Omg this blog has reached 2000 followers! Thank you so much loves ! I don't know what to do to thank you for it !
I started this blog terrified of posting fic, a low self esteem. I started with a Joker fic and you all welcomed it so well, and the fandom grew, the stories grew, more characters. I became a pro of Commodus fics, startes to write a bit of Agamemnon too. I'm so proud of what we have built over these 5 years â€ïž
I want to make it special â€ïž any suggestions are welcome â€ïž
The property of the Emperor - Final chapter- Commodus x You
You are sent as a slave to Commodus, you didnât expect to become an obssession...just like you didn't expect to care. Link to previous chapter (5) thank you for following me through this saga <3
Previously:
You trembled, wiping away the tears as your family watched youâŠuncertain. Perhaps ashamed of their attitude to you or even more confused as to what you were to Commodus.
You didnât explain. How could you? How could you tellâŠthat the monster who had claimed your body in such a sly stratagem, had also fallen in love in the only way he knew how? That he had freed youâŠand in doing so, had shackled himself in a way he never expected to.
âYou bastardâŠâ you said to yourself, smiling through tears. You needed to take the next ship to Rome.
You barely waited a few hours, enough for the night to fall. You didnât speak to your family, simply left a word saying you were leaving. Your home didnât feel like your home anymore, Rome had changed you and it was in Rome that you belonged now.
You had taken a boat, with enough gold to guarantee you safe travel to Rome. You had also the letter of Commodus, a seal that made you untouchable. You tightened your cloak around your shoulders. The journey back had been one of quiet determination, each step forward a conscious choice rather than a forced march. But the voyage had been anything but peaceful. As the ship cut through the waves, your mind had been a battlefield of contradictions.
You stood at the railing, salt spray stinging your cheeks, and wondered at the madness of your decision. To return voluntarily to the man who had owned you, body and soul. Was it strength or weakness? Had you been so thoroughly broken that you had come to crave your cage? Or was there something else, something that defied simple explanation?
"CommodusâŠ" you whispered into the wind, and the name itself was a paradox. It brought both comfort and pain. You remembered his hands, how they had both punished and caressed, how they had claimed you as property before they had learned to touch you with reverence. You remembered his voice, how it had commanded before it had questioned, how it had threatened before it had trembled with vulnerability.
You were not the same person who had left Rome weeks ago, fragile and uncertain. Now you moved with purpose, your head held high, your eyes clear. But inside, the turmoil raged. Were you returning to him, or to the version of yourself that had emerged in his presence? The woman who had discovered her own power even in captivity? The woman who had learned that submission could be a form of strength?
When you set foot in Rome, you didn't rush to the palace. Instead, you walked the streets of the city, observing the place that had once been your prison. The market stalls bustled with activity, the air thick with the scent of spices and freshly baked bread. Children ran through the narrow alleys, their laughter echoing against stone walls. You watched it all, reclaiming the city on your own terms before seeking him out.
When you finally approached the Palatine palace, the guards recognized you immediately. They bowed low, their expressions a mixture of surprise and deference. No one questioned your presence. No one dared. They simply searched you for weapons.
You walked the familiar corridors, your footsteps echoing against marble. You felt a strange sense of coming home after an eternity away. You paused in the courtyard where he had once teased you with fruit, where he had watched you with those intense, possessive eyes. You touched the marble column where you had leaned during your lessons in Roman customs. You were not just returning to him, you were returning to yourself, to what you had become.
You found him in the private gardens, sitting alone on a stone bench beneath a fig tree. He wore a simple tunic, his shoulders slumped, his gaze distant. He looked older than when you had left, the lines around his eyes more pronounced, his hair slightly unkempt. You knew he had not slept.
When he sensed a presence, he looked up, his expression shifting from curiosity to disbelief then, something close to fear.
"You're a dream." he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Another ghost to haunt my nights." You approached slowly, giving him space to process your presence.
"I'm real, Commodus." You spoke, your voice barely louder than his, your heart beating faster in your chest. What a strange emotion to be so close to him, now. Yet it didnât feel close enough. He stood abruptly, his hands trembling at his sides.
