by her husband. How dare she try to call her son home when she shares a bed with that monster? Ferality consumed him and his thirst for revenge. He meant what he said to Macrinus. Only Acacius’ head will quench this fire in his blood. For a sickening moment, he wants his mother to feel the way he does.

There are times when the night is darkest that his mind descends into the throes of the deepest depression and he wonders about how you would feel if you saw him like this. There is one nightmare that plays over and over again in his mind. He is in the Colosseum and the crowd is cheering in their bloodlust. The gates open and he steps out to face his next opponent, only to find you standing in the sand with your hands outstretched towards him. In this dream, he can’t stop himself from raising his blade an-

He woke up screaming.

Hanno doesn’t trust Macrinus within an inch of his life, but he trusts that he’ll bring him Acacius and that…that will be enough.

“Can I tell you a story?” Hanno whispered into your hair.

The wedding was an all-day event. You looked resplendent with flowers woven in your hair and layers of colorful fabric adorning your body. It felt as though the whole city came out to celebrate your union and the dancing, food, and music flowed for hours. Jugurtha clapped his hands on Hanno’s shoulders and congratulated him. A knowing glint flashed in the older man’s eyes and Hanno was eternally grateful for the man’s meddling.

Your father had tears in his eyes when he took your hand from his and placed it into Hanno’s, but they were tears of joy. When discussing the marriage negotiations and dowry, your father declared that there was no one greater for his daughter. In his vows, Hanno promised to protect and provide for you until his very last breath, one that he would take with you in his arms at an old age, with your children around you.

As the night grew longer, the crowds began to thin out. Parents took sleeping children home and the elders slipped away so they could rise early and start their daily chores. The fires began to burn low and Hanno looked over to you, only to have his breath catch in his throat at the realization.

His wife. His wife. Your lovely face was now his to wake up to every morning and your sweet laughter was his to elicit. Izim was telling some tall tale about his adventures as a sentry, but Hanno didn’t hear a single word. He ignored the hoots and hollers of his fellow soldiers and friends as he left their group and strode towards you.

The women around you tittered and giggled as he approached and it drew your attention away from whatever Seble was telling you. You barely had time to react when he suddenly scooped you into his arms. Hanno easily cradled you to him, your long veils swirling around the two of you, and he made his way towards the new house he had built with the help of your father and a few friends. The party cheered and you hid your laughter into the crook of his neck.

Hanno stopped in the doorway and set you gently onto your feet so you could examine your new home. Someone, your mother, you presumed, had already set some lanterns alight in the house and a clay jar of flowers sat on the small wooden table in the center of the room. It was a small house with the bed on one side and a small kitchen on the other. You traced your hand along the furniture that you knew he constructed himself. Your dowry chest laid at the foot of the bed already and a loom was on the wall. Your husband had done all of this.

The word made your throat squeeze with a level of affection you had never experienced before. He watched you carefully from the doorway, but you could see tension in the line of his shoulders and how his hands fidgeted until he clasped them behind his back. The flames from the lanterns made his eyes glow and heightened the smooth planes of his face. You reached up and unclasped your veils, letting them pool at your feet before you took a step forward.

He met you halfway, his hands going to settle on your waist as you nestled into his strong arms. Your hands came up to rest on the rough fabric of his tunic and you could feel his heart beat wildly under the tips of your fingers.

“My husband,” you breathed to the heavens. You wanted the gods to know that this man was yours. He had placed an iron ring on your finger and you savored the weight of it, the press of it against your skin. Hanno’s lips lifted in the barest hint of a grin, but his eyes took on almost burning intensity.

With nimble fingers, you released the clasps of his tunic yet kept your gaze locked on his as the fabric pooled to the ground. Hanno’s breaths grew ragged as you settled your hands back onto the chiseled muscle of his chest. For a moment, nothing happened. You just stared at one another as the air electrified with palpable energy. You had no idea where this boldness emerged from, but you slid your hand down his bicep, along his arm, and then to his wrist where you clasped it and raised his hand to rest on your breast. He swallowed so hard you could see his throat bob and just the simple evidence of his arousal made your skin burn.

“My wife,” he said hoarsely and untied your dress.

Hanno sucked in a shuddering breath as the fabric fell away from your body and joined his on the floor. He stroked his hands over your quivering flesh and stepped forward so that his body pressed against the length of yours. You felt him harden against your thigh as he leaned down to capture your lips in his. The two of you had kissed plenty of times, from small chaste pecks to that heated moment in the forest, but this felt entirely new and you welcomed it. He nibbled at your lips and explored your mouth with the desperation of a dying man searching for water. You moaned your approval which encouraged him and he let one of his hands drift down to cup your breast.

Hanno’s touch made your skin light on fire with every simple brush. How were you supposed to act when the man strutted around shirtless most of the time and built your house? Some of the older women in the city gossiped about their husbands. They told you about how it hurt, about the way he took without giving, and how they hated it.

From the delicate way Hanno touched you and the tender press of his lips against your pulse point, you knew that this would be different. He bent down and hauled you up against him, your legs wrapping around his waist for security, but you knew he would never drop you. You slid your arms around his neck, pulling your chest flush with his and he let his head fall back with a sinful groan, exposing the column of his throat. Eagerly, you licked a stripe up against his sweat-tinged skin and savored the taste of salt, musk, and man.

“By the gods, you will be the end of me, my little wife.” His teeth enclosed around the hinge of your jaw and you let your head fall to the side with a little sigh. Hanno nipped at the skin of your neck and you jolted against him, causing his throbbing cock to brush against you. Hanno squeezed his eyes shut at the sensation that wracked his body and you turned your head so he was facing you. Running your thumb along his jaw, you pulled your husband into another kiss and then pulled his bottom lip between your teeth. He sucked in a sharp breath and his hold tightened on you, sending a zing of pain mixed with pleasure down your spine.

“Take me to bed, husband,” you panted against his mouth. “Claim me as yours.”

Furs and silk lined the bed and softened your fall. You marveled at the way he prepared everything for you, even bringing over the blankets you wove for your marriage chest and setting them on the bed. He planted himself over you, his chest rising and falling with every heavy breath he took and you stole a glance down his broad chest to the heavy manhood that stood proud between his thighs. Your body pulsed with want even as your mind protested the idea of taking his length. He sensed your apprehension and leaned down to place a gentle kiss against your temple, your brow, both eyelids, and then your lips once more.

“I cannot promise it to be painless,” he said. “But I will do everything in my power to make sure you find bliss too.”

One of his hands snaked down to your most intimate place and your eyes widened with shock as he brushed the pad of his finger along the seam of your cunt. Your legs spread further apart instinctively and he kissed you in thanks for your invitation. A gasp escaped you as one of his fingers slid past your entrance and he kissed away your shock, even as you felt the rough and calloused pad of his finger slide up and press against some part of you that had you seeing stars. A little whimper from you had him pausing and he immediately pulled his hand away, eliciting a low whine from his wife. Hanno couldn’t stop his cocky smile that spread across his face before he touched that part of you again. His finger drew a circle over your flesh and your hips canted up, a mewl spilling past your lips and your breath catching. He stole a kiss, then another as he sent electricity up your spine and shocks scattered through your bones.

“You are magnificent,” he murmured just as he slipped another finger into your aching cunt. For a moment, you felt a hint of discomfort and bit your lip to refrain from making a sound. Hanno frowned and pulled your lip out from between your teeth. Some small part of you whispered ugly words and lies into your mind in an attempt to push his affection away. He only wanted you because other men did. You were merely a token to conquer. He needed a wife before he could get a concubine.

“Let me hear those pretty sounds.” He kissed the corner of your lips and you turned your head to see him properly once more. His eyes burned with a hunger you had seen before like in the forest or when he saw you carry one of the village babes on your hip. Hanno cheek pressed against your own and he whispered into your ear as he sank one finger into you and then two. He told you how proud he was of you, how good you were for him, how precious you were, as he pulled little cries of pleasure from you. You tightened around his fingers and he leaned back and watched your face as your body twitched and seized with the electric shocks of pleasure. A proud smile captured his face and he craned his head down to kiss you again and again and again. You climbed higher, higher, higher but then he abruptly pulled his hand from you, leaving you empty and aching.

“I know, I know,” he groaned in that deep timbre bass that wracked through your body. Hanno rubbed a gentle circle into your outer thigh and shifted himself until he was kneeling between your spread legs. He grasped his cock in one hand and pressed his other hand to your hip, holding you in place under his heavy gaze. You squirmed as his eyes raked down your naked body and the little thoughts began to creep in once more, but he silenced them with one word.

“Divine.” Hanno leaned down and laid the flat of his tongue along your cunt. Your back arched off the bed with a choked out gasp and for a moment, you thought you died and entered the afterlife. He chuckled against your inner thigh and pressed a kiss to your pussy before sitting back on his heels. He stroked his thick length twice before moving closer to you. He nestled his face against your hair and inhaled the sweet scent of rose petals. His cheek rested on your temple, and he shocked you with his question.

“Can I tell you a story?”

You choked back a laugh and kissed the shell of his ear. “I suppose.” While you were the typical storyteller, you would always accept whatever he gave you.

“There was a king of the island of Ithaca by the name of Ulysses*. He was sent to fight in the Trojan War and on the way home, was blown off course. The journey home took over ten years and was filled with countless obstacles and dangers.” You gasped as the blunt head of his cock slid past your entrance and Hanno inhaled deeply. “Odysseus had a wife, the queen of Ithaca, named Penelope. A hundred suitors from the various lands and tribes came in an attempt to woo her and take her hand in marriage. Everyone thought Odysseus to be dead.”

He rocked his hips and his thick length began to split you open and your lips parted in a silent moan. Any air that was in your lungs seemed to evaporate as he filled you fully. Hanno swallowed your shaky whimper with a sweet kiss. You clawed for purchase against his chest, your limbs liquifying when he pulled out. Hanno caught your hand in his and flipped your hand over so he could pepper kisses along the inside of your wrist.

“Penelope was a devoted wife and ever faithful. She never doubted that Odysseus was alive and would come back to her. She lied to the suitors and told them that she would marry them when she finished weaving a funeral shroud. But she undid her work each night.” This time, his intrusion didn’t have the burn like the last thrust. Instead, his cock dragged against your walls in such a way that had your eyes rolling back into your head.

Hanno groaned as he started a steady thrust of his hips. He moved your hands above your head and entangled his fingers with yours, squeezing them in assurance as he fucked you. The pleasure burned so hot in your stomach and consumed your entire being. Everytime he thrust in, it felt like he was carving you out and branding you with his claim and oh, how you wanted this. He built this house for you and your future and even though he put a roof over your head, you saw stars with every touch against your skin.

“Ha-Hann…” You whined as he hit a certain spot that made your head spin. “Hanno.”

He frowned and slowed his thrusts and he touched your cheek, his thumb rubbing away the tear that you didn’t realize slipped down. “Does it hurt?”

You yanked him closer until his nose was touching yours. Your legs wrapped around his hips and he bottomed out in surprise.

“Don’t you dare stop.” He grinned that reckless, crooked smile of his and swept your lips into a bruising kiss as he fucked every last thought out of your head. His name became a prayer that you chanted to the skies as he took you higher and higher until that coil that wrapped in your stomach snapped. You clenched around his cock and your body seized up as your orgasm washed over you. Hanno let out a guttural, animalistic groan and he spilled his seed into you, flooding you with warmth.

Silence enveloped the two of you, only the heavy exhales from exertion permeating the bubble that surrounded you. Hanno’s body relaxed and he caught himself before he put all of his weight on you. Rolling to the side, his arm came up to curl around your front, and he pulled you to his chest. Nose to nose, you met his gaze and let your breath mingle with his.

“Penelope didn’t falter in her devotion,” you said hoarsely. “Did she?”

His hand drifted up and down the raised gooseflesh on your arm and he reached over to draw one of the furs over you. “Aye, she didn’t.”

You tossed the edge of the fur over him and kissed him once again. “I will always remain steadfast.”

His lips met your temple and he tucked your head under his chin. “And I shall always come for you. No matter what it takes.”

Acacius lead you into the villa, the shackles and a new plate around your neck indicating your designation as slave. Lucilla immediately greeted him with an embrace and you looked away, your heart shattering at the sight. Quiet words were exchanged between the two before Acacius paused and stepped back to display you.

“She is from Numidia,” he explained. “She has skills in healing and I felt she would be a good addition to the household.”

Lucilla approached you and took in your sorry state. You felt bile rise in your throat as you bowed your head to the woman, but she stopped you with a raised hand.

“What is your name?” she asked you in Phoenician. You paused before answering her in your second tongue. That’s when you saw her eyes and realized, with a jolt, that she was indeed the woman you had heard of.

“Leta,” Lucilla called for another slave. “Come. Show her to the baths and give her a fresh chiton. Acacius, unchain her.”

He obeyed his wife’s command, but the slate remained. Perhaps you would wear it for the rest of your, hopefully short, life. Leta, an older woman, silently beckoned you to follow her deeper into the villa where a few slave women were gathered together over a pool of warm water.

“Who is this?” one of them asked in Latin.

“A Barbarian whore for the general, I presume,” Leta replied. “He brought her from Numidia. Thing hasn’t had a bath in her whole life.”

You remained silent, hands clasped before you, even as Leta pointed towards the bath. “You. Wash.” You pretended not to understand and she huffed out an annoyed breath and marched off, leaving you to strip out of your ruined and bloody dress from home and step into the water. You didn’t want to wash the gore off of your skin. Not when it was your last reminder of home. Of him.

Taking a moment to look around, you tried to picture what it was like living here in all its splendor. Leta returned and tossed a dress for you onto the edge of the tile and you stared at it blankly. She turned her back to you and started to gossip with the other girls. Your hands scrubbed at your skin, but your ears picked up all that they were saying. Gladiator games, senators, the emperors, it was all banal and boring.

But you found it all invaluable.

When night fell, you slipped out from the tiny cot you had been given in the slave quarters and silently made your way through the halls. Mosaics lined the walls and depicted everything from myths to actual battles. You stopped at the bust of Marcus Aurelius and stared at it for a moment. Shaking your head, you moved on to the hall that everyone had pointedly walked past and Leta explained was off-limits. Or as she said, “no touch”, because she thought that your supposed inability to speak Latin was also an indication of your idiocy.

You pushed open the doors and entered the chambers. Dust covered every inch of the place, as if no one had been in here for years. You carefully made your way over a broken tile and into the bedchamber where the sheets were still unmade and a book lay open on the desk. Turning slowly, you took in the whole of the room with an unsteady inhale.

“The gates of hell are open night and day,” you whispered under your breath. The words were etched onto the top of the wall. “Smooth the descent, and easy is the way: But to return, and view the cheerful skies, In this the task and mighty labor lies.” As you spoke, you could almost feel the presence of him at your back, his rough and low voice breathing the words into your ear.

You fled from the room, unable to bear it.

You almost made it back across the atrium when Lucilla emerged from seemingly out of nowhere. The two of you paused and you quickly lowered your head in deference.

“I hope you weren’t trying to escape,” she said gently. “Acacius told me that you were recently made a widow.”

The wince on your face was visible even in the moonlight and she stepped forward, her hands clasping over yours in comfort. She spoke her next words in Latin. “I am sorry. These meaningless deaths are foolish emperors playing war without considering the human cost of it.” The older woman patted your hand and made to leave, but your voice stopped her.

“Your slaves do not respect you,” you spoke in Latin. “Leta spreads vicious rumors about you and she said she has ties with some of the senators. Your allies are playing you and your plan is shaky at best.”

She whirled around to face you and you jutted your chin out in defiance, your eyes flashing with something dangerous. “In Numidia, my husband was the soldier, Domina. But I was the politician.”

Macrinus delivered on his promise. Acacius faced off with four soldiers in the Colosseum before Hanno was given a taste of vengeance and oh, did he savor it. Acacius ordered your death. Now, Hanno had the chance to ensure you were honored properly.

But Acacius stood across from him, sword on the ground, and accepted his death with a stoicism that Hanno only dreamed of possessing. The crowd roared and swelled with indignation after Hanno demanded to know their morals, but he was ushered away before he joined his father in dying in this ring.

He was granted the chance to see his mother one last time before her execution for treason and his slaughter in the arena. Lucilla told him of his father and he remembered meeting Maximus and how kind he was, even in the jaws of death. When his mother meets him for the last time, his only thought is how much Lucilla would like you.

She gave him two gifts in parting.

One, his grandfather’s ring.

Two, a lock of hair. And not just any…

Lucilla smiled sadly. “Acacius took her from Numidia to be a healer and didn’t realize she was your wife. She is safe, Lucius, and under the care of my household. I’m afraid I put it together too late, and she isn’t aware that you are here.”

For a moment, the rage subsided and he heard only a shrill ringing in his ears, as though he took a heavy blow to the head. Lucius turned the hair over in his hand and raised it to his nose, smelling a faint hint of rose petals.

I shall always come for you. No matter what it takes.

His mother was taken back to his cell and he took a moment to curl his palm around this fragment of you and press it to his chest to guard it from the world.

And then he called for Ravi.

Your hands remained steady when you slit Leta’s throat. You did so quietly, in the darkness of an alleyway. Blood never fazed you before, and the taking of a life was no different now. As far as you were concerned, this woman was one of the reasons why your Hanno was dead. Was it a rational thought? Perhaps not. But rationality would come another day.

The Colosseum roared with fury and you tried not to flinch at the deafening sound as you slipped in through the gates below, into the pens with the animals and gladiators. Chaos reigned above and below the world’s largest stadium so it was easy to blend in with others. The cloak you stole from Leta made you appear to be a fellow slave working amongst the masses. It never failed to amaze you how they called you a barbarian when they fought men to the death for their entertainment.

Your fingers skated over the smooth wood that curved over your spine and you felt a little better knowing that it was on you. The games were already underway with a few prisoners being devoured by Barbary lions as the crowd screamed for their blood to spill. You slipped around a few courtesans that lingered in the hall and passed the raised dais where three maidens were chained. Pushing on, you found a small corridor that was unoccupied and slipped in between the stones to hide from any roaming eyes.

