theblackestvalkyrie - Tumblr blog

theblackestvalkyrie · 3 days ago

Text

This is so fucking good wtf this shit had my toes curling while reading it😩🥴

Macrinus | Reader (Gladiator II)

In which the reader is a female and from a patrician military family. Warning(s): plenty of nsfw, some degrading, cursing, blood and gore, age difference (sort of implied). Not proofread or anything, I typed this up in half an hour at 3am so it's probably not very high-quality.

"My lady." Macrinus bowed low and placed a kiss on your ring before slowly rising and smiling.

You lowered your eyes, it was an amusing game and you played it well.

The man before you laughed low in his throat. "Come, come, raise your eyes," he said. His fingers slid over your cheek, and with a sudden movement, he lifted your chin.

You looked at him at last, a smile playing on your lips. "And now?" you said. Macrinus' hand was still under your chin, he was playing with you, slowly causing your heart to beat faster, your breathing to become more erratic.

"Now?" whispered Macrinus in your ear. "Now..." He tucked stray locks of hair behind your ears, then smiled. His mouth was on yours in a heartbeat, his hands at your hips.

You succumbed, burning up at his touch. Macrinus grazed your lower lip with his teeth and slipped his tongue inside. You caught your breath. His fingers were teasing at your breasts, your buttocks, they were pushing between your legs. You let slip a moan.

Macrinus broke away with a smile. "I barely touched anything, and you still moan for me like a common whore?" He pinched your nipples with a mocking tenderness.

You threw your head back defiantly, but your face was hot. You were too aroused to be able to deny it, and Macrinus knew you too well.

"Pretending is no use." He beckoned to you to come closer, even closer, until you were pushed against him. The rustling of his wine-red and golden robes against your skin made you clench your thighs together. It was inevitable.

You put your arms around his neck. "Macrinus, touch me." Your breasts and your womanhood were aching with desire. It was frightening, how you had fallen for this man. Macrinus was calculating, power-hungry. Partly out of the desire for revenge, you knew this, but also because he enjoyed it. He was suave, charming, he could twist anyone around his finger and manipulate them at will. He thrilled you, and you ran to him to escape the staid restrictions of a patrician life.

Your father had no idea, in fact, it was better that way. You did not want to find out what the consequences might be, what he might do to you, to him. He could bring Macrinus down. After all, the Master of Gladiators had once fought within the ranks of those he now presided over, had suffered under the status of a slave and barbarian. He was powerful, yes, but his power was on a knife′s edge, and his enemies were many. The emperors trusted him, but everyone knew that they would never last - it was as clear as daylight, Geta and Caracalla were sick and crazed, begging to be usurped. You prayed to Jove to blind General Vibanius Sextus to his daughter′s amatory delinquency.

The slick sensation of a tongue on the skin of your neck brought you back to the real world with a jolt. Macrinus was kissing your neck, caging you with his frame against the rough walls of the Master′s quarters. The Colosseum echoed with the sharp clashing of metal upon metal and the shouts of men as the sweat began to bead and run down your back and the valley between your heaving breasts. It was sticky, lurid, visceral.

The brash sound of someone knocking on the door interrupted your increasingly lustful little game and you exhaled sharply.

Macrinus detached himself from you without a word, quickly pulling your stola straight, smirking a little. He threw you your hooded cloak before striding to admit the guest.

“Ah, Viggo!” Macrinus greeted his henchman and gladiatorial trainer with a clap on the shoulder. The pugnacious man raised his eyebrows at the female figure reclining on his master′s lectus. “I was entertaining a guest, you could say.”

Viggo snorted, then said: “That Hanno wants to speak to you.” He gestured crudely with his thumb in the direction of the cells, and turning on his heel, left the room.

“Indeed,” mused Macrinus. He shrugged, making his way towards you. He stood behind you, drawing back your hood, caressing your breasts and kissing your shoulders, making you arch your back for more. But he stepped back, cruelly, and, gathering the folds of his embroidered pallium, he turned and left for Hanno′s cell.

You cursed the gladiator for it, for ruining your pleasure, but there was nothing you could do. A slave escorted you discreetly outside, to where your litter and slaves were waiting in the dusty golden haze of the evening. Until the next time, you murmured.