"Why have you come back? Did I not set you free? Did my letter not reach you?" He asked in confusion.
"It reached me." You said softly. "That's why I'm here."
He shook his head, confusion clouding his features. "I don't understand. I gave you what you wanted, freedom. Why return to the cage?"
"You were never just a cage, Commodus." you replied, your voice trembling not from fear but emotion. "And what I wanted wasn't freedom from you, but freedom with you." You reminded him. He knew you had naively fallen in love and he had used it to make you his puppet.
His eyes searched yours, looking for deception, for manipulation, for the familiar patterns of your past interactions. "I don't know how to be with you without owning youâŠ" he admitted, his vulnerability raw and unguarded. "I don't know how to love without possessing. You know that."
"Then we'll learn together." you said simply. âWhen you freed me showed me you could do better than possess.â
The days that followed were strange and tentative. You slept in separate chambers, though he often stood outside your door at night, as if guarding you from his own impulses. He didn't touch you, didn't command you, didn't even request your presence at meals unless he first asked if you would join him.
Small interactions became the foundation of your new relationship. The first morning, you found him in the dining chamber, where he had arranged the table himself, no servants. Two plates, with simple food. One wine cup each. A folded silk napkin called mappae beside your seat.
"I didn't know what you liked." he said, almost embarrassed. "So I had them make everything."
You looked at the spread, fruit, flatbread, a roasted bird glazed in honey, a small dish of saffron rice. Nothing extravagant, nothing performative. Just enough. You sat. He watched your every move. You tore a piece of bread and ate in silence with him.
"Do you miss your home?" He asked then, breaking the silence.
"Sometimes." You nodded
"Do you regret coming back?"
"No." The answer came without hesitation. âI did not recognize home as my own. This palace instead is.â
His breath caught. He looked down at his hands. "I thought if I let you go, I could learn how to stop needing you." He gave a bitter smile. "Turns out I only learned how to pray." You didn't respond. But your hand moved, slow, steady and rested over his. He stared at the gesture like it might vanish if he blinked.
Another evening, as you walked through the gardens, he turned to you suddenly. "What is your favorite flower?"
You blinked, surprised by the question. "I don't know."
"Then we'll find out." He said, and spent the next week bringing you different flowers, roses, lilies, jasmine, violets until you discovered your preference for chamomile. The following days the scent of chamomile filled the palace and new once were planted in the gardens.
He began to court you in earnest, not with extravagant gifts or public displays, but with quiet gestures of respect and care. He learned your favorite foods, your preferred time for waking, the stories that made you smile, the subjects that made your eyes light up with passion.
But the reconciliation of your complicated feelings took time. You still struggled with the memory of your captivity, with the knowledge that your relationship began in possession and power imbalance.
One night, as you sat together in the library, he reached for your hand but stopped himself, pulling back as if burned.
"You still fear me." he said, his voice heavy with resignation. âI understand.â
"I fear what we were." you corrected gently. "Not what we're becoming."
He looked at you, his eyes filled with something like hope. "And what are we becoming?"
"Something new." you replied. "Something better and I donât want that to change."
The seasons turned. Spring blossomed into summer, summer faded into autumn. Each day brought new discoveries, new understanding, new ways of being together.
Commodus changed before your eyes. The sharp edges softened. The possessive glances became lingering looks of wonder. The commands became requests. The demands became offerings.
You changed too. The fear gradually gave way to trust, the resentment to acceptance, the confusion to clarity. You began to see the man behind the emperor, the vulnerability behind the power, the love behind the possession.
One evening, as autumn painted the garden with golden light, you found him in the library, surrounded by scrolls. He wasn't reading them, he was sketching. YouâŠhe was painting you. Not as an object of pleasure, to be possessed but as an strong and free woman to be courted.
"I'm trying to understand." he said without looking up. "How you changedâŠor if perhaps you had always been the same."
You sat beside him, tracing the lines with your fingertip. "We're all versions of ourselves." you said softly. "Some just take longer to find."
He finally looked at you, his eyes clear. "I want to be the right version of myself. For you."