The noise increased and you knew what was coming. Lucilla would be executed and Macrinus was to blame. The lanista was the mastermind of all of this, and you knew firsthand what war could do to people. You refused to let Lucilla die and, as much as you hated the Romans for what they took from you, the innocent children in the streets would die.

After this, you promised yourself, you would join Hanno.

Footsteps rushed past your hiding spot and when it quieted down in the hallway, you took that as a chance to peek out and see if you had an opening. You slipped out into the hall and darted towards one of the gates that was partly open. A bloodbath was the only word to describe what was happening in the Colosseum. You blanched at the sight of Lucilla tied to the dais, but it seemed as though the gladiators had it well in hand.

Removing the bow from your back, you notched an arrow onto the string and inhaled deeply. Macrinus was not hard to stop, thanks to his place behind Emperor Caracalla, but you didn’t have a clear shot. The crowd was turning on the Praetors and more soldiers entered the Colosseum on horseback. One Praetor nearly took the head off of a gladiator and you turned your bow in that direction.

Breathe in, aim, fire as you breathe out, Jugurtha had instructed. Keep your arm steady, your aim true, and your mind clear. There is no time to panic, just shoot.

The arrow sailed through the air and straight through the Praetor’s shoulder, knocking him off his horse and to the ground. You drew another arrow and started to aim towards Macrinus once more, but this time he was standing up. Caracalla was slumped over dead in front of him and Macrinus had his own bow in his hand.

Numidians were excellent horsemen and archers. Before you ever met Hanno, before you even bled for the first time, you were trained in the art of horsemanship and archery. Indeed your husband vowed his protection, but you were not one to go down without a fight. He taught you how to manipulate a knife, where to aim on the body, but Hanno never came close to your familiarity with a bow.

Your next arrow arched through the air and collided with Macrinus’ shot. The wood splintered midair and you loaded a third, but the lanista fled the stands before you could take another shot. It gave a gladiator the chance to free Lucilla and pass her to another gladiator, a hulking beast of a man. The gladiator gave chase to Macrinus and you focused your attention on your subject at hand.

There had to have been a reason the gods kept you alive and took Hanno. Clearly, it was to protect your husband’s mother.

“Are you ever going to tell me what you’re hiding from me?”

His hand stilled from where it had been absentmindedly stroking your thigh. Hanno came home from the field and immediately drew you into his lap, inhaling your sweet smell and letting his hands roam all over your body. You savored his touch, but marriage had sharpened your mind regarding his mannerisms. Something was bothering him.

Hanno sighed and he nuzzled his nose against your shoulder. You let him have this moment, but you would weasel the truth out of him, someway or another.

“Is it another woman? A concubine?” you asked, your voice hushed and wounded. He laid a kiss against your skin and shook his head.

“Rome is moving closer,” he finally said. You turned so you could see his face and cupped his chin, drawing his head up to meet your gaze. He blinked up at you with those sky blue eyes of his and nestled into your palm until he could lay a gentle kiss there.

“My name, my real name,” he whispered, “is Lucius Verus Aurelius and I am the prince of Rome.”

The first thing he did after ascending his rightful place as Emperor of Rome was go to his mother’s villa.

Lucilla was fine, a small gash on her bicep and shaken up, but fine. He tried to be a good son, but she could tell his focus was on anywhere but her. Lucilla directed him to the gardens and that is where he found you.

The Roman dress was different from what he was used to seeing, but you still covered your head with a veil when praying to your gods. Head tilted towards the heavens, hands outstretched, you made a beautiful image of devotion.

Your feet inched closer to the edge of the cliff.

“Forgive me, my love, for being so weak that I could not do this sooner,” you said. Tears coursed down your cheeks and stained the fabric of your chiton with damp tracks. You muttered a mixture of prayer and apology and he strained to hear it.

“Give me the strength to commit this final act, oh gods, grant me this. I have protected his mother and granted her the life he was not spared. Please, oh Hanno, let me see you in the afterlife. I am tired, so tired of only seeing you in my dreams.”

“Step back from the edge, my heart.” His voice came out in a tremble.

“Hanno,” you whispered. “Forgive me for being so weak. Forgive me for failing you. I’m sorry.”

“You’ve been nothing but strong.” A ferocity claims his words. “Step back from the edge.”

“We made a promise,” you pleaded. “We go as one. Let me join you, please.”

You raise one foot over the rocky cliff and he lashed out before he could think. He grabbed your wrist and pulled you back so hard that the both of you tumbled to the ground. Quickly, Lucius kneeled by your side to search for any injury.

“Open your eyes,” he ordered. This was the afterlife. It must be. You obeyed his command to find those bright blue eyes that haunted your dreams.

“Am I finally dead?”

“Not for a long, long time.”

No, this wasn’t the afterlife. Blood caked his skin and scars littered his bare arms. He had been muscular before but now he appeared to be only thick, corded muscle. Your hands came up to rest on his neck and you examined his face. The same freckles. Same lines by his eyes. Same long eyelashes.

Trailing your hands down along his arms, you skirted around the obvious injuries he had until your fingers brushed something new, something entirely foreign to you that resided on his shoulder.

A brand.

And with that, the dam within you shattered. The wails of a widow finally escaped your chest and you let out an agonized scream as you curled in on yourself. Hanno gathered you into his arms and buried his face into the crook of your neck. Hot tears slid down his cheeks and onto your skin. Your hands scrambled to find purchase on the armor that still adorned his body and you eventually settled on cradling the back of his head with one hand and grasping his forearm with the other.

“I am so sorry,” he wept. “If I had known you were alive, I would have come for you sooner.” He wrenched the slave plate from your neck and kissed the places where the chain had rubbed your skin raw.

All the agony of grief and rage and terror from the last month spilled out of him in broken, gasping sobs. His precious wife was alive and in his arms. Numidia had fallen, but now he had the chance to protect her with all the power and might of Rome. He could now have armies at his beck and call, coffers of coins brought to him, and enemies assassinated but the true power laid in his arms.

His little wife was right. He was the soldier, the muscle, the physical strength. But the reason he fought and killed, the reason he kept going even when every part of his body screamed to give up, was because of her. As far as he was concerned, she had the power to raze cities and command armies. All she had to do was ask him.

“Is this real?” you breathed once your sobs and trembling ceased. He pulled you into his lap and almost began crying once again at the feel of your supple body against his.

“It’s real,” he assured you before he bent down and kissed you. Despite the blood that coated his skin, you savored the taste of him. You never thought you would get this again. Maybe the gods did bless you.

He kept you pressed against his side as you made your way back into the villa. One of the slaves nearly dropped her tray at the sight before her and ran to grab Lucilla. The stately woman swept into the courtyard and met you both there.

“Lucius,” she exclaimed. “I take it that this is your wife.”

“Yes.” His gaze never strayed from your face. “This is her.”

You instinctively went to bow to Lucilla but she stopped you with a gentle hand on your arm.

“You are not my slave any longer,” she assured you. “Not only did you save my life, but you are now my daughter and also Augusta.”

Hanno, Lucius, you reminded yourself, stood in all his resplendent glory, covered in dirt and blood with his gladius hanging from his sheath. How different the two of you were now, yet still fit like the gods made you for each other. Your small house was gone. Your home was subjugated. Your family and friends in the afterlife. But Lucius was still here and still breathing. That made it all worth it.

He might be the Emperor of Rome now and you, the Empress, but he was still your charming soldier, your devoted husband. This, you decided, would make an excellent story someday.

#hanno x reader #lucius verus x reader #gladiator ii #gladiator 2 #lucius verus #hanno

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nautoais211dx · 2 years ago

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Breaking News: E3 2023 - Is Officially Cancelled!

Breaking news, credit to IGN, E3 2023 officially cancelled. Not surprising since some companies are already pulling out.

As for my Summer Games Special, nothing much, just the same as last year, although this June will be the 15th anniversary of the MmGS.

#youtube #e3 #2023 #cancelled #ign #pulling.#out #nintendo #sony #micro #soft #ubi #sega #tencent #away #end #of #an #era

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posthumanwanderings · 4 months ago

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Buck Bumble (Argonaut Software / Ubi Soft - N64 - 1998)

#Now Streaming...#click hyperlink #Buck Bumble #action games #third person shooter #bugs #Argonaut Software #Ubi Soft #N64 #Nintendo 64 #zplayz

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averagewriter-inthedark · 14 days ago

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The Cost of Honor ⚔️ | Gladiator II Imagine

My Masterlists

Characters & Pairings: Emperor Geta x Empress!reader (romantic), Marcus Acacius x daughter!reader (platonic), Emperor Caracalla x Empress!reader (platonic)

Content Warnings: light angst, fluff, slight NSFW/allusions to sex but nothing explicit, love at first sight??, mentions of pregnancy, violence, and death, soft!Geta who only loves his wife & ooc!Geta, historical refences and mythology (not completely accurate to the timeline) | female!reader (she/her) | wc: 9.2k

Requested 📨 yes/no (rules for requests)

Premise: When General Marcus Acacius gave the hand of his only daughter to Emperor Geta in exchange for glory his once ambitious self desired, he expected her vexation towards him and their relationship to be forever altered. But what Acacius had not planned for was the wicked emperor and his bride to overcome their odds and prove to Acacius what the cost of honor truly meant.

note: I have watched Gladiator II every damn day this week. I need help. And I hope you like this.

dilectus meus = "my beloved," in Latin

Ubi tu Gaius, ego Gaia.” = "Where you are Gaius, I am Gaia." traditional roman wedding vow.

--------------------------------------------------

The moment the ships were spotted approaching the coastline, the bells of the city rang and echoed against every wall, igniting celebration amongst its people who took to the streets and cheered for their impending arrival. A symbol of victory for the Roman army, led by the esteemed General Marcus Acacius, over the conquering of Numidia. Men, women, and children of all social class lined the pavement to get a glimpse of Acacius, the spitting image of a God in his regal attire, in his chariot on his way to the grand palace, passing the beauty of the Colosseum which served as a reminder to the people of how far men go for freedom.

“We love you Acacius!” Shouted from each side, the sound rivaling the drums. Acacius’ hand waved to the crowd with a tight smile on his face. If he could skip the festivity and retire to his home he would. The long months of travel and war had taken a toll, and Acacius grew tiresome of it all. Conquering lands on behalf of the emperors. All while they bathed in their riches. Driving Rome further into a depression where the corruption runs so deep it is nearly impenetrable.

But while Acacius wanted nothing more than to relieve himself of his duty, his loyalty to the emperors and Rome was immeasurable, all because of young ambitions he came to regret.

As the chariot approached the stairs leading to the palace, three golden figures emerged gaining more cheers from the crowd. Sunlight reflected off the beautiful golden laurels on their heads. Resembling the likes of the Gods they worshiped, the three stride forward, passing members of the Senate and Praetorian guards, until stopping a few feet away from the top step.

“Acacius!” “Acacius!” “Acacius!”

Acacius ascended the stairs to the rose petals dropped by children. When the three came to his view, his tight smile turned to a small, but genuine one as his eyes connected with the figure in the middle. He received a small one in return, but it was guarded. Not at all warm or inviting.

No, the last he got one of those was a lifetime ago.

Ignoring the heaviness in his chest, Acacius approached the three and came to a still in front of them, raising a closed fist over his heart. “Emperor Geta,” he greeted the man to his right, bowing slightly before turning to the man on his left, “Emperor Caracalla.” Heart skipping, Acacius’ focus shifted forward to the last figure. Her own laurels glistened beneath the veil she wore. Acacius’ tone became soft as the words left his lips, “Empress Y/n.”

Marcella Acacia Y/n. Beloved and only daughter of General Marcus Acacius, step daughter of former Empress Lucilla, and the treasured wife of Emperor Geta.

Adored by the people, feared by the Senate, she was viewed as the Mother of Rome. A vessel sent by the Gods, Y/n held power and influence like no other. The type that made Senators flock to her side. The type that made gladiators fight beyond their limit in the arena in hope to gain mercy should the Empress grant them her favor. The type of power that made the people of Rome forget about the tyranny due to her status as their beloved general's daughter.

The type of power that had even the emperor's themselves turn to her for council.

“General Acacius,” Geta replied in acknowledgment, earning Acacius attention.

“I have taken Numidia in your names. That your dominion may eclipse that of every emperor that came before.”

“Crown him with laurels, sister,” Caracalla tilted his head to the side. The servant approached from behind holding the pillow to present to her.

Y/n stepped forward, taking the golden headpiece from the pillow it rested on and raised it over her fathers head. Their eyes met briefly before Acacius’ traveled down to bow, allowing his daughter to place the heavy crown on his head. When she did, cheers erupted from the crowd, followed by the Senates’ applause.

“Acacius!” “Acacius!” “Acacius!”

“Well done, father,” her whisper reached his ears over the noise. Acacius straightened, small smile returning as gave a curt nod.

“Your praise is most beholden for, my Empress.” His hand encased hers, bringing to his lips to gently kiss. When he let go, he noticed the alert stare from the men behind Y/n. Watching him like a hawk about to feast on its prey.

Y/n clasped her hands in front of her, returning to her husband's side who then motioned for them to begin walking indoors. Acacius led them down the steps into the foyer, the cheers from outside dimming and the four gathered in a close circle to converse while everyone else migrated to different corners. Guards positioned on every column, and servants hustling to keep everything in order.

Geta grabbed two goblets of wine from a table, “In honor of your conquest,” he handed one to Acacius and the other to his wife. “There will be games in the Colosseum,” he and Caracalla grabbed their own goblets from a servant.

Acacius did not appear pleased by the announcement, “I require no games in my honor.” His eyes flickered between the three as he spoke, “Serving the Senate and the people of Rome is honor enough for me.” He went to click his goblet against theirs, but Geta drew his away before he could.

“You are too modest, Acacius,” he told him, guarded amusement in his eyes. “Does not suit a general as accomplished as yourself.” It was then he tapped the goblets together, Y/n following before raising it to her lips to taste the sweet liquid inside.

“The glory is yours not mine,” Acacius insisted, “I only ask for some respite from war,” he paused, noticing the way his daughter’s eyebrow raised, her gaze shifting to Geta’s as though she knew Acacius' request was unwelcomed. “To spend time with my wife.”

“Your wife,” Caracalla repeated with a sniff, while Geta moved behind him to place his goblet down and brandish a sword from one of the guards. The emperor stepped closer to Acacius, “Remember the privileges we have granted her? Where is she now to ignore such an occasion?”

“There are victories yet still to come,” Geta surveyed the weapon as he returned to his wife’s side. It shined under the light, waiting to taste blood before being sheathed. “Persia,” it clicked against Acacius’ armor as Geta tapped it on his shoulder. “India.” He tapped the other shoulder, leaving the blade level with Acacius’ neck. “Both must be conquered.”

Y/n, who had yet to speak, watched her father. Anyone else would be trembling with fear at the sight of their loved one with a sword to their neck, but the empress remained poised. No flicker of panic in her eyes. Hands holding the goblet steady. She awaited his answer, observing the way he managed to uphold composure despite the lingering threat pointed at him.

“Rome has so many subjects,” he finally said, not breaking eye contact. “She must feed them.” Then, as though he never believed Geta would follow through with harming him, Acacius lifted his hand and brushed the blade off his shoulder.

“They can eat war,” Caracalla belted with a chuckle. Beside him Y/n’s expression mirrored her husbands. Stoic and dissatisfied.

The sword hitting the ground echoed as Geta launched it away and fell into the pond with a loud splash.

“Your triumphs,” Geta emphasized with a hardened tone. “Will be celebrated,” right hand raised, he presented it to Acacius, “as attribute to the greatness of the Roman people.”

The snarl Acacius held back was not missed by his daughter, who clenched her jaw as he took her husband's hand to kiss his ring. When he pulled away, the empress finally spoke.

“Husband, brother,” she addressed while keeping her focus on Acacius, “might I have a word alone with my father.”

Geta and Caracalla shared a look, both contemplating the request as the tension from the last five minutes had yet to cease. The former appeared reluctant, peering at his wife before nodding to Caracalla. The twin retreated instantly, but not before bidding a glance to the general in warning. Geta leaned down, his hand coming to Y/n’s hip while whispering something into her ear Acacius unfortunately could not hear. “Call for me shall you need to, dilectus meus.” His lips then traveled to her cheekbone, pressing a kiss and Acacius missed how Geta’s hand brushed over her stomach with fondness as he pulled away, leaving the two alone.

“You’d be wise to withhold implications of refusal to a direct order next time you bring victory to Rome, father.” Acacius’ heart skipped, a wave of nerves suddenly filling him at the tone he received from his daughter.

His Empress he should say. After all, he’s the one who put her in that position. The young girl he raised who cried at the sight of a wounded animal or hid under the table when his comrades visited had vanished. In her place was a woman who held the highest position one could have in Rome.

“Forgive me,” he placed his goblet on the table beside him. His thirst quenched. “I meant no offense. My travels have rendered me famished, and the thought of leaving the city so soon after returning is disheartening.”

“I understand,” she mused, placing her own goblet beside his. She assessed him once more before speaking, “The emperors are too occupied with their excitement over the expansion of the empire to consider your words as an objection to their plan for further conquest. Not to mention their eagerness for the games ahead.” She tilts her chin up to add, “I would not worry for any possible repercussions.”

Acacius cleared his throat, moving his arms behind him as he straightened his back. To have Y/n speak to him as a ruler would to her subjects was still unnerving despite the many years since she ordained the title. “That is comforting to hear.”

The soft murmurs of conversations around them filled the space. Geta spoke with Senators huddled by the feast table, while Caracalla occupied himself with his beloved pet monkey, Dondus. With the two distracted, Y/n took advantage and motioned to the hallway leading away from the foyer. “Walk with me.”

Departing, Y/n and Acacius strolled the halls of the palace. Away from prying eyes and ears, allowing them to speak more freely than they were afforded in a place consumed with ambitious men in power.

“The emperor's desire your presence in the palace during the course of these games. We’ve prepared your chambers and hope they are to your liking.”