“Daughter, I was concerned about your whereabouts,” said your father, as you entered the atrium of the family domus on the Esquiline. He was reclining by the cool water of the ornamental pool, a cup of wine at his elbow and a scroll held in his hand.

You felt your heart beat giddily. “I was visiting Livia Caela,” you lied. It slipped like a dead fish from your lips. You hoped that your appearance was not too dishevelled.

Vibanius beckoned to you. “Come, sit by me.” Hulda, a slave girl from Germania, brought a new jug of wine and a cup. He thanked her and poured you the red liquid, red like the blood of the men who fell in all his war campaigns. “Drink, my girl, the weather demands it.”

You accepted and sipped from the full cup. The first drops of wine seared your throat and you closed your eyes. You willed your mind to clear, to cease to think, to empty itself.

“I believe it is high time for us to retire from the heat of the city.” Vibanius glanced at you. “We could live near Antium for the remainder of the summer.” A clearing of his throat.

You were not sure why he was bringing this up so suddenly. “I thought…I thought you were occupied here in Rome, father.” As these words left your mouth, a thought struck you that left you cold. Perhaps he had discovered your liaison with Marcus Opellius Macrinus. Perhaps he wished to keep you away from him for as long as possible, until he finally succeeded in finding a suitable man for you to wed. Jove, please let this be false, you prayed.

Your father smiled. “Geta wishes for me to bring him the trophy of Persia…but Acacius and I are of the same opinion. We are still locked in a battle with the Parthians, and Numidia cost us many troops.”

The greed of Geta was famed, and you laughed. “Persia? Such a feat is impossible.”

“It certainly seems so.” Vibanius sighed. Then, after a pause, he shook his head. “It will not do to explain to you the matters of the senate and the emperors. After all, what can you do? You are a grown woman, Y/N, and it is my duty to see you married.” The same fixation of his, over and over again.

“I wish to wed a man I love,” you retorted. You were sick of his duty as the paterfamilias, by the Gods, you could have screamed from the frustration that crept like poison up your chest. But that was a foolish wish to have - no woman married for love. Such things did not exist. But Macrinus. Macrinus - did he love you? You laughed at yourself. He did not love anyone. He only played with them for his own amusement and his own satisfaction. And you? Were you in love with him? The answer refused to come to you. It hurt you, to know that you were only a passing fancy of his. It hurt you to know that he perhaps pitied you, even, and lay with you just to console you.

“You will marry the best suitor I can find.” Vibanius′ voice was stern, unwavering. He was simply stating the truth.

You swallowed and rose from the edge of the pool where you had been sitting. “I know that I will marry the one who brings the best prospects, father, do not concern yourself.” There was nothing to be done. To be wealthy, you had realised, and to be a woman, was to abandon any notion of independence.

With a significantly dampened heart, you excused yourself and hurried to your quarters. Dismissing Hulda, you lay sprawled on the fine feather mattress on which you slept. You drew the silk curtains around it and stared up at the ceiling. Juno, Queen of the Gods, stared back at you from a fresco, unflinching. Beside her was her husband, almighty Jove, and around them reclined the Muses, flanked over by Mars and his lover Venus. You thought that perhaps they were there to mock you for your clandestine intimacy with Macrinus, or to chastise you for being a fool when it came to marriage.

With nightfall came Rufus, who went about the house lighting the torches and fire bowls, and the walls were full of dancing shadows and watery gold. All was quiet.

You lay back against the embroidered silk pillows and cushions and thought of Macrinus. Slowly, your hands wandered over your body. You rid yourself of your tunic, quickly, desperately. Your hands were his hands, large and rough, as you caressed yourself. The night draught licked at your womanhood, betraying the state of your arousal and you bit back a wanton moan. Arching your back, you pushed a finger between your slick, swollen lips, finding and rubbing the bundle of nerves at their peak. Feverishly, you imagined Macrinus above you, his long, thick digits penetrating you with a tender sort of force and his teeth grazing your hardened nipples as he vested himself of his loincloth. It was much too vivid. Sparks and molten gold rushed through you, your vision was hazy, like smoke from incense.