You smiled. "You're getting there."
That night, for the first time since your return, he touched you. Not with desire, but with reverence. His fingers brushed your cheek, traced your jaw, lingered at your pulse point.
"I never knewâŠ" he whispered, "that touch could be a question rather than a command."
You leaned into his hand. "I never knewâŠ" you replied, "that I could agree to it."
And then he leaned in, slowly, giving you time to pull away if you wished. His lips met yours softly, questioningly. It wasn't a kiss of possession, but of discovery. His mouth moved against yours with gentle exploration, learning the shape, the taste, the texture. When you responded, your lips parting slightly, he deepened the kiss just enough to show his desire without overwhelming you. It was the first kiss you had ever shared as equals, and it tasted goodâŠof hope and possibility.
Winter came, and with it, a quiet understanding between you. You shared his bed now, not as master and slave, not even emperor and consort, but as two people who had found their way back to each other through the wreckage of your past.
The first time he made love to you, it was slow, tentative, full of questions whispered against your skin.
"Is this right?" he asked, his fingers tracing the curve of your hip, down between your legs. You nodded, your breath catching as his touch sent shivers through your body.
"Does this please you?" he murmured, his lips brushing against your throat.
"YesâŠ" you breathed, your hands tangling in his hair, making him softly moan.
"May I?" he asked again and again, each question a surrender of power, each permission granted a gift of trust.
He entered you slowly, his eyes locked with yours, watching for any sign of hesitation, any flicker of fear. There was none. Only desire, only acceptance andâŠlove.
As he moved within you, it was nothing like your previous encounters. There was no urgency, no aggression, no taking. There was only giving, giving you pleasure, giving himself to you as completely as you had once been given to him.
When you cried out in release, it was willing, from pure pleasure. He followed soon after, his face buried in your neck, his body trembling with emotion rather than exertion.
Afterward, he held you close, his arms wrapped around you not as a cage, but as a shelter. You lay in silence, your hearts beating in rhythm, your breath mingling in the darkness.
"I never knewâŠ" he whispered against your hair, "that it could feel like this."
"Neither did I." you replied, and in that moment, you knew you had finally found your freedom. Not in running away, but in returning on your own terms, not as what others made you, but as who you chose to be.
Spring returned, and with it, a new beginning. Commodus ruled differently now; with compassion tempered by wisdom, with strength tempered by mercy. The Senate noticed. But most importantly, you noticed. He had understood he could be his own person, without the use of constant violence and possession.
One morning, as you walked through the gardens, he stopped beneath the olive tree where you had first begun to rebuild yourselves. He turned to you, his expression open, vulnerable.
"I've been thinkingâŠ" he said, taking your hand. "About your future. Our future if you want it to be." You looked at him, curious.
"Officially you have been sent here as a gift to be a concubine. Everyone knew I used to treat you like a pleasure slave which you should have never been.â He paused, his thumb stroking your knuckles. "The Senate keeps bothering me with requests of marriage.â
âWhich means you want me to be officially a concubine? Have you received marriage proposal from princesses and daughters of important men?â You smiled. Concubine was something you would accept because you knew politics didnât leave much space to love.
âI have received proposals. But I do not desire to marry them. If you wish it. You can be my empress. You are daughter of a general, it is more than enough. Besides it will strenghen our ties with this part of the Empire.â he listed with passion in his voice, it was something he desired deeply.
You felt yourself blush, your heart swelling in love. You blinked, your eyes wet. You had been right to come back to him âYou desire to take me as an equal. Before the gods, before all. No matter love or politicsâŠof course I accept.â you smiled, coming closer, your hands resting on his chest.
He leaned in. His lips met yours softly, you answered by pressing harder against his mouth, a promise of futures yet to unfold.
As you parted, forehead to forehead, you knew this was your truth, that sometimes, the most profound freedom comes not from running away, but from returning on your own terms. Not as what others made you, but as who you chose to be.
Years passed. Rome prospered under Commodus's rule. His reign became known not for its cruelty, but for its unexpected mercy. He still had his moments of darkness, such things don't vanish entirely but now he had you to guide him back to the light.