Acacius withheld a sigh, not liking the idea of residing in the palace despite Y/n being close. He wished to return home, to spend what little time he had left in Rome with Lucilla. And while Y/n didn’t exactly order him to stay, her words left no room for objection.

“That is a generous offer. I am grateful for your hospitality.” He pauses to take in the scenery of the gardens. Several statues, mostly the Gods but one of each of the rulers. Hundreds of flowers lining the bushes. Poppies, daisies, lilies, and roses. Orange, white, pink, and red. Acacius recognized them as Y/n’s favorite, specifically the orange poppies which were rare to come by in Rome.

In fact, the only place in the city where they bloomed was the royal gardens. Now considered the symbol of the Empress.

“Might I inquire, my Empress,” He watched her pluck a poppy, bringing it to her nose. Her expression briefly shifted to one of delight. “When will I be permitted a visit to my wife? I have missed her, just as much as I have missed you, and wish to ensure she was taken care of during my time away.”

Y/n did not meet his eye as she replied, focused on the flower in her hand, “You’d be pleased to know Lady Lucilla was well provided for these last few months, General.” Calling him general instead of father stung, but Acacius did not let it show. Y/n led him to a bench overlooking the pond. “In fact, the emperors proposed a benignant offer the last time she visited the palace.”

Acacius stiffened, dread consuming him at this revelation. Having his wife at the palace when he was away at war always worried Acacius. For he was unable to intervene when senators or the emperors attempted to manipulate Lucilla. As an influential member of Rome’s elite, the daughter of emperor Marcus Aurelius, Lucilla was both feared and adored. Much like the reputation Y/n herself was beginning to garner. Of course, Acacius was confident in his wife and knew she could take care of herself.

But even with his daughter as empress, Acacius felt unease at the ‘what ifs’. One word, one action, could crumble the world around them.

Acacius licked his lips, inhaling before finally saying, “May I know this proposal?”

Y/n told the truth, not a speckle of hesitance. Lucilla would have told him anyway, so why beat around the bush. “The emperors’ wish for her to adopt them.” She did not have to look at her father directly to know his face was coated with shock. And maybe fear.

“Adopt them?”

“As her sons,” she confirmed, plucking another poppy to inspect. “Geta reminded her that during her fathers time, an emperor who lacked a son would adopt another as his heir. As you know the emperors’ mother and father died long ago,” Y/n peered at him over the flowers, watching his reaction. “And though they’d never admit it aloud, they desire the affection one is given by a maternal figure. They view Lucilla as the closest thing.”

In the years they’d been married Y/n learned all there was about her husband and his brother. The dark years during their father’s reign. Their worries for the empire. Geta’s suspicions of the Senate. Their love for theater and bloodshed in the Colosseum. And of course, the loneliness that came from being deprived of a parents’ love.

Time had been her greatest adversary when breaking through the concrete walls Geta had built around him. What she feared would be a heartless marriage, bloomed into one of friendship followed by genuine, passionate, union between the two. Late nights cuddled in bed, exchanging words of comfort. Gifts for any occasion. Staying by each other’s side no matter the situation. Y/n was his pillar of hope, and he was hers. Therefore when it came to the deep feelings Geta stored away, the type an emperor would rather suffer in silence than show his subjects, the only person he shared them with was Y/n.

Acacius had been the most surprised by the ruler's relationship, thinking back ten years prior to the moment he announced the betrothal to his daughter. She was five and ten years of age, Geta two years older. Acacius was an ambitious man, full of fire and rage. Wishing to climb the ranks and earn his place as the top general in Rome’s army after many years of being second to the current one at the time.

At the time the young twins had recently come to power upon the death of their father. The other generals were hesitant to take more lands. Believing the quality of the empire should be their priority. Taking his chance, Acacius, ignoring Lucilla’s headed warnings, promised to continue conquering on behalf of the emperors if one were to take his daughter as their empress.

Neither wished for marriage. The senate knew that. Acacius knew that. The whole damn city was well aware the twins enjoyed the many pleasures they were afforded being emperors and did not desire marriage and children. But they needed Acacius. Needed him to extend their empire to embed their names in the history books.

After weeks of deliberation, mostly the twins arguing over who would sacrifice their freedom of bachelorhood, a letter with the royal seal was sent to the Acacius household. Announcing Emperor Geta’s intent to take the hand of Marcella Acacia. Under the condition they were to wed a week following her eighteenth nameday.

“How could you?!” Tears streamed down Y/n’s face as she sobbed. The opened letter laid on the table where she, Acacius, and Lucilla sat. The young girl pushed off her chair to stand, fury in her eyes, “How could you let this happen?”

“Y/n,” Lucilla reached out to grab her hand but was brushed away.

“Do you believe me to be some broodmare you may sell at the highest bidder?”

“Daughter, you must understand--.”

“What I understand is you have let your greed consume you!” His eyes widened, shocked by her outburst. Y/n didn’t let it stump her, continuing to scream and Lucilla quickly dismissed the servants. “Do not sit there and lie to me about your intentions.”

Acacius stood from his own chair, face hard as he looked down at her, but controlled himself, “You are angry, therefore I will allow this spectacle from you--.”

“Acacius,” Lucilla warned, heartbroken for her step-daughter.

“What my intentions were or are is not of your concern. The matter is said and done,” he steps closer, voice lowering. Y/n continued to silently cry, sniffing as she held her head up to him. While his heart strained at the sight, Acacius did not show it, “We all have a duty, whether we like it or not, Y/n.”

“This was not my duty until you made it so!”

“Enough!” His scream broke through the air, causing the two women to flinch at the volume. “You will marry Emperor Geta and you will become Empress of Rome! Start acting like one.”

Y/n shook her head, throat tightening as a sob threatened to release. “They have not been emperors an entire year,” her voice cracked, chest pounding as the anxiety within her rose. “And already there are whispers of their cruelty.”

“What have I told you about listening to tasteless gossip?” But Acacius heard the stories as well. Word spread of the twins' thirst for blood and savagery. Their rough pleasures with concubines, sending slaves to the Colosseum to fight for mere enjoyment. It was despicable.

And now his innocent, loving daughter was to become the wife to one of them. All by his doing.

Y/n glared, scoffing in disbelief, “It is said Emperor Caracalla impregnated one of his concubines--.”

“A rumor.”

“--and that he ordered her to be executed!” She seethed.

Acacius rubbed a hand over his face before holding it up, promptly ending the conversation, “Emperor Geta has graciously granted you three years to prepare for your role.” Y/n let out a sound of anguish, turning away from her father to cry freely into her hands. “You will remain here, your mother will guide you, and I expect you to listen. I do not want to hear any more objections or indignity. Do you understand?” When Y/n did not reply, Acacius repeated more firmly, “Do you understand?”

Breath catching in her throat, the girl slowly faced Acacius with glistening eyes. She swallowed, mouth dry from crying that when she spoke her voice was hoarse. “I understand, father.”

For the next three years under the guidance of Lucilla, Y/n was prepped to become Geta’s wife. Really it was preparation for her responsibilities as Empress. Geta was a private person so they were at a loss when it came to knowing things he liked and disliked. She wondered if he’d call upon her to meet in person before the wedding. But he never did.

Acacius was promoted and served the emperors as expected by continuing the expansion of the empire. Gaining glory where he became adored by the people. It made Y/n angry. It made her resentful of her father. But she withheld her tongue. Doing what was expected of her.

When the day arrived, as planned a week after her eighteenth nameday, Y/n was brought to the palace alongside her parents, the Senate, and Rome’s elite members of nobility. The citizens gathered at the gates, lining the pathways to get a glimpse of their new Empress in full celebration as the city bells rang. Y/n rode in a golden horse drawn chariot with her father, Lucilla and General Darius behind them. The train of her white dress and veil flowed against the wind. She waved to the crowd, but thankfully they could not see her grim expression that was covered by the veil.

Trumpets and drums sounded as the chariot approached the steps to the palace. The walk up was all but a blur. Y/n gripped Acacius’ arm, letting him lead her into the foyer where everyone awaited. The veil obscured her vision, but she made out the silhouette at the end of the altar.

Geta.

As regal as ever. The spitting image of Jupiter. Or Mars. Or Pluto. Depending on how one saw it.

Y/n’s pounded at a rate she’d never experienced before. So hard against her chest she swore her ribs were beginning to ache. Her palms were sweaty, and the veil began to stick to her forehead from the precipitation that gathered. Squeezing her eyes, she focused on her breathing. Leaning on Acacius as she kept up with pace. The trumpets and drums were replaced by the light melody of a harp.

“May the Gods watch over me,” she mentally prayed, the distance between her and Geta closing in. “And grant me the strength in this moment.”

The two came to a stop, Acacius bringing her hand to lips before handing it to the emperor. Y/n’s jaw clenched, eyes still closed as she felt Geta bring her forward so they were directly in front of the officiant. The traditional wedding versus belted from his lips, calling upon the Gods to grant their favor for the union between their vessel Emperor Geta, and his chosen bride. Proclaiming their marriage to be a symbol of unity, a beacon of hope to Rome and her loyal subjects.

When no one voiced objections, the exchanging of the vows and rings followed. Geta went first as per standard. Plucking the golden band with his sigil from the pillow, and repeating the words of the officiant as he placed it on Y/n’s finger. Squinting her eyes and not glancing at Geta just yet, Y/n picked up the golden band reserved for him with a trembling hand and took his in hers.

“My Lady, repeat after me,” the officiant addressed her. “Ubi tu Gaius, ego Gaia.”

“Ubi tu Gaius, ego Gaia,” the vow sealed the promise of consent. Making her his wife both legally and under the eyes of the Gods. ‘Where you are Gaius, I am Gaia.’

It was then time for Geta to crown Y/n with laurels, bestowing the title of Empress of the Roman Empire, and secure the marriage with a kiss. Y/n squeezed her eyes shut again when she felt his hands move to grasp her veil. Praying her knees wouldn’t buckle and send her tumbling to the floor. The fabric kissed her cheeks as it lifted, revealing her face to Geta for the first time ever. She felt him fold the veil past her hairline, fingers brushing against her temples as his hands drew back. Sending heat down her spine.

Only when she heard Geta clear his throat did Y/n open her eyes, locking on a pair of dazzling brown ones resembling melted chocolate. So striking it made her still.

He was beautiful. Captivating. His beauty was spoken of during the course of their betrothal by guests at her home, but no words compared to the sight of him before her. The man deserved to have statues and portraits of him throughout the empire. Bewitching every man and woman to cross his path.

Y/n gulped, the action noticeable by how Geta’s eyes drifted down. As their eyes locked once more, they held the stare for what seemed like forever. For Y/n, she experienced a feeling she couldn’t describe. It wasn’t butterflies, it wasn’t her mind telling her to run. It was calm. Like when the ocean became stagnant after a powerful storm. As though all the anxiety she battled leading up to this moment was vanishing. There was still an underlying concern, but staring into Geta’s eyes, she saw something in them she believed was understanding. Sympathetic.

“Ahem,” the officiant drew their attention back, Geta’s soft expression replaced by annoyance, making Y/n stunned by the sudden shift. The officiant seemed so as well by how he stammered out, “the ah--the laurels, my Emperor.”

The laurels. Laid on a purple pillow made entirely of pure gold. A symbol of her title.

Geta’s hands seize the crown, lifting it up and making a show of it to the guests before hovering it over Y/n’s heads. At first her gaze remained on the floor, but, with a sudden urge of confidence, Y/n met his eyes. And just like the first time, everything around them blurred. Leaving them as the only two in the world. Gods how she wished she knew what he was thinking. If he was undergoing the same feeling as her.

Geta’s movements were slow. Placing the headpiece on Y/n with accurate precision it took her breath away. The veil and her hair beneath it. Once satisfied with his work, Geta’s hands slid down, brushing her cheeks on its journey until he cupped her chin and drew her to him as he leaned down.

Y/n inhaled, heart stuttering as she leaned into his touch, meeting his lips in a tender kiss. Their noses grazed, making her eyes flutter shut. Seeing it as it was her first kiss, Y/n kept still and allowed Geta to take the lead. It was a simple press of mouth to mouth, but enough to create heat in every cell in her body; she felt like a volcano preparing to erupt.

Lasting only mere seconds, the two pulled away at the explosion of cheers. The walls of the foyer echoing with the applause and the blessed words from the guests. Y/n, however, did not turn to face them, her focus completely on Geta. Who in turn, only had eyes for her.

At the feast table, Y/n sat in between Geta and her father. On the opposite side of Geta was his brother, beside him Lucilla. Not having an appetite, despite the array of foods presented to her, Y/n snacked on a bowl of pomegranate seeds. Mindlessly at first, but then as she brought another seed to her lips she paused. Pulling it away to examine it, her mind wandered to the tale of Proserpina and Pluto.

The beloved Goddess taken by the God of the Underworld to become his Queen. And how the consuming of pomegranate seeds sealed her fate.

How ironic.

Swallowing thickly, Y/n shook the thought away and resumed eating. The sweetness hit her taste buds and she chased it with the bitter wine.

By the time the feast ended Y/n’s face hurt by the amount of fake smiling she did towards senators and their wives. Genuine ones were reserved for the servants, albeit small ones. And whenever she and Geta happened to lock eyes her expression was rather tight, but managed to convey a sense of comprehension.

Saying goodbye to her parents proved difficult. Y/n wanted to avoid it all together but it was inevitable. No longer was she under their care and protection. Her place was beside Geta, ruling Rome and all she owned. If she desired a visit with her parents they’d have to come to the palace, or she’d have to get her husband’s permission to go to them.

Lucilla hugged her close, pressing a tender kiss to her temple while whispering, “All will be well, my darling girl. The Gods will protect you, and I promise to visit frequently. Write to me as often as you please.” Y/n’s bottom lip quivered, but she kept herself together.

“Thank you,” she murmured with a sniff. “For everything.” Lucilla had been in Y/n’s life since she was nine years old when she married Acacius following the death of her brother Commodus at the hands of the mighty gladiator Maximus. Her own mother died of fever two years after her birth, and Lucilla raised Y/n as her own.

Pulling away from the hug, Lucilla bowed in respect, beaming softly at her daughter, “My Empress.” Water pooled in her eyes, Y/n tilting her chin down before watching Lucilla depart down the steps to wait for Acacius. When he came forward, a lone tear finally spilled from Y/n’s eyes. Cascading down her cheek until meeting her jaw where it fell and hit the floor.

Acacius’ expression was one of anguish. Guilt. A Y/n swore she saw regret. But whatever regrets her father had did not matter. He signed her fate three years prior, and now he was reaping what he sowed.

“My Empress,” He bowed. Y/n inhaled sharply, straightening as she stared at him.

“Father.”

“This is where I leave you, but rest assured I will visit as soon as I can. I am off to Hispania and should return in time for Saturnalia.”

“Then I bid you good fortune on your journey,” Y/n clasped her hands in front of her, twiddling with the rings on her fingers. “And may the Gods protect you for what you may face ahead.”

For a moment they just stood there. Staring at each other. Unsure of what to say next as the relationship between them was forever altered. At one point in time Y/n adored Acacius. She prided herself on being the daughter of an esteemed general. Favored by the people and those in power. She remembered the relief when he’d return home from battle. The excitement of opening gifts he’d brought her. The late nights spent hearing his tales.

“Daughter,” Acacius began, licking his lips as he tried to say the words he’d been thinking about all night. “I--.” Y/n cut him off with a raised hand.

“Please, I do not wish to hear excuses, apologies, or affirmations. As you told me when this was arranged, what is done, is done. I’d rather we’d leave on a civil note, than attempt to reconcile any misforgivings we have toward each other.” Pausing Y/n contemplated her next words, but knew if she never said them it would plague her mind for eternity. “All I have left to say is this, you pride yourself on your honor. You gained so much in your service to Rome, and now you’ve acquired more by your now status as father to her Empress.” Acacius swallowed thickly, Y/n exhaling as she studied him with an unreadable expression. “While part of me understands why you went the lengths you did to achieve such honor, I require time before I can find myself forgiving you.”

This is what Acacius was afraid of. That Y/n still held bitterness for his actions. His shoulders dropped in defeat, “I understand.” It pained him to say it, but knew better than to defend himself. “ I…hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me one day, daughter.”

“I do as well,” she agreed softly, “But this is the cost of honor, General.”

Hearing her call him ‘general’, and not ‘father’, felt like a blade to the chest. Acacius wanted to pry the word from her vocabulary and never have her utter it again. It lacked the warmth and love calling him ‘father’ had. General was what his subordinates called him. It was what senators called him. Not his daughter.

He was about to reply when a guard approached, drawing their attention. “Emperor Geta has departed, my Empress. He sends a message; he will accompany you in your chambers momentarily.” It took every ounce of her not to physically recoil. Nodding firmly as she thanked the guard who then bowed and took his leave.

Stepping forward, Y/n offered her hands to Acacius, “Take care of yourself and Lucilla, father. May the Gods watch over you in these coming months.” He took them, bringing them up to kiss her knuckles then leaning to kiss the middle of her forehead. Just below the laurels.

“Goodbye, daughter.”

As Acacius descended the steps to the awaiting chariot, Y/n watched from the top. Letting the tears fall freely when her hand fell back to her side after waving goodbye to her parents. She didn’t care that there were guards posted on the side. Nor did she care of the onlooking citizens watching from afar.

Releasing the emotions, out in the open, was the most liberating feeling she had all week.

“Your majesty,” a servant assigned to Y/n gently called out, “It is time to ready you for bed.”

Wiping her cheeks, Y/n let out a shaky breath before responding, “Yes of course.” Turning to face the servant, Y/n put on a brave face and followed them to her private chambers. Preparing herself with each step for what was in store for her.

Sitting on the ottoman at the end of the bed, finally alone, Y/n leaned her elbow on the mattress, knees bent to tuck her legs so she was leaning against the bed at an angle, and closed her eyes as her hand met her forehead. She was out of her wedding dress, now donning a silk nightgown beneath a flowy robe and the many pins removed from her hair. The air was cool thanks to the open doors leading to the balcony, causing goosebumps along her arms. Geta would arrive shortly, therefore Y/n took advantage of the minute of peace. Knowing what awaited her once he did.