You moaned aloud at this image and began to thrust into yourself, in, out, in a trance. It was not long before you came, stifling a cry of pleasure. Exhausted, you slumped back. It was frightening, this addiction to a man you had met one day, months ago, at a feast hosted by the emperors. Somewhere within you, you hoped for a way out - be it marriage to a senile senator, a domineering general, anyone…even Macrinus′ own death. It occurred to you that you could quite easily topple him, reduce him to the status of slave once more. Whispered secrets to a state official, perhaps? Or even an emperor? You dipped the tip of your index finger between your legs, into the clear fluid of your orgasm and tried to think of the best ways to betray your lover.

You did not have the chance to visit him for some two weeks, and during this time you oscillated between the desire to be held and fucked by him, to flirt and debate with him, and the desire to escape from the increasing tangled net of secrecy and inner anxiety that it was.

Vibanius was oblivious to all of this.

You attended the games whenever they were held. Seated among the highest-ranking nobles of Rome who flanked the imperial thrones on either side, you sought to catch glimpses of Macrinus. And he was there, each time, behind the emperors, clad in rich robes and jewels, smirking, laughing outright, as if at his rulers, and at the aristocrats, and the entire mass of spectators who jostled and vied for the best seat, the best view of the bloodshed and agony happening below. And occasionally, he looked towards you, with a secretive smile. When you caught his eye, it was as if you could not break away from his gaze, no matter how much you wished to.

When you at last parted, you directed your eyes at the gladiators in the golden, dust-filled arena. The flecks of blood and entrails on the sand and stones, turning brown, almost black in the scorching heat. The limbs that lay about after a melee game. The rabid beasts, starving, yet chained, leaping at their opponents. Corpses and flashing armour.

Macrinus had introduced Rome to a legion of new fighters; the crowd went wild for Hanno, the Unbeatable, a warrior captured and dragged to Rome from Numidia. His strategies and fair play were prized by his audience, and you were admittedly also becoming an interested spectator. “Does he not appear the very image of Mars?” whispered the wife of Senator Publius Vero to you as Hanno decapitated two opponents in quick succession. “Oh, yes,” you agreed. The woman did not hear her. She was practically salivating at the sight of Hanno′s bloodied muscles.

Your father had led the conquering of Numidia with Acacius. They had both been awarded laurels and a joint triumphal parade, both riding through the streets of Rome in gold-gilded chariots driven by pure white stallions. The slaves and prisoners of war were dragged behind them in caged carts. You had accompanied your father to the ceremony, bathed in the proud cheers of the Roman public. At the sight of the dejected, enslaved Numidians, you felt a small blade of guilt twist your stomach.

“Macrinus, welcome!”

Your father′s sonorous voice rang through the crowd in the atrium. He was dressed in a toga, red-striped, with a tunic embroidered at the neck and hem with gold thread. His stature was exaggerated by his seated pose, emphasising his military profession.

Marcus Opellius Macrinus strode through the entrance doorway with a broad smile. “Sextus!” he exclaimed. The nobles parted to allow him through, whispering among themselves, resuming their heated discussions and surprisingly ribald laughter. He was playing again, assuming a role. He was an entertainer, but he was clever, more so than any senator in the room. “My dear Sextus, how gratifying it is to be invited to your home, to your table.” He bowed low, then took a seat beside the General with a suave air of nonchalance.

“The pleasure is all mine - I am honoured to dine with such a great man as you.” Vibianus laughed and beckoned to a harried-looking Hulda and Rufus for more wine. “It is a Numidian novelty, this wine,” he remarked to his companion.

“Indeed? Then we must taste it,” replied Macrinus, with a smile of geniality.

From behind the bust of your great-grandsire somewhat further away, you could see that at Vibianus′ mention of Numidia, Macrinus′ smile was rigid and did not reach his eyes. It caused him pain, you saw, to speak of the part of the world where he was born.

The famed spiced wine of Numidian origin was poured for him, and he drained his cup within seconds. He smiled again, teeth flashing in the lamplight. “My dear Sextus,” he said, “I do believe that an interest in importing this delicacy has just been sown in my mind.”

The evening was colourful and raucous. You, as the only daughter of the general and simultaneously the lady of the household, were obliged to greet and entertain the guests. The wine flowed - supplied, in part, by Macrinus himself - and the feast laid out in the triclinium was lauded by all. Drusilla had outdone herself.