You married formally. You walked beside him through the palace, through Rome, through history. Not as his possession, but as his equal. His conscience, reminding him he had a heart.
Sometimes, in the quiet of night, he would trace the line of your jaw and whisper, "I was a monster when you came to me."
"You were lost. And I was too. In different ways but we found each other in the end."
He never stopped asking questions, never stopped learning. Never stopped trying to be worthy of the freedom you had given him by choosing to return.
One evening, as you watched the sunset from your balcony, his arms wrapped around you from behind, his chin resting on your shoulder.
"Do you ever regret it?" he asked softly. "Coming back?"
You turned in his arms, looked into the eyes that had once held only possession, now filled with love.
"Every dayâŠ" you said, and watched his face fall before you continued. "I regret every moment I spent away from you."
His relief was palpable. His smile genuine. "You knowâŠ" he said, his fingers tracing patterns on your swollen belly "I used to think that owning you was the greatest power I could have."
"And now?" You murmured with a smile, hands resting on his.
"Now I know that loving you is the greatest privilege I could ever have." He cooed, forehead gently pressed against your temple.
You tilted your head, capturing his lips with yours. Two souls who had found their way home to each other.
Rome strips away the boy you once knew, leaving only a prince drowning in his fatherâs contempt and his own hunger. In a world that fears his temper and feeds his vices, you stay, touching him like heâs still worth saving, even as he sinks deeper into the monster Rome made him to be. Chapter 1 here, chapter 2, chapter 3 (SORRY I TOOK SO LONG TO POST THE NEXT CHAPTER T_T )
The first sound you heard was birdsong. Just the distant call of crows and finches, threading between the trees outside your tent. Then warmth. Not from the sun nor from the blankets but from him.Â
Commodus was pressed behind you, one arm slung heavily around your waist, the other curled near your head, palm resting in the folds of your pillow. His chest rose and fell slowly against your back, the rhythm deep, steady.Â
You blinked at the canvas above you. The breath caught behind your ribs in disbelief. Here was the boy you knew once again. He was peaceful, relaxed and not the tormented prince. His nose brushed against the back of your shoulder as he exhaled in his sleep. His fingers shifted slightly, flexing against your stomach. Â
You let your eyes close for a moment. Let yourself feel it. The future Emperor of Rome, your favorite boy curled around you like something lost seeking warmth. The arm around your middle squeezed faintly. Then stilled again. You werenât sure how long you stayed like that. Maybe minutes, maybe longer. The scent of lavender still clung to your skin.Â
When you finally shifted, slowly and carefully, his body responded out of instinct. His grip tightened, his brows twitched, his mouth pressed softly to your shoulder. He didnât wake up. But he held you securely, blocking any escape.Â
âCommodus.â You whispered his name. Once, twice. On the third time, he stirred. His gaze blurry and lips slightly parted. He blinked at the space between you. At the arm heâd wrapped around your body like it belonged there. He froze as you turned slowly, meeting his gaze over your shoulder. Neither of you spoke at first.Â
âI didnât mean to.â he whispered, expecting a reaction of fear or anger.Â
âI know.â you replied softly, a small smile forming on your lips.Â
âI justâŠâ He tried but you placed your hand over his to shush him Â
âI know.â you said again, gently squeezing his fingers. It was Commodus, naked of every mask, holding on to something he hadnât known how to name. You let the silence stretch, soft and safe. And when you finally rose to start the day, washing your face, pulling on your outer robe, he stayed a moment longer on the cot watching you. And when he stood, barefoot and blinking in the morning light, he didnât say anything clever. He just reached for his cloak.Â
âYou sleep better than I do.â he murmured as he put on his boots.Â
âAre you sure about that?â you replied softly, smiling faintly. You felt his eyes on you, hesitant. Then he came closer, taking your hand and kissing it. You looked at each other in the eyes, the moment felt like had stopped. And this time, when he left your tent, he didnât leave with a menacing aura but a peaceful one.Â