The reality of her new world hit her like a ram. She was no longer just Y/n, the childhood nickname given by her father. She was Empress Marcella Acacia Y/n, wife to Geta and future mother of Rome's heir.

She’d have to sit in Senate hearings, attend games in the Colosseum--which would begin in two days time to celebrate the royal marriage. Her honeymoon would be spent watching men fight to the death for her favor during the day, and in bed performing her duty to Rome. Providing an heir.

“By Fortuna if you hear me,” she prayed aloud, “I call to you for guidance and grant me your favor as I navigate this marriage and the position you and the Gods have blessed me with. Please,” she pleaded with a slight crack in her voice, “if love does not come from this union, at least afford us the sentiment of friendship. At most respect.”

The sudden gush of wind hitting her made Y/n believe for a moment Fortuna had heard her. Sending it as a sign. That she was listening, and she would do her best to watch over the empress. It brought solace.

A moment later her peace was interrupted by the booming sound of the chamber doors opening. Sighing, she remained in her position, but shifted her head so it laid on her palm. Opening eyes, she saw Geta emerge from around the privacy screen that separated the bedroom from the rest of the chamber. He too was out of his grand attire. Sporting a red and gold robe tied at the waist and slippers on his feet.

“Hello,” she greeted, barely above a whisper. She wasn’t sure what exactly to call him. He hadn’t granted her use of his name. Emperor was the formal and likely appropriate title, and husband felt odd.

Geta approached slowly, expression neutral which made it hard for Y/n to figure out what he was thinking. He gave a curt nod, “Empress.”

The title made her shudder, shifting on the ottoman to make space for him. “Forgive me for asking, but how would you like me to address you? In private and in public.” The look of surprise was evident on his face, not expecting her to ask such a question. He sat on the ottoman beside her, leaving a bit of distance between them.

“The proper way to address me in front of others would be my title,” He said affirmably, “Husband would also be appropriate--both in private and about.” Licking his lips, his voice takes a softer approach. “But when it is only us, you may call me by my given name.”

Y/n’s heart fluttered, sitting up a tad straighter. Honestly she hadn’t expected him to allow such a thing. Calling someone by their given name was personal. Intimate. It signified respect.

“Then I must ask you to call me Y/n,” she told him with a small smile.

“Y/n,” He tested her name on his lips.

They sat there for a moment. Basking in the quietness the night afforded. However neither could deny the awkward tension in the air.

“I ah,” Y/n swallowed, face heating up as she tried to look anywhere but his eyes. Fearing she’d fall deep into something she’d be unable to pull herself from. “Might I inquire something of you before we…,” she trailed off, not wanting to say, ‘consummate this marriage.’ “Just for tonight, if you allow me.”

Geta thought for a moment, bringing a hand up to rub his chin. He knew she was stalling, and frankly he was fine with putting off the act for another hour or until the Senate came knocking at the door to see proof. “What is it?”

“I know not to expect much from this marriage.” She swore there was a flicker of surprise hit his face, but she brushed it off. “We have a duty to perform in the eyes of the people, I accept that,” Y/n was cautious with her words. Wanting to avoid any offense that may anger Geta. She heard the rumors of his temper. She did not want to be on the receiving end of it. Ever. “But, if it is possible, I’d like for us to form a basis of friendship?” Now there truly was surprise written all over him. It worried her.

“Well,” He mumbled, stroking his jaw before letting his hand fall back to his lap. “I cannot guarantee that…friendship,” saying it felt odd, “will be up to your satisfaction.” The way her mouth turned down caused his stomach to turn, quickly adding, “But, I can at least promise to do my best.” Her smile returned, and Geta mentally sighed in relief.

“That is all I ask.”

The conversation turned into the two asking questions. Simple ones, but it felt natural. Both genuinely interested in their answers and taking time to process before asking the next. Geta learned Y/n enjoyed reading poetry, she discovered his knack for collecting. She told him her favorite foods, and he told her how he prefers the color red over others.

“What’s your favorite flower?” She asked, placing the goblet of wine he had poured her on the end table after taking a sip.

“I don’t have one,” He glanced away with a frown, taking a sip from his own goblet. “I suppose lilies if I had to choose. The palace gardens are full of them.” Pausing to think before nodding as though satisfied with his answer, he turned to Y/n. “What is yours?”

A tiny smile curled on her lips, “Poppies. Orange poppies.” The answer surprised him.

“Orange poppies?” he repeated with furrowed brows. They were not native to Rome. In fact it was believed the flower grew thousands of miles away from the city. “Those are rare.”

“Likely why I am fascinated by them. My father,” she cleared her throat, feeling a sudden wave of emotion, the memory surfacing. “On one of his expeditions he came across a field of orange poppies--told me it reminded him of the sky when the sun begins to set.” She thought of the nights spent standing on her balcony to watch the beautiful color shine down on the city. It was her happy place. “He brought several home as a gift.”

The fondness in her expression sent an unfamiliar warmth in Geta’s chest. So soft and gentle. She looked like a vision of Venus, so beautiful it made his breath hitch. Leaning back against the mattress, Geta swallowed another gulp of wine, “Do you still have them?” At her head shake he felt disappointment.

“No,” she hummed with a sad smile. “They did however last a long time before wilting. I then pressed them with books to frame on my wall.” She made a mental note to send word to Lucilla to pack the item for her the next time she visited. “To be honest it surprised me they lasted the journey.”

“Where did your father find them?”

Her brows pinch, deep in thought. Geta couldn’t help but think how adorable it was. The way her brows furrowed as her mouth shifted. It was like he could see her mind working to bring her an answer. Pulling into the depths of her memory.

Eventually she shrugs, offering an apologetic frown, “I believe somewhere between Gaul and Germania. Unfortunately I cannot place the exact name or location.”

“That’s alright,” Geta replies, finishing off his wine and discarding the goblet on the end table closest to him. An idea popped in his head, and he made sure to follow through with it in the morning.

Before long there was a knock at the chamber door. “Come in,” Geta called, annoyed at being disturbed. Nerves tickled Y/n’s stomach when a guard emerged, a little astonished to see the two sitting together still in their night robes.

“Apologies, Emperor,” he bowed to Geta, then to Y/n. “Empress. The Senate wishes to confirm the consummation.” The rulers noted how the guards’ focus drifted to the untouched bed. Indicating they had not performed the act. Y/n gulped.

Geta on the other hand waved dismissively, “Inform them they will have their confirmation. When I deem it so.”

“Yes, Emperor,” the guard quickly bowed and departed to avoid being berated. The second he was out of their sight Y/n snatched her goblet and downed the rest of her wine. She was going to need it.

“Well,” she exhaled, wiping at her mouth, missing Geta’s lingering stare of the action. “We should get to it then.” The goblet hit the table with a *clink* Y/n turning to face the man fully and willing herself to calm down. Remembering Lucilla, and even some servants, advice of the marriage act. She’d experience pain and discomfort. Men were the ones who got pleasure, for women they had to endure.

It sounded like a nightmare.

Standing up, Y/n removed her robe leaving her in the sheer night dress, placing it on the ottoman under Geta’s watchful eye. Her body began to tremble, and she squeezed her eyes shut as she brought her fingers to the straps, but was suddenly stopped. “Wait,” Geta, still sitting, placed a hand on her arm. Perplexed, Y/n’s hands froze, turning to Geta to find him tense. “You do not have to remove it.”

“I do not understand….”

“You are uncomfortable,” He stated, making her cheeks heat up. It was the truth, how could she deny it? It was written all over her. Shuffling on her feet like she was preparing to run the hell out of there.

Standing up, Geta moved her hands back down to her side, before placing his on her shoulders. There was something about his expression, along with his gentle touch, that made Y/n’s heart beat faster. Warmth pooling in her stomach as Geta’s eyes flickered to her lips and back to her own. “It will do us no favors if you are not relaxed. It’ll make it far more painful for you,” his tone turned serious, “and I do not wish for that.”

It stunned Y/n to hear Geta be so concerned for her comfort. As though he wanted her to share the pleasures sex had on an individual. She truly was at a loss for words. “I--how?” was all she could say.

Instead of replying, Geta’s fingers trailed down the length of her arms until they met her waist, making her gasp when he lifted her up. Her hands went to his neck to hold steady while he maneuvered them so she was sitting on the edge of the bed and propped her feet on the ottoman, Geta kneeling on the furniture between her legs so they were level.

A warm hand cupped her jaw, bringing her face close to stare deeply into her eyes. “For this to be good for the both of us, I shall need you to trust me.” His nose brushed against hers, hot breath fanning her mouth. “Do you trust me?”

If this wasn’t the sign Fortuna heard her prayers, then Y/n did not know what it was. Here was the man she dreaded for years about. The one who craved bloodshed and war. Who was not afraid to send a man to his death for mundane offenses. Who was not shy about obscene acts with concubines in public. Here he was kneeling before her for consent to the marriage act, taking her feelings into consideration, instead of forcing her to endure it without any care.

After what seemed like forever, brought out of her thoughts by Geta’s finger moving to trace her cheekbone, Y/n whispered, “I trust you.”

He closed the gap between them, his lips pressing against hers so soft it made her head spin. Y/n responded with the same tenderness, gasping when his mouth went to her chin. Then her jaw, then along her neck.

“Lay down for me, my Empress.”

Y/n must have been a favorite among Fortuna. At least that’s what she seemed to believe. As the weeks, months, and eventual years went by, Y/n’s marriage to Geta surprised her every day with the newfound friendship they formed. It was like their match had not been a political arrangement fueled by ambition. Geta was irrevocably devoted to Y/n. Showing not so much in words but with actions.

He filled the library with every literary work. Had the kitchens prepare her favorite meals. Showered her in the lavish silks and gems. There were freshly picked roses or lilies from the gardens on her nightstand every morning. And though they did not share a bedchamber every night, Geta would sit on the balcony of hers at the end of the day where they would have tea and converse. Y/n listened to his vents about the Senate, and complaints of his brother. He’d open up about his frustration with their lack of popularity, to which Y/n offered advice on how to win the people's favor.

There was companionship between the two. Bringing comfort to the otherwise stressful environment being rulers had. And though neither voiced it, they knew there was something blossoming with how they’d light up whenever the other entered a room. The lingering gazes. The brushing of one's hand as they passed. Kisses to the knuckles at Senate meetings and adjusting clothing when it’s out of place. Then there was the tiny detail Geta had dismissed his concubines. Something Y/n had no knowledge of until three months of being married.

Eight months into their first year of marriage, Geta unveiled the project he’d been planning since their wedding night. It had taken months, longer than what he anticipated, but then again he had to send men to Gaul and Germania, find the flowers and bring them back so they may plant the seeds in their gardens to grow them. The journey itself took over five months, then eight more weeks for the poppies to bloom.

“Geta,” Y/n murmured in awe of the hundreds of beautiful orange poppies covering the entire garden grounds. Matching the sky above as the sun began to set on the horizon to end the day. It was exactly like how her father told her when he saw the field all those years ago. Plucking one closest to her, she brought it up to inhale, sighing in content at the familiar scent she had missed. “How did you…?”

“I sent an expedition to Gaul and Germania,” He explained, taking a seat on the bench by the fountain. She joined him, clutching the poppy as though it were a lifeline while gaping at the man with utter adoration. Their closeness spread heat between the two, and Geta cleared his throat before speaking again, “Thought you might enjoy having your favorite flower steps away rather than miles.”

Her heart soared, so much so it made her eyes water. “I do not--I do not know how to even begin expressing my gratitude for this gift.” Peering at the poppy she traced one of the petals, the smoothness glided along her fingertip. “This is absolutely perfect, Geta. I cannot thank you enough.”

“You are welcome,” he replied sheepishly, tugging at the fabric of his toga around his neck. Suddenly feeling hot despite the cool breeze. He froze when Y/n skidded closer to him on the bench, making their thighs touch. Time stopped with only the gentle sound of the fountain and birds flying above reminding them where they were. His eyes never left her figure as she leaned forward into his space. Y/n secured the poppy on the lapel of Geta’s toga so it was tucked between the fabric and his golden shoulder plates. The orange color contrasted with the white and gold. Come to think of it, the flower matched his hair. And Y/n wondered if it was a sign from the Gods that the color of her favorite flower would remind her of her husband’s hair and vice versa.

Adjusting it as best she could so it would stay, Y/n tapped the petals a final time before retracting her hands. However when she went to place them in her lap they were caught by Geta, his mouth colliding with hers in a kiss full of passion. “Hmmph!!” Catching her off guard it made her gasp, allowing Geta to slide his tongue past her lips and deepen the kiss. Her palms went to his cheeks, bringing him closer as his arms went to her waist. Hauling Y/n into his lap to press their chests together.

“Never did I believe the Gods would permit me the privilege of receiving genuine, raw love,” Geta pulled away from the kiss, his eyes still closed and tone dropping an octave with reverence. “Nor did I believe I’d be capable of giving it to someone. For all my life I was deprived of love, save for the piece reserved for my brother.” His eyes fluttered, peering up at Y/n as his hand glided along her back affectionately and it brought goosebumps on her arms. Her breath hitched at the way he was looking at her.

“I--,” he gulped the saliva that had piled in the back of his throat. “You have bewitched me, Y/n. Beyond anything I could have imagined. You consume my every thought--when I sleep you fill my dreams,” Once the confession left his lips Geta could not stop, cupping the back of Y/n’s neck to hold her close to him. All the emotion that had been building up for months finally released like a dam. “Since you have come into my life I cannot see a future where you are not in it. You are my anchor for when I feel lost at sea,” Inhaling Geta finished with, “These last eight months I have grown to love you, Y/n. And I hope you have come to feel the same.”

There it was. The four letter word that held so much power. The one that if anyone had asked Y/n four years ago when she was first betrothed to the emperor that she’d hear him declare it in the palace gardens surrounded by her favorite flower, she’d have told them they were mad.

He waited for her reply, growing wearing with each second that passed. It was the most vulnerable Geta had ever been, and he felt he might vomit if Y/n didn’t say anything. The fear of rejection plaguing his mind.

That fear diminished when Y/n brought him into a kiss that took his breath away, much like he did to her. His arms tightened around her, not letting an inch separate them as he met her kiss feverishly. The one on their wedding day may have signified their union, this one represented their undying love for each other. A beacon of hope for their future.

“I love you, Geta,” her mouth caressed his with every syllable. Pressing soft pecks each time they met, he shuddered beneath her touch. “I think I have for some time, but was too afraid to say anything when I had said on our wedding night I did not expect anything out of this marriage. And I’d be lying if I said I was not fearful of the kind of man rumors painted you to be. But I was wrong,” she brushed a strand of his flaming hair away to hold his face, thumb stroking his cheekbone. “You have enchanted the very depths of my soul.” She kissed him once, “Ubi tu Gaius,” she kissed him twice. “Ego Gaia.”

They sat there, on the bench overlooking the fountain pongs, tangled in each other's arms within a field of poppies as the sun departed and allowed the night to take claim of the sky. Between kisses they sighed and breathed each other’s air. And at times they simply stared into the other’s eyes. Neither needed words to vocalize the emotions pouring out of them.

And when Geta took his wife to bed that night, he sent word to the servants to move his things into hers when morning arrived. For they would not be needing separate chambers anymore. When the day ended the emperor would remain with his empress. Having tea on the terrace before he’d lift her up and carry her to their bed. Where he’d worship her for hours with only the Gods to bear witness and repeat the action the next morning.

Acacius returned home in time for Saturnalia just as promised, arriving at the palace for the celebrations with Lucilla in hand, both excited to see their daughter for the first time since the wedding. But when they came face to face with the empress, Acacius saw first hand the fruit that bore from the seed of his ambition. Y/n and Geta were no mere strangers, they were not emperor and empress. They were husband and wife. He knew then that any loyalty reserved for him perished. Her allegiance was for the man feeding her pomegranate seeds and kissing away droplets of wine that may have fallen from her lips.

Thinking back to the last words Y/n spoke to him, Acacius realized then what truly was the cost of honor.

#Spotify #emperor geta x reader #emperor geta x you #emperor geta x y/n #emperor geta #emperor geta fanfic #empress!reader #emperor geta x female reader #gladiator imagine #gladiator 2 imagine #gladiator fanfiction #joseph quinn imagine #joseph quinn

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classic-games · 4 months ago

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Jet Ion GP

Developer: Gust Publisher: Ubi Soft Release: 03/22/02 Genre: Racing When you think of futuristic racing games Wipeout is synonymous with PlayStation. While there were many contenders for the throne on Sony platforms none would ever come close to dethroning the king. Psygnosis knocked it out of the park with Wipeout 3 as one last hurrah for the original grey box meaning there was not…

#2002 #import #racing #Ubi Soft

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aiza-luna · 10 months ago

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THIS IS SO COOL I NEVER NOTICED THAT BEFORE???? 🥹🥹🥹🩵🩵🩵

Has anyone noticed that Aiden's pupils can shrink?After I played so many Games I found that WD1 is The only one which has this detail.it is incredible for a game from 2013.😳

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numberxxisora · 5 months ago

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youtube

Yesterday, we went back into the Rockyverse and had Rocky face himself to try and get his focus back after his previous fight.

#youtube #numberxxisora #demo disc friday #playstation underground magazine #ps2 #rocky #rage Newcastle #ubi soft #sometimes a man gotta face himself

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notjustjavierpena · 3 months ago

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Ubi tu Gaius, ego Gaia: Chapter III

Series Masterpost | Main Masterpost | Support a disabled creator

A/N: I'm excited to bring to you the next chapter! Happy reading!

Chapter Summary: In which you experience your wedding night and an uncomfortable conversation takes place.