You reclined on a couch beside Livia Caela, the sister of a Praetorian tribune and your closest friend. After engaging in forced gaiety and gossip with the elderly wives of senators, you were glad to escape the pungent scent of alcohol with her.

Livia looked at you sideways. “You have not visited me in what feels like years, Y/N,” she said.

“I am sorry. I could not find an opportunity.” You took her hand.

“But I heard from your father that you had.”

You let go of her hand and bit your bottom lip. “What did he say?”

“Nothing in particular.” Livia was looking at you with undisguised curiosity. “Tell me, Y/N, what was the purpose of your little story?”

You hesitated. Was Livia truly trustworthy? “It was nothing much.”

“Nothing much?”

“Yes, exactly, nothing much.” You were an accomplished liar, but Livia had known you since you were both only five summers old.

“Come, tell me!” laughed Livia. “Does your life hang from it? Would it cause a scandal?”

You remained silent, sudden embarrassment washing over you.

“I shan′t stop, you must know that.”

“I do know that.”

“Did you arrange an assassination?” Livia was morbid, despite the fact that assassination and treachery was not uncommon among the uppermost ranks of Rome, the latter being rife.

“No.” Your eyes strayed momentarily, seeking out the tall and gilded figure of Macrinus amidst the throngs of guests.

This betrayed you to Livia, who pounced on this observation of hers immediately. “Oh, I see now - a lover?” She herself was promised to a senator. “Who is it? Tell me fast, it will be more than enough repayment for your long absences.”

“I-”

“Gods, is it that Porcius?”

“Livia, I-”

“Who could have caught your eye? Have you lain with each other?”

You turned to face her. “Macrinus, Livia,” you whispered through your fingers. You pressed a hand to her mouth in warning and left her sitting there, a frown on her pretty face.

Your moans, more wanton and louder than any sound you had dared make so far, filled your bedchamber. They mingled with Macrinus′ heavy grunts as he gripped the flesh of your hips, his cock slamming into you again and again. The smell of lust perfumed you both, it was intoxicating, more so than the bloodiest wine.

“By the Gods-” groaned Macrinus. He twisted your loosened hair around his wrist and pulled your head back, as if he was riding a beast of some kind.

You cried out, your breasts scraping the sheets, and you convulsed involuntarily at the friction.

A searing kiss silenced you. Calloused hands caressed your face, your back, your belly. “Come here,” he said. He lifted your exhausted, sweat-slicked frame and laid you on your back. “Put your knees up, my dove, yes - that′s right-”

You felt empty without him inside you, and you instinctively filled yourself with your fingers. You let them curl against your walls, wallowing in your slick. “Macrinus, please,” you whispered.

The swollen head of his length pushed at your cunt. Macrinus groaned deep in his chest as his cock entered you, slowly, painfully slowly. His chest gleamed with sweat, as did the gold in his earlobes and around his neck and arms. Above his left nipple was the eternal scar left by the gladiator′s branding iron, a mark of slavery and death.

You lifted your head and pressed your lips to the pale, raised scar.

Macrinus smiled down at her. “All sons of bitches,” he grunted. His fingers circled your clitoris, faster and faster. “Come for me,” he panted.

You whimpered at the devastating pleasure coursing through you, coiling in your lower belly, ready to burst. Macrinus′s cock slipped out, earning a curse, and slapped against the swollen nub. He pushed it back into your entrance as you came, clenching and convulsing around his thick length, crying out his name. He held you with surprising tenderness as you bucked your hips, with the fade of your orgasm, until he too began to stutter, spilling his seed deep within you with a final groan.

When it was over, you both lay, naked and covered in sweat, in each other′s embrace. The torch-flames crackled and spat, and beyond your quarters, the guests laughed and drank to music that drifted through the house.

It became cold, as the torches died out and the night breeze passed through the room. You drew Macrinus closer to you, craving the heat of his body.

But instead of reciprocating the gesture, he pushed your arms away gently and rose. He dressed himself again, adjusting his pallium and jewels. It was as if nothing had happened. He laced his sandals, stood, and, with a fleeting smile - or was it a smirk? - left the room.

#not my work

39 notes · View notes