Not too long after, you were re-rolling linens and placing salves into their wooden slots when the flap of your tent lifted. You didnât look up at first.Â
âI was told you had a guest last night.â spoke the voice of Marcus Aurelius.Â
Your hand paused mid-motion, wondering how he knew. You turned slowly. Marcus Aurelius stood just inside the tent, robes clean, sandals still wet from the dew. His expression was calm but his gaze was sharpened to a bladeâs edge. You inclined your head. Â
âHighness. He wasnât a guest. He came uninvited.âÂ
âDid he harm you?âÂ
âNo.â you replied instantly, despite everything you believed he would never. Marcusâs hands folded behind his back, nodding as if he didnât expect that answer.Â
âHe looked different this morning. Hair tousled, calm.âÂ
âHe slept.â you simply replied, putting down a pot of herbs.Â
âThat alone makes him different?â He asked, arching an eyebrow. You hesitated. Then looked up, meeting the emperorâs gaze with the same even tone you used on the dying.Â
âHe let someone close. And didnât try to make it a transaction.âÂ
âYou think that means something?â Marcusâs brow twitched.Â
âI think it means heâs tired of being alone.â you let out. Your words were followed by silence, then a sigh from the old emperor.Â
âI raised him with stoicism.â Marcus said quietly. âDiscipline, philosophy. We taught him how to govern a republic, to endure hardship, to command without cruelty.â he listed, like he always did for as far as your remembered âDo you know what he said when he was ten?â Marcus continued. âHe told Lucilla that when he grew up, he didnât want to be emperor. He wanted to be loved. Like she was....he was a fragile child,â Marcus murmured, but you didnât always like how his compassion seemed to get mixed with pity. âSensitive. Prone to fevers. He cried for days after his brother died. Cried again when Faustina passed. And after that⊠he stopped crying at all.â he looked at you once again.Â
âHe grieves more than you think,â you said gently as you stepped around the table to approach him.Â
âDo you love him?â His question came without malice.Â
âWhy does everyone ask me this question?â You asked instead of replying. He saw it. And for the first time, you saw him falter.Â
âI donât know how to reach him anymore,â Marcus whispered. If you loved him, he believed you would be the best one to ask to. Â You placed the sealed jar of honey salve into his palm.Â
âFor what?â he asked, surprised. Â
âHis hands. They crack for training so long in the cold.â You met his gaze. âStart there.â Marcus Aurelius looked down at the jar. Then back at you. And nodded before turning and slipping back into the morning light.Â
The rest of the morning went like any normal days. You visited the sicks in their tents, picked up some herbs and went back to your tent. However, since the rest of the family had arrived in the camp, you rarely remained far from them. The flap of your tent rustled in the beginning of the afternoon. You looked up from your mortar and pestle, expecting a runner or soldier with cracked skin, perhaps another centurion with a bruised rib.Â
Instead, Commodus stepped in. Clad in a deep crimson cloak. Hair combed, boots polished. He looked radiant but beneath this appearance, you noticed the slight slump of his shoulders, the faint pout behind his attempt at seriousness. You raised a brow as he stood very still.Â
âI think Iâm dying.â he announced. The words almost made you drop your mortar.Â
âOf what, exactly?â You blinked once, incredulous. Â
âI woke with⊠a weight. Here.â He sighed, gesturing vaguely to his chest. âAnd a tightness. I may have a fever.âÂ
âI didnât noticed anything this morning.â You stood slowly to join him. You took his wrist which was warm, not hot. His pulse was steady. A little quick but not from illness. You stepped closer. Placed a palm to his forehead. âNormal.âÂ
He leaned into your touch a fraction too long. You moved your hand to his chest, pressing gently, trying to look serious and worried now. Â
âAny pain?âÂ
âYes.â he said immediately. You waited, arching an eyebrow. He cracked a smile that meant it all. Confirming your idea, he was simply messing around. You stared at him. âI missed you.â he added, shrugging like a boy caught lying to stay home from school.Â