Pairing: General Marcus Acacius x f!reader/you (no y/n)

Chapter warnings: +18, arranged marriage, historical sexism, probably historical inaccuracies, large age gap, religion in the form of Roman Gods, shitty parents, anxieties over wedding night, virginity loss, female masturbation, handjobs, piv sex, praise kink, dirty talk, painful sex but also not painful sex, creampie, politics, Marcus gets angry

Word count: 9k

Link to this work on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57443332/chapters/154904269

Chapter III: You're a woman and a wife now

After you enter the room, Marcus closes the door to his night chambers with a soft click. He secures it to give the two of you an illusion of privacy despite the many servants walking up and down the halls that now belong to you as well, cleaning the rooms of any signs of guests so that new people can relish in festivities tomorrow too.

“I noticed you regained your appetite. Did you like the feast?” He asks as he starts undoing his sandals with steadier hands than you can muster right now in your anxiety-riddled body, untying them where they stop just underneath his knees until he can step out of them completely.

“Your cook is better than ours,” you compliment with a little smile, your arms crossed over your chest until you can hug yourself with your palms on your back. You try to self-soothe like when you had first met but the thought of the wifely duties that lie ahead makes your heartbeat pound in your chest in a dizzying fashion.

“He is your cook now too,” he delves into small talk, trying to make a mundane situation out of something that so evidently weighs heavily on you. He is just about to continue when you hold up your hand to stop him, reluctantly having let go of yourself to signal that you wish to speak.

“Marcus,” you start in a soft voice without knowing where the sentence will go, doing the utmost to make sure that you are not sounding as if you are going to refuse to share a bed with him in case of evoking anger in him. He watches you curiously, graciously allowing you to interrupt him all the while you swallow the lump in your throat, “I must confess that I am nervous.”

You can barely get the sentence out before tears start to well up in your eyes, your throat constricting as you find yourself on the verge of crying. You reach for some of the fabric of your tunic, clutching it desperately as you hold a sob at bay.

Marcus looks at you with sympathy that shouldn’t surprise you but still does despite the moment you shared the last time you were alone with each other.

“What bothers you?” He asks despite knowing the answer already.

“Is it not obvious?” You ask with a whimper, “I am dreading the thing that all wives so desperately long for on their wedding night. I have been told stories of blood and cries, of men being cruel in their passion, and— I know that it is my duty, that this is as important as the ceremony itself but it scares me. What if my body simply isn’t made for this act?“

It is odd to confess something so personal to a near-stranger but you suppose that there is no point in tiptoeing around the fact that you are united in marriage which demands the deepest form of vulnerability towards each other. A tear manages to escape your eye and it rolls down until it drips off your chin.

“Carissima,” Marcus soothes gently. He dares walk to stand in front of you, his bare feet quiet on the cold floor and even though he can potentially reach out to put his hands on you, he does not, “Goddess Nox has given us plenty of time to take things slowly before dawn. These stories you have heard… I wish you would not think of me as such a brutal man. Our chambers are not a battlefield.”

You reach up with the back of your hand to swipe away the tears that have started to continuously fall from your chin, catching some on your cheeks before they even manage to go so far. You feel a pang of guilt at your assumptions because Marcus is right and the proof is in the way he kissed you so carefully yesterday when you had asked.

“I’m sorry,” you cry unhappily and stare down at your feet again, hating the way you come off as a scared child. You are married to a general of the great Roman Empire, meant to exude grace and strength even when the two of you are alone in your home. Your home. These chambers will forever be yours too.

“I know this is difficult but this is something we must do to start our lives together as man and wife,” Marcus coos back at you. He dares to put a hand underneath your damp chin to tilt your head up again, looking into your eyes with his own that seems to be miles deep with their brown color. You whimper but he shakes his head, “No more of that. I will not have you remember your first night in these halls with remorse and terror.”

His hand moves up to cup your whole cheek with how large his palm is, and as you feel his warm and gentle fingers on your skin, you close your eyes and lean into the same kind of touch that had made you explore yourself in bed last night. He smiles as you melt a little, “Very good, that’s it.”

Your eyes shoot open again as he praises you so effortlessly, a warmth spreading through your lower body at hearing words you have never heard from any man before. A tiny drop of need pools in your belly, making you bold enough to make a request, “Will you kiss me like yesterday? Perhaps then I might relax more.”

Marcus nods. You move to remove the crown of flowers that secures the veil covering your hair. You place it on one of the many marble surfaces in the room, handling it with the care that comes from your superstition as to what would happen if you were to tear it. You do the same with the veil, draping it across a chair while Marcus waits patiently. No tears fall from your eyes anymore.

You signal to him that you are ready and you don’t flinch as he leans close, the tip of his thumb resting underneath your chin while the rest of his hand is spread across your face. He pokes his nose into your cheek, pecking you there with featherlight touches of his lips before gently going inward to capture your mouth.

The kiss is even better than yesterday. It makes you release the fabric of your dress in an instant, your arms coming up instinctively to wrap around your husband’s shoulders. You kiss him back with a desire that must have been asleep in your body because it wakes up as fiercely as linen catching fire.

“What do I do?” You pant when he gives you a moment to breathe, your faces barely an inch apart. You might drown in his eyes.

“You trust me,” he replies without hesitation and you can do nothing but nod slightly, so eager to follow orders that it terrifies you a little. You feel his strong hands bunch up the fabric of your tunic that’s draping over your hips as he captures your mouth once more, a soft moan leaving you as his tongue slips past your lips.

He leads you towards the bed without pulling away. You can taste the honey and fruit from the dessert on his tongue, smell him when he forces you to breathe through your nose when his mouth does not leave yours. He smells faintly of scented oil that a servant probably recommended after a shave along his neck, of sweat and of himself, which you will fall asleep and wake up to for many days to come. He has you not worrying about yourself for even a second, not even when one of his hands reaches for the woven belt around your waist to undo it with utmost care.

It sways in the air as it falls to the floor, lying forgotten for the maids to clean up tomorrow. He allows you a breath when he breaks the kiss but he takes the air from your lungs once more when his hands touch your shoulders. You feel lightheaded as he slips the tunic off of them, the soft fabric slipping down your arms and chest until it catches on your hips. You have never been this exposed to anyone before, the slightly cooler air outside of your clothes making your nipples harden and catch Marcus’ attention. He admires your bare chest without words at first but it makes you hesitate, knowing how effortlessly he had complimented your appearance when you had first met. However, when you reach up to cover yourself, he shakes his head.

“You are radiant,” he praises and warmth goes to your face, eyes dropping to the floor at the idea that he might mean it wholly. You gain a shred of courage, pretending that you haven’t looked at the floor again by fixing your gaze on your skirt. You work the draping fabric over the swell of your hips, ripe for bearing children if that is what he should want, and let it pool around your feet. You have already had your blood this month, so you have no garments covering your sex. Suddenly, you are more exposed than you have ever even seen the depictions of Venus. Does he find you just as beautiful now that you are in nothing but the golden jewelry that your mother said he had sent?

Without word, your instincts guide you to sit down on the large bed and Marcus waits patiently while you crawl back on the linen sheets. You move your arms back to support yourself, bending your knees slightly but not daring to let your legs fall open like you know you probably should. You consider the pose of a siren, legs together like a tail and laying to one side to show off the curve of your body.

“Seems like Venus has favored you. I shall wonder how your father has kept you in his house for so long,” Marcus finally breaks the silence but only to make you smile shyly, stirring up a little laughter and shortness of breath in your chest. Cupid seems to have hit you square in the chest with his golden-tipped arrow, filling you up with desire for your new husband when he says praise so effortlessly.

“Are you going to join me now?” You ask, finding that nervousness is best fought by being direct. You gaze at his face to read him but you have no clue how these situations unfold, so you are unable to read his mind and foresee his next move.

“You will not be ready,” he shakes his head. You narrow your eyes as you ponder what he means, watching him undo the knot of red fabric on his shoulder to slip off the top layer of his toga. He hangs it on the chair next to your matching veil.

“Ready? But I am in your bed,” you let him know of your confusion. When he turns around to face you once more, you gasp at the sight of his sex, the length of it. He is visible through the toga now that the top layer isn’t covering him up anymore. His cock is outlined by it from the way he has gotten hard in response to seeing you naked, a thing you knew was going to happen but never could have imagined what looked like.

“Come closer,” he says as he stands by the end of your bed. His tone has changed a little but you cannot confirm whether it has to do with him being aroused underneath the remnants of his clothes. It seems like a command now, so you follow through with a pounding heartbeat until your heels are pressing into the mattress right at the edge of the bed.

“What did you mean?” You ask.

“When you are alone,” he begins but the tone of his voice is still to the gentler side, his hand reaching out and hovering above your knee. He makes you gasp as he grabs it, carefully pulling it outwards until the most private part of your body exposes itself to him. His eyes only look down briefly, “Do you touch yourself here? Between your legs?”

You glance away quickly as your heart leaps into your throat. The images of last night flood through your mind and you feel embarrassed, so you shake your head in response, “No, of course not.”

“I don’t believe your words for a second, Carissima,” he chuckles, his dominant hand going up your thigh until he removes it altogether to catch your wrist. He moves your hand to rest between your thighs, “Show me what you do.”

You release a breath you didn’t know you have been holding, feeling the warmth of your cunt against your fingers and how it aches for you to caress the spots you like the most. Your pulse is everywhere now but mostly centered around your clit, the pearl-shaped nub that you have explored just the night before.

“I don’t do it long,” you babble nervously as you start to touch gently between your legs, two fingers rubbing in gentle circles over your clit. It makes you gasp a little, the sensations in your lower body heightened by being in another person’s proximity as you touch yourself, “I always stop right before… before something happens.”

“There’s no need to stop. Something beautiful happens when you keep going and get to that pinnacle,” Marcus teaches you with a kind expression, moving his hand to push your other leg out to the side. You are opened up to him like a lotus flower but he still doesn’t seem like he will move on top of you yet, crush you with his weight, and fall asleep afterward with horrible snoring that your sisters have joked about.

You start to feel familiar wetness increase between your legs, your fingers gliding over your cunt easier and making you speed up your touches as the pressure increases. Marcus sees it from the way your slit glistens in the dim light of the oil lamp on the nightstand. He encourages you, his cock even more prominent underneath his clothes, “If you have touched between your thighs, you will know of what I speak. I see it now, the signs of your body welcoming intrusion by making itself warm and wet for me. It will feel like you are missing something… I assure you that I will give it.”

You furrow your brow at those words while you stroke yourself and feel a flutter of pleasure intense enough to make you moan, Marcus’ eyes dropping to his own lap where his length twitches. He readjusts himself with a soft groan and then something clicks. You do feel exactly like he said, perplexed by why you have not noticed the gaping emptiness all the other times you have done this.

Experimentally, you reach lower to prod a finger at your entrance and you groan at the way it slips effortlessly inside yourself. You aren’t sure what to do next, letting the finger stay still inside of you as you get used to the unusual pressure, but the heel of your hand starts grinding down onto your clit in earnest.

Marcus steps a little closer at the temptation you bring him with your growing pleasure. He squeezes your thigh and you nearly laugh in surprise when you can feel your walls squeezing your finger, “Will I not hurt you if I… grip you with my…”

You cannot say any of the words you know. Cunt, heat, sex. It somehow feels more exposing, more intimate in a way than the physical gestures you are performing for him. You hear him laugh but his eyes are not cheerful when you find them, instead, they’re dark with lust and you squeeze your digit again.

“On the contrary,” he touches himself on top of his toga, his stomach rising and falling faster than just a moment ago when he didn’t have a hand on himself, “It’ll feel like I was made for nothing else.”

There’s the familiar gathering inside of your belly. Sweat prickles at your skin, pleasure steadily blossoming from inside of you as you reach a point of no return. This would be where you would stop back home, leaving you sensitive and emotional as you forced sleep onto yourself. This time, you chase the feelings that terrify you.

You feel like the most fragile person ever; like you are made of clay that might shatter at any moment. You clutch at the sheets with your free hand, Marcus’ eyes sure to make you succumb to how brittle you are as he watches intensely. You bite your bottom lip, a small whimper escaping you as you teeter on what you have always shied away from.

“Don’t stop,” he urges when you hesitate for less than a second. His breathing is ragged now, synchronized with your own as you suddenly realize that you are doing the same thing. He seems better at controlling it than you, “Let it come, so we can enjoy each other.”

You cannot breathe, snapping for air as you press a little harder on your hard clit. You want to squeeze your eyes shut but then you’ll miss the look on Marcus’ face as he sees you come undone, so you power through and, and… and—

A cry of surprise and pleasure leaps from your chest as you find release. You lift your hips to meet your hand, your index finger slipping out of you as you instinctively know to focus on your pulsing clit. It is like nothing you have ever felt before, going on for several maddening seconds where you don’t know whether to chase more or stop when you can do nothing but tremble from the sensation.

The linen on the bed is wet underneath you and a cockiness within you tells you that you could handle him tenfold if you wanted. You are disoriented by the heat ebbing out of your body, leaving you in a state of daze and a mix of emotions that you cannot fathom has nothing to do with the wine during the feast. You let your hand rest on your stomach, feeling your panting underneath it and suppressing a giggle that bubbles up all the way from your belly.

“Will it be like that every time?” You ask and stretch your legs to let your feet hang out over the edge.

“It can be,” he replies with slight amusement, hiding a lopsided grin. He is standing with his knees brushing against the bed, having itched to get as close as possible without overwhelming you and perhaps scaring you off. He lets your foot brush his toga, “However it might get better with time and practice.”

You stare at him in disbelief, not sure if you believe that there’s something even better awaiting you somewhere in your future. You stare down between his legs where he must be aching like you’ve been several times in the past. You are already aware that you are wrong in the assumptions you have about pleasure because you’ve learned so much in less than ten minutes. How will it feel when he gives it to you?

“Can I touch you?” You boldly ask and slowly find the confidence to sit up, feet planted on the floor. You are so close to his lap, “When you are undressed?”

“You can,” he nods, not able to hide the surprise on his face as you look curious above all else. He undoes the belt around his waist and lets it clatter to the floor, and you watch with nervous breath how he lets his own garments slip from his body until the whole of him is revealed. It is fascinating to see a man like this, much different from the statues around Rome and particularly where you sometimes have felt scared to look.

He steps between your knees, looking down at you and the height difference should be intimidating but is not. Instead, there’s the calming reassurance of being watched and guided as you lift your hand to rest your palm on the softness of his stomach. He has muscles there, just a little less toned than what the working men back at the village sport. His arms are what hold his tremendous strength, the effects of carrying a sword or spear on the battlefield. He is gorgeous, you think to yourself while curiosity and unexpected heat stir in your loins.

Your eyes wander while your palm skims lower. They follow the sculpt of his torso, a long scar weaving itself around his hip distracting you until your gaze settles on the sight of his erect cock. It is much larger than you expected - thick, long, and intimidating but somehow also beautiful - and the thought of it entering you brings new anxiety to your body and mind.

“You are nervous,” he points out, chest rising and falling slowly as you explore the fine hair on his skin which becomes thicker the further down on his abdomen they are. You run your nails through the trail just below his navel, looking up as his cock jumps at the contact.

“I try not to be. I’d rather be curious,” you tell him, finally bold enough to touch him where he is hard and straining. You wrap your fingers around his generous girth. He is warm in your hand as you stroke him lightly to simply feel the weight of him and it takes little else before he lets out a low, appreciative groan. The confidence his response gives you makes your mouth water but despite what your brain tells you to do, that seems over the line right now.

Instead, you look up at him with big eyes as you continue in a rhythm that he seems to like because you can hear the catch of his breath. You think he might stop you when he covers your hand with his own but instead, he adds slight pressure to guide you in how he likes to be touched.

You hadn’t thought this was how everything would go down. There’s a strange form of equality between the two of you when you are naked together, a comfortable feeling in your chest at the idea of a whole night of giving and taking pleasure from each other being before you. What you had gathered from what Cassius so disgustingly had tried to explain to you whenever you were by the river alone, it was supposed to be a cruel act for the woman. This is not cruel.

Eventually, Marcus’ breathing has become labored and you know that he is within reach of his own pleasure. However, he tightens his grip on your hand to slow down your movements much to your confusion.

“You’re a quick learner, almost too quick,” he says with a warm chuckle, removing your hand from his cock. There’s a bead of clear liquid at the tip, threatening to drip down onto your thigh. The room somehow smells sweeter when the both of you have been so close to experiencing a peak together.

“Why did you stop me?” You ask curiously and let your hand drop to your lap. You can still feel his warmth radiating from his heated skin, it glowing with a sheen of sweat already.

“I don’t want this to be over yet,” he explains with a few controlled breaths that seem to calm him. His jaw clenches as if he is in pain but he doesn’t sound like you have done anything wrong, “And it will be if I lose myself.”

“Am I… are we ready now?” You question once more.

“Lie back,” he orders with a nod. You do as you are told and he joins you on the bed with confident grace, as if he has done this a million times before, the mattress dipping underneath him. Gently, he pushes on your chest to make you lie down on your back. When you are comfortable, he lies down next to you with his body turned towards you.

You see him come closer and meet him halfway, pressing your lips to his in a kiss even deeper than the first you’ve shared with him. He makes a noise of approval at your eagerness, cupping your face with a single giant hand while you cup the back of his head with both of your own. You try to initiate more kisses but suddenly his lips descend to your throat, leaving goosebumps in their wake as he pecks along the sensitive skin of your collarbone too. You start to feel impatient for another high with him, another peak of pleasure to dance its way through your veins.

“Marcus,” you say with your fingers in his hair, “I’m ready.”

“Let me make sure,” he says while the hand on your face settles on your thigh instead. He rakes his fingernails across your skin when he goes inwards, causing you to gasp at the idea of what he means. Are you wet for him? Yes, you are. You know you are.

Two fingers slide between your legs. He parts your thighs slightly to gain more access and then simply feels the slick that has been dripping from your cunt since you kissed him fully clothed. A gasp leaves you at the feeling of being touched by a man in a place that you’ve been told is your most private. In return, a smile spreads across his face and a satisfied hum escapes him.

“You’re ready,” he whispers with his gaze fixed on you. Teasingly, he holds his fingers up before you and turns his wrist so you can see your wetness shine in the light. He then puts his digits in his mouth and licks them clean, to which you want to hide your face with a squeak. He describes you as ripe and sweet, juicy like the peaches in the Summer, all the while he shifts his weight and positions himself between your thighs.

Feeling him like this - the skin of his rough thighs, the coarse hairs that feel nothing like yours as they grace your softness - makes a fresh wave of nerves wash over you. It feels like there’s suddenly a very short time to prepare for what you have come to understand will be a transformative experience. You start to tremble, looking down between Marcus’ legs and wondering how on Earth you are supposed to allow him into your body. Above you, you hear him say your name but it sounds like you’ve been trapped inside a bell jar.

“We will go slow,” he promises when you look like a hunted doe. He has placed his hands on your thighs to soothe you, letting his calloused palms skim up and down your skin, but you tense up even more since he has barely touched you before. You swallow as he goes on, “You will guide me with your comfort. If anything hurts, I promise it’ll only be for a moment.”

“You will stop if I tell you to?” You ask with uncertainty. A part of you already knows that you will try to power through no matter the pain.

“Yes,” he promises and removes his hand again when he realizes its effect on you. He places it on your chest instead, feeling your unsteady breaths underneath it, “But I need you to relax, Carissima. Take a deep breath and tell me what you fear.”

You do as he says, heaving for a large mouthful of air that makes your heartbeat settle down slightly as it fills your lungs. For once, you don’t shy away from his gaze as you talk about lying with him in such explicit terms. You chew your bottom lip after a few breaths, “What if it doesn’t fit?”

Marcus laughs and you feel embarrassed. He shakes his head as he notices, leaning over you to hover just above your lips. You hold onto the arm on your chest as he reassures you, “It’ll fit, I promise on the Gods. Your body and mine were made for this; for the act of making beautiful children.”

You decide to be brave and kiss him now that he is so close, and slowly, as you taste his mouth again, you tangle together in a way that makes sense for what you are about to do. Marcus is close enough to map out every detail of your face, one hand on your hip and the other resting just above your head. You, on the other hand, have grabbed both his bare shoulders, holding onto him tight enough for your fingertips to dent his skin. He has promised that it will be okay if you scratch him with your nails, that he, if he is completely honest, likes that sort of thing.

“Okay, I’m ready,” you say with determination, feeling the way Marcus lets go of your hip to run his fingers through your folds again. You moan softly as he lets his hand gather wetness, your eyes going down to watch him take his cock in hand and smear it with slick.

“Don’t look down there, look at me,” he guides you gently as he prods against your slit. You force yourself to meet his eyes again, a gaze in them that holds a mix of desire and restraint. He takes a deep breath that is followed by him starting to push forward, the feeling so intense that you whimper while keeping eye contact.

“Shh,” he soothes during the initial sensation. There's a painful sting as the head stretches your walls that have never known such intrusion. It makes you breathe rapidly and shudder from discomfort until a cry leaves you when you are breached. Tears form at the corners of your eyes as it burns. It’s a feeling that you can’t describe, a fullness that feels unnatural and natural at the same time. He pushes beyond the thick head and it makes you tighten around him, so much he has to still completely. He looks angry but he isn’t, his teeth gritted as he continues to push despite the danger of finishing, “You’re tight around me, try to relax.”

“S-sorry,” you attempt to follow his instruction, try focusing on the exciting intensity of his gaze, the delicious way he looks at you because he wants you. His weight on you is so heavenly, his skin is warm against yours that is riddled with goosebumps despite not being cold, and the sound of his breathing reminds you of the way your own breath is rapid when you pleasure yourself.

Yet when you seem to think that the worst is over, he goes a little faster with feeding you his cock and the pain intensifies by blooming into something more sharp. The air inside your lungs feels trapped as your breath hitches but you force it out until it releases into a pained cry. Mostly, you just want to stop but you’re reminded that this has to happen if the marriage is to be successful and legitimate. So instead, you clutch at Marcus’ shoulders and whine.

“Am I hurting you?” He asks, resting his forehead against yours and stilling his hips. You nod at first but then shake your head quickly afterward, unable to speak in case you’ll sob. He doesn’t seem convinced, “I’ll try moving. I won’t go further in before you can handle it.”

You nod in approval, your heart beating so fast it is making your mind feel clouded. He begins to move with gentle, shallow thrusts of his hips, his eyes glued to you in search of anything that might tell him that it’s too much. The first few moments have you thinking that you might split in half but you find that the repeated fill of your cunt makes everything turn into a dull ache as you get used to it. Your noises are pained yet soft, soon switching to quiet moaning as he moves inside of you.

“Doing so well,” he praises as you welcome him further without thinking. A sensation that you had thought would only be painful has kickstarted a different kind of feeling. It’s a warmth that spreads through your lower body, pleasure that mixes in with the rest in an almost insistent way. Marcus makes a noise that makes you clench around his cock, and he finds your mouth in a messy kiss, “I’m almost all the way in. It’s supposed to feel good. Does it feel good?”

You nod repeatedly as you feel connected to him in a way that you never thought you would with another person. He is so deep inside of you and the discomfort that you thought would persist is fading away fast, leaving only a tug of pleasure that tightens more and more. You close your eyes and squeeze them shut as you moan a little louder for the first time.

Without control of your body, your hips rise up to meet his and he fucks you a little harder. The friction is significantly more intense than what you have felt alone, but you can feel its effects mixing with your previous orgasm’s warmth. The room fills with the lewd sounds of your shared breaths and the scent of sex.

Marcus’ hand settles on your hip, his incredible strength hauling your leg over his own hip so he can switch up the angle. Meanwhile, his other hand reaches down and pushes hard down on the back of your thigh to open you up even further to him. He stretches so his upper body towers over you and rolls his hips with controlled desire, mouth hanging open a little in his breathless state as he concentrates on making the pain disappear completely.

It does a moment later. An involuntary moan leaves you when the head of his cock slides over a spot that seems different from every other place inside of you. Your eyes fly open after having been squeezed shut for so many seconds, fireworks going off in your peripheral vision. Your gaze moves down between your bodies to see a faint trace of red on his cock, setting your heartbeat into overdrive. You should be shoving him off now that you are bleeding but what the hell felt so good? He hits the same spot once again to make you cry out and crane your neck.

“You like that? Was that all I had to do?” He asks with a satisfied smirk, breathing raggedly on top of you as he treats you to even more of the same pleasure. You want to come again, your hips rising to meet his thrusts more insistently if it means him giving you pleasure like that over and over again without fail. As your pleasure starts building into another peak, a shocked laugh leaves you.

“How do you… How did you—?“ You start.

“I knew where I wanted to reach. Feel that? That spot is made for feeling good,” he explains with a voice rough with his own pleasure before you manage to finish your inexperienced question, “I wanna hit that over and over, fill you up so you can feel it there for days when I’m done.”

“Don’t stop,” you groan.

“I’m not going to,” he promises but instincts tell you to make sure, that if he even falters a little, you’ll feel the frustration of no release like you have since you discovered what is between your legs. You tighten your thighs around his hips, locking your ankles around the small of his back and the move makes Marcus growl.

He, who you are ready to call a master in the art of love, leans down over you and drives into you like a wild animal. You whimper but it isn’t of pain, the familiar feeling of ecstasy building rapidly between your legs again. He feels huge inside of you, the whole length of him throbbing against your overstretched walls.

And he kisses you, seemingly not in control of himself anymore when he feels the same pressure in his lower abdomen. It is messy and sweet and rough at the same time, your hands cupping his face until they automatically slide up into his hair. You can feel his chest rub against your breasts, your nipples more sensitive than they ever have been and you moan as a fact runs through your head. No man has ever been this close to you before. Only the sun’s rays or the clouds’ rain has been this close to you.

You come once more with this thought in your mind, the intense and warm feeling hitting you as suddenly as the snapping of a dry twig found in the sun. You arch your back with a groan, feeling it even deeper inside of you than before because it seems to be the spot inside of you that has triggered it.

“Oh! Oh Gods,” you moan into the air, Marcus’ lips having descended to your now-exposed neck and kissing with the same fervor as he had your mouth. His own noises have grown in volume, his cock seeming to respond to how your heat clenches around it. You have tears coming down your face without knowing why; you aren’t upset but rather quite the opposite. Everything below your navel is sensitive, slick, and used up.

You feel it as he goes rigid as you have just done, a rough growl leaving him as he has his own orgasm. However, you instantly realize that Cassius forgot to mention something in his horrible renditions of love-making; the sticky, warm waves that come along with a man’s ultimate pleasure. You gasp in shock, looking down between the two of you as Marcus fills you up with his seed.

You cling to him, your hands grabbing at whatever they can while you whimper, and you stare at the milky white ring that forms around his length. He keeps going for a few thrusts more, and the noises coming from your connected bodies are on the verge of making you embarrassed. It’s squeaky and wet, but it’s not making you want to pull away. Instead, it makes you reach up to cup Marcus’ face so you drag his lips to your mouth and kiss him, the sensation of his seed inside of you making you feel more connected than ever.

You kiss for a moment before your husband buries his face in your neck. He leaves you empty when he softens, eliciting a weak gasp from you when you become aware of the sticky wetness smearing your inner thighs. Marcus pants against your already burning skin and chuckles without any particular reason. You are in awe of what has just happened, seeming to somehow know that this was the completion of the act.

This act, once so unfamiliar and feared, now feels like a revelation to you. The new dimension of pleasure, so uniquely intense and intimate, makes you wonder how anyone gets anything done when they can do this all the time. You are sticky with sweat, dizzy with tears and pleasure, and by the Gods, you want to do it again and again with him. He will not leave this bed until you get tired of feeling this way between your legs. You think of commanding him this but you are already aware that it is an impossibility. He would probably laugh at you but given the way he lifts his head and looks at you now, he might also follow through on your order by sinking back into the mess between your legs.

You miss his weight on you when he rolls off, the both of you staring towards the ceiling. The room becomes very quiet in the aftermath, torches and candlelight flickering around you. You have a hand on your chest, trying to calm your racing heartbeat to no avail and breathing rapidly to catch your breath. Your whole body buzzes, feeling like it is aglow and warm, and you dare sometimes look at your husband out of the corner of your eye. He looks the same but less surprised by the state he is in, clearly experienced and you find it all enticing when everything inside you has shifted.

You let your back and legs relax fully into the bed. Marcus watches as you stretch your body, and there is some kind of tension between you that you cannot put into words. You know it stems from the silence that is also between you, an unspoken game of who breaks it first, and when you dare peek at him, you find him staring right back at you. Your heart rate spikes once more but Marcus holds your gaze in a way that makes you unable to look away.

“Are you alright?” He asks after a beat. You see him look at you with a softness that reflects how vulnerable you must look right now. He reaches out to take your hand, brushing your knuckles with his thumb, “You are not in pain?”

“No. I– I’m fine,” you shake your head. You say the words and realize that they are true even despite your uncertainty at first. For now, your body feels afloat but you have a gnawing feeling that it won’t last. A thought enters your mind, “What do we do now? I mean, what does one do after being together like this?”

“Well, given our roles and the expectations placed upon our union, there’s a thing that I would like to do. I’d like to help you arrange yourself comfortably if you’ll allow me,” he gently releases your hand and shifts to sit upright beside you.

You give him a puzzled look, not sure what he is talking about but you nod. It’s natural to trust him, you find, and his proposition intrigues you, “Yes, of course.”

Marcus reaches for the pillow against the headboard on his side of the bed. He fluffs it with care before patting your thigh, causing you to follow your instincts and automatically lift your pelvis towards the ceiling. When you have given him the room for it, he slips the soft pillow underneath your hips to elevate them, resulting in them laying comfortably at a gentle angle.

Afterwards, he lies back down beside you but this time with his body facing yours. You try to smile at him but there’s embarrassment in your chest as the intention behind his act becomes clear. However, even as he senses your vulnerability, your new husband simply reaches for your hand again to kiss your knuckles. It is soft and intimate, it is kind reassurance in your time of transition.

A moment after, he guides you to rest your palm just below your navel and places his own on top of it, caressing where new life may spring after tonight if Goddess Juno has the both of you in her favor.

"The pillow will help," he says quietly as he gently feels the soft skin on your stomach, the skin made to carry a child, "To ensure that our union bears fruit. Our alliance is only strong if I put a baby in your belly."

The words remind you of how your partnership is a part of something much bigger than yourselves, something to do with your father’s power and greed that you aren’t sure if Marcus feels too. Yet despite the impersonal nature of your union, the General’s tone is gentle and speaks of more than just mere duty.

“And while we wait? What then?” You question, daring to entwine your fingers and feeling your chest flutter when he doesn’t protest.

“We may rest…” He suggests with a smile, “Or, if you prefer, we may talk. It is different in every marriage.”

There’s something about the way he words it that makes you feel more secure in your situation, that even if this is new territory, he is giving you permission to join in on shaping your relationship.

You nod, “I think I would like to talk.”

“Then talk we shall,” he agrees without question, “Tell me something about yourself.”

You let go of his hand to place both palms on your stomach, looking to the ceiling as you reminisce about the life you have left behind back home. You tell him about the river all over again, about the sparkles the sun leaves on the surface of it, so beautiful it makes it seem like you can pick them with your bare hands. You tell him about wine and bread from the market, about a secret orange tree that you think only you and your sisters know of, and then you tell him about your sisters who all married for love.

The latter makes Marcus shift slightly. A fleeting expression crosses his face before he gently clears his throat and gives you a small, hesitant smile to reassure you, “Do you think you’ll be happy here?”

You take a moment to mull it over. You don’t want to lie to him but he looks so hopeful and sad at the same time, “I suppose that there’s always going to be a part of me that is going to wonder what would have happened if I had followed my own path and married someone I was deeply in love with, but I hope I will find happiness here. Perhaps it would have been you anyway, you never know. I would be as lucky as my sisters then.”

You say the last sentence with a twinkle in your eye, a soft and playful smile on your face, and Marcus looks almost shy, the importance and duty that he usually carries crumbling. You take the opportunity to see further under the surface, “And what about you? Do you have family that you are close to? I couldn’t help but notice that there were no formal introductions at the festivities.”

He hesitates briefly before answering, “My parents passed when I was merely a child. Thus the military became my family in many ways. I’ve always admired their dedication to each other. The responsibilities for the men I command seem like the next closest thing.”

“I’m sorry about your parents,” you say sincerely, touching his wrist gently, “I suppose it explains your dedication.”

He looks modest as he smiles, “I suppose it does.”

There’s a comfortable silence in the large chamber. Marcus looks down at your hand, opening his palm to invite you to place your own in it. You take his hand without hesitation and it feels natural, a thing so calming and warm, which invites you to venture further into his world.

“May I ask you something?” You ask.

“Of course,” he replies.

“Our conversation was interrupted earlier by one of your men, and I wanted to ask what was whispered in your ear. I hope I am not intruding—“ You tiptoe into the conversation, hoping your curiosity doesn’t come off too strong.

He interrupts you, waving a hand dismissively, “We are husband and wife. I support the idea that we shouldn’t keep secrets from each other.”

“Yes. Yes, I quite agree with that,” you say with relief in your voice, “So you’ll tell me?”

“There was some unrest in the city today. The man was one of my men telling me that there’d been an incident - a confrontation - in one of the town squares. It led to the death of two of my soldiers.”

You gasp, “Gods! That’s terrible!”

“The loss is shameful and upsetting, yes, but the people are hungry,” he explains simply, “Even the smallest of disputes can escalate when tensions are high. When one feels unheard by leaders, one can be driven to acts one might never have considered before.”

“But surely Rome’s subjects know better than to challenge Roman authorities?” You note with your brows furrowed, suddenly finding yourself speaking words that you have heard too many times around the dinner table at your childhood home, "A firm hand might be necessary to keep the peace. If the people are allowed this kind of behavior towards the empire - and thus the emperors - they might sometimes need to be reminded of their place."

There’s a shift so small that you could almost miss it in Marcus’ expression but disappointment clouds his eyes. You notice it because he follows it by subtly slipping his hand out of yours. He measures you with his gaze for a moment, “You don’t truly believe that instilling fear with unyielding force is the right way to rule?”

You sense his disapproval and feel embarrassed flood your system. With warm cheeks, you sit up and stutter a reply, "I... I suppose that's what I've been taught. My father always says that strength and control keep the empire strong and unwavering."

“And if I ask you to look past your upbringing?” He says it casually but there’s a command in his voice. Suddenly, the security you had felt moments ago is washed away by the feeling of being a mere little girl.

You look down at your hands, not able to keep eye contact despite how close you have just been, "I didn't mean to offend. I don’t— I don’t think I have ever taken the time to consider other perspectives. My father has given little room for such discussion."

“Is that so?” He raises a brow, “And does he seek influence in Rome’s leadership?”

"Yes," you reply hesitantly, still yet unaware of the implications of your words, "He hopes that our marriage might help him gain favor, perhaps even become an advisor to the emperors."

“It seems like your father was unaware of the fact that I served under Maximus Decimus Meridius, a man who believed in ruling with honor instead of fear. He would have done himself a favor by seeking alliances elsewhere if he aligns himself with ruling through oppression. Perhaps he should have married you off to the emperors themselves,” he says firmly, jaw tight and words filled with frustration, tingeing on angry. They come out a lot more venomous than you think are his intentions yet they sting nonetheless and you have to bite your lip to keep tears at bay.

“I didn’t— I’m sorry, I was just repeating what I have always heard,” you stammer, swallowing around a lump in your throat. The vulnerability of your situation suddenly crashes over you like a wave trying to drown you, making you choke on a sob as his hard gaze scrutinizes you. You are young, barely out of childhood, and thrust into the role of a wife. You have never been expected to relay your views to anyone let alone a commanding general of the highest order in Rome.

For a moment, an uncomfortable silence fills up the growing distance between you. You try to shift away on the bed but there’s a sudden ache between your legs from the previous activities of your wedding night. It’s shameful to look back at him but you have no one else to turn to right now. A tear escapes your eye but you find the courage to say what you need to say even if it is with a dizzying heartbeat, “My whole life, I have been taught to be obedient, to serve along with my sisters. My mother even. I don’t know who I am outside of that.”