âCommodus...â you let out a slow breath. Even though deep down you wanted to laugh, it was cute.Â
âIâm still here under medical pretenses.â he said as he moved around you to sit on a cot uninvited.Â
âIâll prepare chamomile. For your wounded pride.â You crossed your arms, tempted to expose him to Lucilla.Â
âItâs not pride,â he said. âItâs⊠boredom. And gloom. And⊠a mild case of heartbreak.â He listed innocently. Â
 âDonât joke.â You turned, began gathering herbs, your heart beating faster than usual. He knew what he was doing.Â
âIâm not.âÂ
You glanced at him. He was reclining now, arms behind his head like a patient at ease, watching you with that half-lazy, half-hopeful stare.Â
âI felt something...â he said quietly âwhen I woke up beside you. Something I didnât want anyone to witness but you.â You listened to him as you poured hot water into a small cup and let the herbs steep.Â
âI came back for that.â he added. âEven if I had to limp.âÂ
You handed him the cup. He took it. Your fingers brushed, the warmth lingered. He looked down at the tea, then back at you. âYou could have asked me to leave this morning.â he said.Â
âI know.âÂ
âYou didnât. Why?âÂ
âBecause you seemed truly at peace. Because I felt with me you were safe.â you admitted, your back leaning against the table as you chatted. He sipped his drink. Then set the cup aside. And looked up at you.Â
âI still donât know how to do this.â he murmured, perhaps referring to a healthy relationship you thought. âBut I want to keep trying. With you.âÂ
You didnât say anything. But you stepped forward. You took the cloth from the basin, dipped it, wrung it out and pressed it gently to the back of his neck. He closed his eyes, exhaled. And for the second time in as many days, he let you tend to him. Â
As the day went on, the steam from the tea curled in the quiet air until it was gone. Commodus remained on the cot, half-reclined, one arm behind his head. You moved about the tent, giving treatments to soldiers passing by, organizing salves, grinding fresh herbs, occasionally glancing his way. And he watched.Â
âDid you always want to be a healer?â he broke the silence after a while. You looked up. He was staring at the folds of the tent above him, but you could tell, the question was sincere.Â
âYou do know my father is one.â you said. âI loved to watch him work. I wanted to help. Not just be a girl waiting to be married off and do domestic work.âÂ
âI remember. He treated me when I broke my thumb as a boy.â Commodus turned his head toward you.Â
âYou punched a marble bust of Socrates.â you said, lips twitching.Â
âHe was smug. And wasnât fond of lessons.â He grinned. You poured resin into a jar and sealed it with wax. Commodus studied you.Â
âWhy didnât you ever leave court service?â he shifted to lay on his side.Â
âBecause I thought no one could treat your wounds like I do. I liked the idea of being your healer.â You shrugged. He hummed in response. Â
âHow do you know when someone likes you?â he asked all of a sudden. You froze for a breath. Then looked over your shoulder. Â
âWhy?â you asked quietly, hope building in your chest.Â
âIâve been trying to⊠improve.  With people. With⊠seduction.â He gave a crooked smile which made you turn fully. Â
âFrom what I saw you donât have to do much to seduce.â you put your hands on your hips. He sat up slightly. Â
âI mean, I used to think wanting something was enough. You say the words, give the orders, and they kneel.â He waved a hand. âBut itâs different now. I want to⊠earn it.â Your heart thudded against your ribs. Â
âWell it depends. What kind of person are you trying to seduce?â you asked carefully.Â
âSomeone quiet. Who doesnât care about gold or power. Someone who always touches me like Iâm real.â He tilted his head as he thought. Your mouth went dry. Commodusâs gaze didnât leave yours. âSomeone who sleeps beside me without asking for anything.â he added softly. âWho says no, and stays anyway.âÂ
You didnât speak, softened despite everything. He leaned forward slightly, elbows on knees. Â
âAm I being obvious? Do I flirt too much?â he asked, still smiling. Â
âYes.â you murmured, turning red, finding it hard to maintain his gaze.Â
âDo you like it?â he smirked then.Â
You tunred around, trying to find something to keep your hands and mind busy. You heard him rise then, slowly, quietly. He walked over and stopped beside your worktable. His hand didnât reach. But it hovered.Â