Marcus suddenly mirrors your expression of shame, evidently grappling with his own emotions behind his eyes. He gently lifts his hand to catch the tear running down your face until it threatens to drip down from your chin.

“Forgive me, I should not have raised my voice at you,” he says sincerely. He cups your cheek with a softening demeanor and you allow him, needing the affection and this is where you can receive it, “I know you have your concerns but I hope you can entertain the idea that this union might not just be a different cage.”

You nod, leaning your cheek into his gentle touch and earning a smile. There’s a promise beneath his words and despite everything, you allow yourself to feel hopeful. This man is not your father, actually far from it, and he is offering you something you are not used to; partnership and respect.

Instead of answering him, you chew on your bottom lip and try to find the same courage that made him apologize so you can address the ache in your lower body. The pillow under your legs is all askew. You try to busy yourself by straightening it, “It has started to hurt where you…— Is that normal?”

"It can be," he says gently, and the hand on your cheek goes to skim over your bare thigh in an attempt to soothe, "Your body needs time to adjust and recover.”

You pout as you automatically lie down again. You look like a child not getting their way, “Time to recover? Does this mean we can’t do it again?”

Marcus’ expression flashes with amusement at your eagerness. He raises a brow, “Eager, aren't we? I admire your enthusiasm, but it's important that you give yourself time to heal. Rest might help.”

“Surely there's something else we can do?” You only just abstain from pleading him, tilting your head.

“This, my dear wife, was your husband's subtle way of saying goodnight,” Marcus chuckles quietly and you find that all tension has slipped from the room once more. He dips down to kiss your forehead, the tip of his nose skimming down the length of yours. He stares into your eyes, only an inch from you, “Say it.”

You smile and kiss him softly, “Goodnight, Marcus.”

“Goodnight, Carissima,” he whispers.You go to sleep next to your general, the man who is slowly becoming the commander of your heartbeat, unaware that your conversation has changed the course of your father’s future gains from your powerful marriage.

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avastrasposts · 4 months ago

Text

Bona Dea - part 4

Plot: Stumbling through a dark town, general Marcus Acacius encounters the festival of Bona Dea. But what at first seems like just a pleasurable way to spend the night leaves a greater impression on him than he counted on.

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

General Marcus Acacius x female reader

Warnings: Explicit smut. No use of y/n, the reader is pretty much a blank slate if you're a Roman noble lady in 2nd century Tuscany?

Word count: 7.4k

A/N: I'm back with part four of Bona Dea! Part 1, 2 and 3 are linked above. After the events of the last part, Acacius is now on his way to Rome with his domina to start planning for their new life together. I was originally thinking this would be the final part but the chapter got very long so there will be a 5th part too.

A few notes on the Latin. I think most of it is pretty self-explanatory but just in case: Carrisme - dearest or sweetest Letica - a vehicle, a litter used for carrying people Vita mea - my life Ubi tu Gaius, ego Gaia - Ubi tu Gaia, ego Gaius - Wherever you are, I will be

Marcus remained true to his word, he was there when you woke an hour later. The wagon had come to a stand still and he was gently caressing your cheek as he roused you from sleep with a soft whisper.

“Carrisime, wake up. We’ve arrived at the inn, let’s get inside,” his arm was warm on your shoulder as he sat up, his cloak still wrapped around you. “Alba,” he said, his voice a bit louder, “wake up, girl, rouse yourself.”

He held your hand as you stepped from the carriage into the courtyard of a country inn, and reached out to steady Alba as she stepped down too.

“Cauponi,” he called, seeing the door open, “send someone to take care of the horses and the ladies’ luggage. I want to get them inside and settled as fast as possible, they’ve had a very harrowing day.”

The guest master nodded and called over his shoulder to someone on the inside. Marcus kept his arm around you, keeping you steady on your feet, as he gestured to one of his men to help Alba. Grateful for his solid body next to yours, you ventured into the inn. A slave girl bowed low and waved you along, leading you all up the stairs to the guests’ quarters. The room she showed you too was small but comfortable, and you gratefully sank down onto the bed. Even though you’d slept in the carriage, the events of the day were catching up with you and you felt tired to the bone. Alba must’ve felt much the same, because she sat down on the bed next to you, aided by Marcus’ soldier. She gave him a grateful smile as he bowed and retreated. Marcus remained in the room, giving orders to the slave girl while you put your arm around Alba and pulled her close. She leaned her head on your shoulder and let out a deep breath.

“You’re safe now, puella,” you soothed her quietly, “we’ll get a good night’s rest and then the general will escort us to Rome.”

“We won’t go back home?” she asked and you shook her head.

“Lunaris gave orders to pack up and move the household to Rome, remember? I will have to figure out what to do with it all when they arrive. But it will take them some weeks to get to Rome.”

“Where will we stay when we get there?” she looked up at you with worried eyes and you realised you hadn’t thought of that yet. Marcus had asked you to begin a new life with him in Rome, but what did that mean? You couldn’t move in with an unmarried man, you needed a place to stay until everything had been sorted. You bit your lip as you tried to think of a solution, but Marcus came to your aid, as was becoming his habit.

“I have a good friend, Titus Cassian Aurelius, I’ve known him almost my whole life and I trust him with everything. He’s married and lives with his wife and two children near my villa on the Palantine, you’ll both stay with him for as long as is needed while you get your affairs sorted.”

“He won’t mind? I can rent something nearby, I don’t want to impose on him and his family,” you said as Marcus sank down next to you on the bed.

“It was his idea, the whole thing actually, he’s a very strategic man, my most trusted advisor,” Marcus said and then chuckled quietly.

“She’s already falling asleep again,” he nodded with a smile at Alba whose eyes had already slipped close again, “Get her to bed and come find me, I’m in the room next door. I’ve ordered them to serve dinner there,” he leaned in and placed a soft kiss on your temple.

Marcus left and you tucked in Alba, lifting her legs onto the bed and covering her with the bedding. She looked peaceful sleeping, and you suddenly felt very tired yourself. The events of the bandit’s attack had been spinning at the back of your mind since you woke up in the carriage, now they filled your head, the choked gasp that escaped Lunaris as the man slit his throat repeating in your ears. You suddenly needed Marcus to hold you, to feel his warm body wrapped around yours, just to make you feel safe.

You tapped lightly on Marcus’ door and he quickly opened. One look at your eyes misted with tears, and he pulled you over the threshold as he closed the door, pulling you into his chest.

“Carrisime,” he mumbled into your hair as you buried your face in his soft tunic, his warm hand coming up to cup the back of your head, his arms holding you tight, “hush, vita mea, it’s over, you’re safe now. I’ll always keep you safe, amor.”

He stroked your back gently, slow soothing movements as your shoulders shook with each sob. All that could be heard was your whimpering, and Marcus’ softly mumbled words of comfort, reassuring you that you were safe, over and over again, until finally your breathing calmed down and your tears subsided. Marcus pulled back a little and gave you a small smile, cupping your jaw to wipe at your tear stained cheeks before he pressed his lips to yours in a soft kiss.

“I think you need some food, it’s been a very troublesome day. Come,” he took your hand and led you over to the table where a small dinner had been laid out. The inn was fairly simple, but Marcus’ room was clearly meant for guests of a higher status because it had the reclining seats next to the low table. With a grateful sigh you sank down on one of them and Marcus poured a cup of wine and handed it to you.

“Here, drink slowly, and have some food, it will make you feel much better.”

He reclined on the other seat as you gratefully sipped the wine, it wasn’t very good, but the sharp flavour of the grapes warmed you. Marcus filled a bowl with a simple stew and added some of the meat before he passed it to you.

“Here, eat, carissime,” he said, his eyes softening as they met yours and you took the bowl, He moved his hand to carefully push a strand of hair behind your ear, “I wish we could’ve been together in some easier way, I hate to see you so upset.”

“I’ve never felt so helpless before,” you sighed, “even when my father married me to Lunaris. I could always do something about my life, change something to make it more bearable. I had protection as his wife. But to see Lunaris pulled out of the carriage, and then the other man pulled me out, we were at their mercy and there was nothing I could do to protect myself or Alba. It felt like my world shattered when there was no one to help us. I was so helpless.”

Marcus shook his head wistfully, “I regret my plan, I should’ve taken out Lunaris myself, I never wanted to make you feel helpless. You’ve always seemed so strong, so capable, it’s what attracted me to you when we first met. Ordering me, a general, around like you’d done nothing else your whole life.” The last thing he said with a small chuckle and you smiled back at him as you swallowed down some more of the stew.

His face grew serious again and he sighed, “I forget when I’m with the army, surrounded by soldiers, how vulnerable women’s situation can be. I forbid my soldiers from hurting any women in the cities we conquer, but I wasn’t always a general who could command his own soldiers. I’ve seen first hand how men treat women after the battle is over.”

“Do you ever think of the people who are killed in all the wars?” you asked quietly and Marcus nodded.

“Yes, often. But when I was young, I never thought about them. To be a soldier and fight excited me, I was stronger than almost anyone, no one could beat me. And when Roman soldiers fell, I grieved the ones I called friends, but they’d had proud deaths, for the glory of Rome. They would be honoured by the gods for their sacrifice.”

He paused and put some more stew and bread in your bowl, “Eat and drink, carissime, and then you’ll sleep well tonight.”

You did as he said as Marcus rubbed his large palm over his face and sighed again.

“But I’m not young any more, and now they stay with me. Both the ones I’ve killed and the ones who die on my orders. I’ve lost count of all the men I’ve sent to their deaths. Even when we win great victories, men always die on both sides. War is brutal and I find I have less stomach for it these days.”

“And the men you killed today? Will they stay with you?”

“Maybe, but probably not. I feel no guilt about killing them, they were bandits. Even if I hired them to attack Lunaris, they were criminals. Titus got them from the local jail, they were headed for the arena.”

Marcus put his bowl down and took your hand, gently pulling you to your feet, “Stay with me tonight, carissime, no one will disturb us.”

You nodded as he led you to the bed and helped you out of your sandals, removing your jewellery as you undid your hair. His hands were soft as they brushed over your skin, unwrapping you until you stood in front of him in just your stola. With a soft smile he touched his fingertips to your cheek, tracing the line of your jaw and cupping it.

“I need to pay tribute to Bona Dea for guiding me to you, and giving me the chance of being with you for more than just one night,” his voice was low, the room very quiet except the crackling of the fire. You looked up into his eyes, warm and golden

“I want to spend all my nights with you, Marcus,” you whispered, reaching up to kiss his smiling lips as he wrapped his arms around you and returned the kiss.

“I hope you want to spend all your days with me too, carissime,” he mumbled against your mouth, resting his forehead against yours.

“I do,” you replied, tugging him gently onto the bed and pushing back the bedding.

Climbing into bed, getting under the covers with Marcus instead of falling into it in a frenzy of kisses and arousal, felt pivotal, even if the moment was very domestic, under strange circumstances. When Marcus wrapped his arm around your waist and pulled you into his chest, you breathed a deep sigh of relief. Never had your husband made you feel this safe and content, so treasured. And despite the tumultuous events of the day, you soon fell into a deep sleep, tucked against Marcus' chest and with his arms around you.

The next morning you woke, still wrapped in Marcus’s arms. It took you a moment to remember where you were, but at the sight of the strange room, the memories came flooding back. You turned your head to look at Marcus and found him just blinking awake, rubbing a drowsy hand over his eyes.

“Good morning, dominus,” you smiled at him, pushing back one of the dark curls from his forehead.

“Good morning, my domina,” he muttered, his voice heavy with sleep as he yawned wide.

He pulled you close again, guiding your head to his chest, “It’s too early, I haven’t slept this well in many months, let’s steal some time, carissime.”

You pressed a kiss against his chest and he grumbled low in appreciation as he closed his eyes.

He didn’t get many minutes of extra sleep though, barely no time seemed to pass and there was a heavy knock on the door.

“General, it’s septima hora,” a voice called.

“Thank you, Orbius. Tell the men to prepare to march.”

With a grumble he pushed himself up and glanced down at you, still curled up against him.

“One more day, tonight we’ll be in Rome and we can start preparing for our lives together properly.”

“I can’t wait, Marcus,” you replied, sitting up too. He took your chin between his thumb and finger and pulled you close, his mouth finding yours for a slow kiss.

“One for the road,” he smiled, “Come, let’s sneak you back to your room.”

The day in the carriage was long, but you and Alba passed the time by watching the landscape roll by and chat with Marcus who often rode next to the carriage and entertained you both with stories of his travels. With his men nearby, he couldn’t appear to be more than a casual acquaintance of your husband’s who’d just happened to rescue you from the bandits. But his smiles as he looked down at you filled you with warmth, and the mild December day seemed to hold a promise of spring as the arcadian countryside near Rome passed by.

You’d been to Rome once before as a young woman with your father, while emperor Marcus Aurelius still ruled. But not even the vague images in your memory could prepare you for seeing the grand capital of the empire up close again. With Alba pressed to your side, you both all but hung out of the carriage window, trying to catch a glimpse of the sprawling metropolis as the Aurelian Gate drew near. The structure loomed high over you, letting a steady stream of carriages, horses and pedestrians into Rome through the imposing city wall. Alba’s eyes were wide, the walls from your own small hometown were nothing in comparison to the thick bulwark that served to protect Rome.

The small force that had escorted you and Alba diverted to barracks at Campus Martius, and Marcus and two officers led the two carriages towards the Palantine and Titus’ villa. The Aurelian Way was wide and let the traffic pass easily as the tall buildings on either side grew more and more grand, the road beginning to snake its way up towards the crest of the hill. Soon the small party turned on to a narrower road and came to a halt in front of a gate. The sentry challenged the driver but snapped a sharp salute when he saw Marcus on horseback.

“General Acacius, welcome back, I’ll let Cassian Aurelius know that you have arrived and send men to take care of your party.”

“Thank you, Quintus,” Marcus replied, waving the two carriages through the gate.

Titus Cassian Aurelius’ villa was grand on a scale you’d never seen before, your own back home was nothing by comparison. You stepped down from the carriage as Marcus swung himself from his horse.

“My lady, it has been my pleasure to keep you safe on this journey, despite the grievous circumstances I found you in. My condolences again for the loss of your husband. I hope to see you soon again.”

With that, he bowed low, before turning on his heel and marching with sharp steps away into the house. It stung you a little, the way he had to seem almost indifferent to you while in front of others. It would be many weeks before your husband’s affairs were put in order, to declare you a widow and make it possible for Marcus to properly wed you. Until then he would have to appear to treat you as a fleeting acquaintance in public. Perhaps he could visit Aurelius’ villa regularly, they were old friends after all, and you could see him then. Even if Marcus couldn’t treat you like his wife yet, just seeing him would be enough, at least you’d both be in the same room.

A slave escorted Alba and you through beautifully decorated rooms and hallways until you reached two interconnected rooms in the guest quarters of the house.

Every wall was covered by mosaics and paintings, and in alcoves and quads were fresh flowers and works of art, beautiful effigies of the gods. The two rooms assigned to you both, opened up to a walled garden, and somewhere behind the evergreens you could hear tinkling water.

“Domina Aurelius would like to know that the villa’s bath is yours to use should you wish to refresh yourself after your journey,” the servant slave woman said as she stood by the door, waiting while you and Alba made yourself comfortable in your new lodgings. “There’s an alcove for your maid here, and the latrina is through that door.”

“Thank you,” you replied, “a bath sounds like a wonderful idea. Could you please show us where they are and arrange for fresh clothes to be brought there?”

The woman nodded and stepped aside to let you leave the room again. She led you to the villa’s thermae and left you to be cared for by the slave woman there. It was bliss to sink into the warm water and rinse off the dust and grime of the road. You lounged in the sunken pool while the woman worked on Alba, massaging sweet smelling olive oil into her skin and scraping it off. When your turn came, you all but fell asleep under her ministrations. The scraping of the strigil made your skin feel soft and warm and you both yawned wide as you made your way back to your rooms. But you weren’t left alone for long, there was a knock on the door and a dark haired man entered.

He bowed low and introduced himself as the master of the house.

“And call me Titus, please,” he said, a warm smile on his open face, “any friend of Marcu’s is a friend of mine.”

“Thank you for letting us stay here, Titus,” you replied gratefully, “I don’t know what we’d do if it wasn’t for your generosity.”

“It’s no trouble, the villa is big enough as you can see, and my dear wife was delighted by the idea of having some female company stay with us for a while,” he chuckled lightly, “She has no female relatives and and I have been away for a long time, she’s been running the house and taking care of our rag tag bunch of children. To have you two in the house will lift her spirits immensely.”

The fast thrumming of bare feet could be heard from the hallway outside the door and Titus’s bright blue eyes sparkled as he turned towards the sound.

“I think you’re about to meet one of my offspring, by the sound of it, Gaius, my oldest son.”

A boy about the age of eight tumbled through the door, a big grin on his face as his father caught him and swung him up in the air.

“You’ll wake up the dead with all that noise, Gaius,” Titus laughed, “What’s the rush?”

“Mater said to tell you that dinner will be served any moment and you should bring our guests into the dining hall.”

“Then we best do as she commands, and not upset the cook by letting his food grow cold,” Titus set Gaius down on the floor and extended his arm to you, “Please, domina, let me escort you, Gaius, show some good manners and escort Alba.”

Titus' friendly manner and easy laugh made you feel comfortable in his company almost straight away. And the fact that he was Marcus’ most trusted advisor further warmed you to him. You knew he knew about you and Marcus, he was the one who’d fashioned the plan for the ambush after all, and he seemed to have accepted Marcus’ words about you without any hesitation or doubt. You accepted his arm with a smile to match his and let him lead you out into the hallway. As you walked, Titus bent his head to yours and whispered.

“My wife and children don’t know about you and Marcus, I’ve kept it from them to make the secret easier to contain. But my wife is a very perceptive and clever woman, she might guess your attachment anyway.”

“Marcus said he trusts you with his life, does that extend to your wife?” you asked, wondering silently how you’d keep your eyes from wandering to Marcus as soon as he was near.