âI thought...â he said, almost sheepish âthat you were jealous of the others. The ones I bedded. I thought you hated me for it.âÂ
You stared at the jar of mint oil you were holding. âI did hate it.â you said. âBut not for the reasons you think.â When you looked up, his eyes were wide, softer than youâd ever seen them.Â
âI wasnât jealous of them.â you whispered. âI was angry because you let yourself be touched by people who only want what you represent, what you can give them. While you should be touched only with devotion and selfless love.â He exhaled at your words. And with a gentleness that surprised even himself, he touched your wrist. Â
âBecause I thought it would make me less afraid....I was always afraidâ he said. âI still am.â And you believed his words, you knew he fought his inner demons constantly âThereâs something I havenât said.â You looked up. His eyes didnât waver. Â
âTomorrow...â he said âthereâs a charge. At the riverbank. You know that, donât you?âÂ
âIâve heard. The barbarians are holding the bridge.â You nodded.Â
âThey want me on the front line. Father thinks it will inspire loyalty. Maximus thinks it will teach me discipline.â He sighed, the muscles of his jaw working. Â
âAnd what do you think?âÂ
âI think it will get me killed.â he scoffed with a bitter smile. The words hung in the air like frost. He looked down, fingers clenching slightly. âIâm not afraid to fight.â he said. âNot in the arena. Not in the sand. There, I can see the crowd. I can control the danger. I can win.â He swallowed. âBut war isnât like that. Thereâs mud and smoke and screaming. There are no names, no faces. You stab, or you die. And I⊠I hate it. I hate that it makes me feel like Iâm ten years old again, too weak to lift a sword, too sick to train, too different to be the son he wanted.â You stepped closer. He didnât back away.Â
âIâm good with a blade.â he whispered. âBut I shake before battle. I feel like vomiting. I canât sleep. I canât eat. And no one knows. Because they think Iâm a god. Or a tyrant. A spoiled, blood-soaked child who feels pleasure in it.â His voice cracked. âAnd maybe I am.âÂ
You placed your hand over his to ground him. He looked at you, eyes glassy, mouth trembling like something unspoken had been caged for years.Â
âI didnât want to die tomorrow with this locked inside me.â he murmured. âNot when you finally see me. Not when⊠I finally want to be seen.âÂ
You didnât speak but you stepped closer still, forehead resting gently against his. His hands came up, unsure, hovering near your waist. Then settling, tentatively. You stayed like that, sharing breath in the dusk, until the wind shifted. And the scent of blood and iron still far off in the north reminded you both what tomorrow would bring. But for now he was safe. With you.Â
The last of the daylight bled from the tent, leaving the space in the soft, intimate glow of a single oil lamp youâd lit. The sounds of the camp outside had dimmed to the low murmur of men settling in for the night, the occasional clang of armor, the distant call of a watchman. Inside, it was just the two of you, and the quiet hum of the lamp.Â
You had moved from the floor to sit on the edge of the cot beside him, sharing a meal he had ordered to be brought to the tent. He hadnât let go of your hand. His thumb stroked slow circles over your knuckles, a nervous, rhythmic motion.Â
âI used to have nightmares about the dark.â he said suddenly, his voice a low murmur in the quiet. âNot monsters. Just⊠the dark itself. Like it was a solid thing. A weight. I still do sometimes.â You didnât say anything, just turned your hand over and laced your fingers with his.âIâd hide under my bed until I couldnât breathe,â he continued, staring at the canvas wall as if he could see through it, into the past. âYou found me once. Do you remember?â he turned his head at you.Â
âI remember. You were eight. You told me the shadows were trying to swallow you.â you nodded, giving a gentle squeeze to his hand. A faint, sad smile touched his lips. Â
âI did. And you didnât laugh. You just lay down on the floor with me, in the dust, and told me that shadows were just where light couldnât reach yet. That they couldnât hurt me.â He looked at you then, his eyes dark and searching. âYou were the only one who wasnât afraid to get in the dark with me.âÂ