“It does, he’s known her for as long as I have and she is a good friend of his too. In fact, I’ve often wished for him to find a woman to marry to equal her. She is my eternal pillar, I truly do not know how I’d go through life without her by my side,” Titus replied with a soft smile. He glanced over his shoulder, Gaius was chattering away to Alba who was laughing at his excitement about the new horse that had just arrived.

“I’m looking forward to meeting her, she sounds like a remarkable woman,” you said, “And Marcus is lucky to have such good friends, I really can’t thank you enough for your help.”

“Marcus and I have known each other since we were boys, he’s saved my life countless times and we’ve been through many campaigns together. He is a great man and I’m proud to call him my friend.” Titus' emotions were clear on his face as he turned a corner and led you through a set of wide double doors into the dining hall, “I have never seen him so affected by a woman before, as he was when he returned to the camp after meeting you. If I can help him find the same happiness I have with my Antonia, I’ll do whatever he needs.”

Titus gave your arm a gentle squeeze before he held out his hand towards the woman who was walking across the room.

“Domina Lunaris, please meet my darling wife, Antonia Cassius Aurelius.”

The tall woman’s dark skin gleamed under the light of the oil lamps as she smiled at you. Her jet black hair matched that of her husband and her son, but while theirs was cut short and neat, her tight curls were piled high on her head and fastened with gold combs.

“Domina Lunaris, we’re honoured to have you and your cousin as our guests,” she embraced you warmly, taking you off guard with her fondness, “I heard of the attack and how General Acacius came to your rescue, what an ordeal! I’m so glad he was there, and please know that you’re welcome to stay here for as long as you need.”

“Domina Aurelius, we are very grateful for your hospitality, and for General Acacius' aid, we can’t thank you enough.”

“Domina.”

The low voice was very familiar by now, and a frill of excitement shot through you as you turned to Marcus who had appeared behind Antonia. He bowed low as Antonia stepped back to give him space to greet you. He was out of his armour and wearing a dark green tunic, foregoing the cumbersome toga. His dark curls looked damp and you guessed he’d been to a thermae too, maybe the one in his own villa before returning here. He looked wonderfully informal, you thought, relaxed, as if he’d left the general at home, or with the soldiers, and come only as Marcus.

“General,” you replied, curtsied low to him, catching his smile just as you dropped your gaze to the floor, the perfect image of a deferential lady greeting a celebrated Roman officer. “Thank you again for all your aid and for arranging for us to stay here, we’re very grateful.”

“It has been my pleasure, Domina Lunaris,” he replied, taking your hand and leading you to the table. It was an informal setting, all of you reclining around the same table, even the children were allowed, and you smiled as you watched Gaius bow deeply to Alba as he showed her to her accubitum.

Titus reclined next to you with Antonia to your other side, Marcus was opposite with Alba next to him. You could feel Marcus’ eyes on you from the moment you reclined on the accubitum, warm and smiling, as the servants brought out the food and wine. It took all you had to not look back at him and smile like a fool, instead you raised your glass in toast as Titus formally greeted Alba and you to their family home.

“To new friends and new beginnings,” he smiled at you both. You met Marcus’ eyes over the brim of your glass as you sipped the wine, and he winked back at you with a grin. You had to bite your lip to stop yourself from laughing out loud, he was clearly giving no care to letting Antonia see his intentions. Already you could sense her curiosity as she took a platter from a servant and offered you the first bites.

She said nothing about Marcus’ behaviour throughout the dinner, instead the conversation flowed easily around the things Marcus and her husband had seen during their latest campaign. The two men shared stories that made you all laugh, the children giggling as Titus gave a very accurate impersonation of a grumpy Marcus at the end of a very wet and muddy march. You glanced over at the usually so stern general, and found him laughing along with the children as his old friend poked fun at him. Seeing him surrounded by the people who must mean most to him, warmed your heart, and as he turned his gaze on you and smiled, you returned his affectionate look.

As dinner wound down, Antonia sent the children to bed, and led you all to a smaller, informal room with comfortable accubita filled with pillows, the floor lined with thick rugs to ward off the cold December night. You sat down on one of the recliners, putting a pillow behind your back, but before you could lay down on your side, Marcus sat down next to you, his hand on the small of your back.

“I’m tired of pretending,” he mumbled, “When the servants have left, I would like to tell Antonia too.”

“I don’t think she’ll be very surprised,” you smiled at him, “we are terrible at hiding our secret.”

Marcus gave a soft laugh and glanced over at Antonia who was speaking to a servant. They left an amphora of wine and cups on a small table, and left, leaving the five of you alone in the room. As she turned to the room and came to sit next to her husband, she raised an eyebrow with a smile as she saw how closely Marcus was sitting to you.

“Something you wish to tell me, Marcus?” she asked, and he chuckled as Titus laughed.

“It could not have been more obvious if Cupid had stood behind you shooting arrows,” he grinned at you both.

You felt Marcus shift next to you, his arm sliding more firmly around your waist, and you looked back at him, not bothering to hide the infatuated smile you knew was spreading across your features.

“Nothing gets past you, Antonia,” he replied, pulling his gaze from you and smiling at her, “It seems Cupid has indeed done me a great favour, and thanks to the protection of the gods and the wit of your husband, I’ve managed to lure her to Rome to be my wife.”

Antonia’s smile widened and she slapped her husband’s shoulder, “You cur! I knew something was brewing and you told me nothing!”

“Don’t blame your husband,” Marcus said, “We do need to be careful and keep our commitment to ourselves until the affairs of Lunaris are settled. But as soon as possible, we��ll make an official announcement and be married.”

“Oh, Marcus, I’m so happy for you!” Antonia rose to her feet and crossed the room, bending down and placing kisses on both his cheeks before she did the same to you, “I’ve wanted love and happiness for you for so many years, I’m so glad you’ve finally found your match.”

“Thank you, Antonia,” you said, “Now you understand even more why I’m so very grateful to you and your husband for letting me stay with you until all is settled.”

“For as long as you wish, dear friend,” Antonia assured you, “We’ll be like sisters, after all, Marcus is my brother in all but name.”

Titus brought forward the cups after that, raising his glass, “Another toast then, to love this time, and to new families.”

You all drank to that, and Marcus placed a warm kiss on your cheek as he put his cup down.

“Amor,” he whispered, “Soon I’ll bring you home, and I vow to be the most loving husband Rome has ever seen, nothing will keep me from your side again.”

When the party finally broke up late at night, you walked with Marcus to his letica while Alba retreated to your rooms, giving you a few moments alone with him. Out of sight from his household guards, he pulled you close by the entrance to Titus’ villa and kissed you deeply.

“I have business to attend to tomorrow, but I will come for dinner tomorrow night again,” he whispered after a long, lingering kiss.

“I’m counting the days until we can sleep in the same bed again, until I can be properly yours,” you said, leaning your cheek against his chest as he wrapped his arms around you, holding you tight.

“Same, carissime,” he replied, “but know that I’m already yours, you need no law to tell you that. I’ve been yours since the night of Bona Dea,” he tilted your head up with his calloused fingers and kissed you again until you both broke apart, breathless.

“You make me feel like a young man struck dumb by Cupid’s arrows,” he chuckled, “I really should go, my household will wonder why their master returns from a long campaign only to stay out all night again.”

“Until tomorrow, Marcus,” you smiled, pressing a final kiss to his cheek.

The next few weeks fell into a routine, during the days Alba and you would help Antonia with the household, visit her friends and be introduced to her circles of Roman life. In the evenings, almost all of them, Marcus would come for dinner and you would be able to steal a few moments with him alone. You would find a secluded corner of the garden if it was not too cold, he’d wrap his cloak around you as you sat on his lap, cocooned in his warmth. Then you’d let him know if there had been any updates on your husband’s affairs, the slow process to declare you a widow and let you inherit his small fortune. Unsurprisingly your father had tried insisting on you returning to your home town, but you had refused to respond to his letters on that topic.

These quiet moments with Marcus were the best of your whole day. As much as you enjoyed spending time with Alba and Antonia, seeing Marcus’ face as he arrived at the villa and smiled at you, taking his hand in yours and sneaking off, those were the moments that lived in your heart for the hours when he wasn’t around.

When your time together was up and you had to return to the others, your lips were always swollen from his kisses, and the imprints of his hands had left warm marks all over your body. Like guilty, giggling school children, you’d sneak back into the dining room or the reception room, cheeks heating up as Titus’ teased you both.

But then finally came the day you’d been waiting for; the messenger arrived with the documents, stamped with the official mark of your hometown, your husband’s estate was now yours, the assets en route to Rome and you, legally a widow.

You told Marcus as you sat wrapped together under his cloak on one of the garden benches, and he cupped your face between his big hands and kissed you deeply as the cloak slipped off him. When his lips left yours, he leaned his head against your forehead and closed his eyes for a few moments before he pulled back and looked at you.

“Carrisime, I never formally asked you to be my wife, even though you know that I wish for nothing else. But now I can finally honour traditions and give you my ring.”

From the pouch on his belt he took a small package and carefully unwrapped it. The polished gold glimmered in the light as he held it out to you.

“My hand is joined with yours,” he said, as you took the ring and saw the two hands that embellished the ring, “If you’ll have me.” The last thing he said with a mischievous tone and you looked up at him with a smile, he knew there was no doubt in you, you were his as much as he was yours. Without a word you held out the ring to him to put on your finger, the fourth of your left hand, where the vein that ran to your heart began.

“Ubi tu Gaius, ego Gaia,” you whispered as he slipped it on and he brought your hand up to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your fingers.

“Ubi tu Gaia, ego Gaius”.

The wedding vows spoken between you in the quiet garden would need to be repeated in front of a priest, with all the ceremony required to legally make you his wife. But as far as Marcus was concerned, he was now your husband. And in the eyes of Rome, the ring on your finger now marked you as his, and he would fight anyone who tried to say otherwise. His lips left your hand and moved to your lips as he pulled the cloak around you both again, wrapping it and his arms around you as he deepened the kiss. The ring felt light on your finger, the cool metal a constant reminder that you had left behind your old life, and could now walk through Rome as Marcus Acacius betrothed.

You were very late for dinner that evening, but the news of your formal status as widow and the new ring on your finger, stole all the attention away from any concerns of cold food and irritated cooks.

The very next day Marcus began to plan for the ceremony and feast that would make you his wife. Tradition held that a widow should wait ten months before marrying again, but since no one here knew you or Lunaris, it was decided that tradition could be ignored Your father was also left out of the planning, he’d controlled the choice of your first husband, you were determined he would have nothing to do with your second marriage.

“It will be just you and me and Titus’ family,” Marcus promised, “We’ll keep the ceremonies so that we don’t anger the gods, but to hell with anyone else.” He’d brought you the knot of Hercules for your wedding day clothes and smiled as you traced your fingers over the decorations in the belt.

“I think I may have untied the knot a bit too early,” he chuckled, coming up behind you and resting his chin on your shoulder.

“I remember my first wedding night,” you said, and Marcus tightened his arms around your waist at the grim tone of your voice, “I was scared, I’d been told it would hurt, and I was trembling when I lay in bed with him. He untied the knot and told me to take off my tunic and then he just tried to push himself in. I cried and he told me that it proved that I was a virgin.”

“He was a fool,” Marcus said, his tone soothing as he pulled you closer to his chest, his warm body and presence calming you and reminding you that your next wedding night would be very different, “A groom should have experience of the other sex so that he can show his wife how to enjoy married life, it should be a pleasure for both husband and wife.”

“Oh Lunaris wanted it to be a pleasure alright, he would lecture me when he couldn’t get hard, tell me it was my fault. But not once did he think to make me feel pleasure too. I doubt he’d be able to though, that man could barely find the right hole to stick his cock in.”

Marcus chuckled softly behind you, his hand closing around yours, still holding the Hercules’ knot belt.

“Don’t think about him, and don’t think about your first wedding day anymore. This one will only be about us, I want us to have happy memories, and I want you to think about how many times I will make you cry my name in pleasure when I finally get to untie this belt and make you my wife.”

His words filled you with heat, and you leaned your head back against his shoulder as you reached up and cupped his cheek.

“Can we find a secluded spot in this villa for just a few minutes?” you mumbled, pressing your lips to the warm skin of his neck.

“Carissime,” he growled, his voice suddenly low and hungry as his hands tightened on your hips, “you have no idea what a hold you have on me.”

You smiled against his throat and let your tongue taste the pebbled skin, tasting the salt and musk of him as he took a deep breath, his fingers digging into your flesh.

“Show me,” you muttered quietly, grazing your teeth over his neck, moving up as far as you could, nipping at the thin skin under his ear. Marcus was gritting his teeth, you could feel it under your lips as you continued to press wet kisses over his throat, his jaw, and you inhaled his warm scent.

He suddenly pulled away from you, taking a few long strides to the door of the room, closing it firmly, and turning the lock.

“Here,” he said, his voice low and desirous, coming back to you and pulling you close again, “Here will do if we’re quiet and quick.”

You nodded and shoved aside the white tunic and belt on the table just as Marcus took hold of your waist and pressed himself against your back.

“How do you want me?” he murmured, his mouth now at your throat, “from behind like the first night, or up on this table like when I showed that fool Lunaris how I make you scream my name?” Marcus’ control was slipping, he could feel his member rapidly growing hard as he grinded against your soft body, his hands pulling you closer as he marked your throat with his teeth. His mind was buzzing, blood flowing in only one direction and it was almost painful how quickly his cock filled. He groaned into your neck again, rutting against your ass like a dog in heat. It had been over a month since he last had you to himself and now he wanted nothing more than to sink himself into your cunt and feel that addictive heat again.

You couldn’t respond, just moan as his hands began to slide under your stola, his mouth hot against your skin. His fingers wasted no time in pushing aside your undergarments, sliding into your wet folds, growling against your neck at finding you so ready for him.

“Marcus…” you pleaded, arching your back and urging him to push deeper in as he curled his fingers and began stroking your insides. He could feel you dripping over him and his cock twitched, pressed up against your soft curves.

“I think you’re ready for me,” he panted, driving his fingers deeper in as you moaned a little bit louder. He swiftly covered your mouth with his other hand, “Quiet, carissime, quiet, my greedy domina,” he chuckled into your ear, his warm breath tickling your skin. His fingers slipped out of your wet cunt and you gasped under his palm in anticipation as you felt him reach for his cock.

“Lean forward for me,” he mumbled, gently pushing you over the table. The cool air of the room chilled your skin as he lifted your stola over your hips, but the warmth of his hands as he kneaded the flesh of your behind shot new heat through you. Soon you felt the weight of him over your back as he leaned forward and pressed kisses to your shoulders, his hand guiding his cock through your folds, your arousal spreading over him as he groaned above you.

When he breached your tight opening, you bit your lip to stop yourself from crying out his name, and Marcus hissed, cursing low under his breath. His fingers dug into your hips as he pushed in, rocking his hips back and forth to slide himself deeper into your tight cunt. He was growling, a low rumble in his chest, and you felt him pull you back onto his cock, filling you all the way up as he bottomed out. His fingers moved between your legs and found the swollen pearl at the apex, circling his thumb around it. Your response made him press himself firmer against your backside, feeling you contract around him as you moaned under his hand. Choking back a groan he increased the pace, driving deep with each thrust, your grip on his cock was hurrying him towards his own finish and he suddenly moved his hand from your mouth to your waist.

“Domina…” he panted against you as he pulled you up, making you arch your back against his chest, “I can’t hold on much longer, let me feel you come with me.”

His fingers were matching the fast rhythm of his hips and the new angle hit a new spot inside you, making you squeeze your eyes shut as your body felt like it was about to combust.

You could only groan in response, reaching back and tugging at the curls at his neck, pulling his mouth yours to stifle your cries. Your legs seemed to lose all control as you came, Marcus' arm holding you up as he continued to caress your clit and drive his cock up into your spasming cunt. He was groaning into your mouth, his hips erratic as he felt his cock release deep into you, thrusting hard, pushing in as he lost all other thoughts, only your mouth against his and the wet, tight heat of your cunt filled his mind.

You seemed to come back to your senses faster than Marcus, your legs finding their strength again even though they felt unsteady. Marcus still had a firm grip on your body, his hand slipped from your wet folds to hold onto your hip. He rested his head against your shoulder, taking deep breaths as he drove his softening cock in and out of your cunt a few more times to milk it all out. With a long, shuddering exhale he finally stilled his movements and released his tight grip.

“Are you still with me, old man?” you teased him lightly and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

“Hush, domina,” he chuckled, “don’t mock your ageing soon-to-be husband, you will need to take care of me when I can’t fuck you like this anymore.”

You giggled as he swatted your behind and kissed him again. He gave a satisfied grumble as he pulled you tight against him.

“We should probably clean up and be seen in public soon,” you said, “before we raise even more suspicions.” You could feel him dripping out of you as his soft cock slipped out, and he nodded against your back.

“I can’t wait to have you in my own villa, no one else around, send away the servants, lock the doors, and then we can do this all day,” he said, “I’m making good on my promise from when we first met, when I’m your husband I’m keeping you in my bed, day and night,” he pulled down your stola and smoothed it out, squeezing your behind at the same time, “I do believe you called me your magnus concubinus, I have every intention of living up to that title.

There was a sudden knock on the door, just as you pulled him in to kiss the wicked smile he’d given you, and you had to end it far too soon.

“Only a few more days,” you said, giving him a quick kiss on his cheek instead, before you went to answer the door.

Tagging some lovely people who showered the first three parts with love: @gothcsz @missladym1981 @txlady37 @timelordfreya @bluesweaters15

@indiegirlunited @jessthebaker @likeficinthewnd @mysterious-moonstruck-musings @inept-the-magnificent

@angiewatson @wintersquirrel @sheepdogchick3 @asobeeee @harriedandharassed @cozylittlepigeon

@i-own-loki @pedrit0-pascalit0

#marcus acacius #marcus acacias x reader #marcus acacius fanfiction #pedro pascal #marcus acacius x you

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