âSomeone has to be.â you whispered. âOtherwise, the boy with the nightmares stays alone forever.â His grip tightened on your hand. Â
âIâm not a boy anymore.âÂ
âNo.â you agreed softly. âYouâre not. But the fear is still the same, isnât it?â He was quiet for a long time. You could hear his breath, feel the tension thrumming through him.Â
âWhat will you do?â he asked gently. âIf⊠if I donât come back?â The question hung in the air, sharp and real. You flinched, a pain so acute it stole your breath. You pulled your hand free only to cup his face.Â
âDonât.â you begged, your voice cracking. âDonât talk like that.âÂ
âI have to.â he said, his voice rough. âI need to know. Will you⊠will you mourn for me? Or will you just be glad the monster is gone?âÂ
Tears pricked in your eyes. You shook your head, leaning your forehead against his. âI will mourn the boy who asked if gods could cry. I will mourn the man who let me wash his hair in a lake. I will mourn the part of you that was finally learning how to be seen...â His breath hitched. He closed his eyes, his own composure finally shattering. Â
âThen donât let me die.â he whispered, a raw, broken plea. âPlease. I donât want to die in the mud, forgotten. I want⊠I want to come back here. To this tent. To you...to go back together in Rome.âÂ
You tilted your head up and kissed the corner of his mouth. It was a promise. A seal against the dark. He trembled at the touch, his own lip quivering, his eyes closing. When you parted, you rested your forehead against his again.Â
âYou will come back.â you said, with a conviction you didnât feel but had to give him. âAnd when you do, Iâll be here. Iâll have chamomile tea waiting for your wounded pride.âÂ
âOnly chamomile?â A wet, breathless chuckle escaped him.Â
âMaybe some honey...and all the rest.â you relented, a tear tracing a path down your cheek. Â
He shifted, turning more fully to you, his arm wrapping around your waist to pull you closer until there was no space left between you. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his body shaking with silent sobs heâd held back for a lifetime.Â
âI never told anyone...â he mumbled against your skin. âAbout being afraid. Not even Lucilla. Not really...â he whispered, his voice muffled, âif I die tomorrow, and the last thing I remember is being held by you⊠it might be enough. It might be the only thing that was ever real.âÂ
You held him tighter, your hands stroking his hair, his back, any part of him you could reach. You didnât speak of glory or Rome or duty. You spoke of small things. You told him about the stupid things Maximus did when he thought no one was looking. You described the way the sun hit the lake that night. You hummed a tune your mother used to sing, a simple melody without words.Â
Slowly, his trembling subsided. His breathing evened out, though he didnât sleep. He just lay there, holding you, being held. He simply settled you against his chest, your head over his heart, and held you through the long, dark hours. He didnât sleep. You knew he wouldnât. But in his arms, listening to the steady, fragile beat of his heart, you found a sliver of peace. And for tonight, in the quiet sanctuary of your tent, it was enough.Â
Dawn came too soon. Â
You lit the oil lamp anyway. The air in your tent was cool, laced with the scent of leather, iron, and camphor. Outside, the murmur of soldiers grew louder, armor clinking, commands barked, horses stirring. The day of the battle had come.Â
And Commodus stood before you, silent as stone. He was half-dressed, breastplate resting nearby, bracers beside your mortar bowl, his linen tunic crisp against his frame. His face was calm, but his fingers betrayed him twitching slightly where they clenched at his sides.Â
âYouâre not shaking.â you said quietly.Â
âI want to.â He answered without looking at you. You reached for the leather strap and began fastening his right pauldron.Â
âYouâre allowed to be afraid.â you said.Â
âI donât want to be.âÂ
âI am.â You looked up, met his eyes.Â
âYou?â he asked, blinking. âBut youâre always steady.âÂ
âIâve never had to watch someone I care about ride into a killing field.â you said. âNot like this.â He inhaled sharply. His shoulders dropped a little. You knelt to bind his left bracer, fingers working fast and sure. When you rose again, you found his gaze hadnât left your face.Â
âWhat if I donât come back?â he asked softly, going back to last nightâs conversation.Â
âYou will.âÂ
âYou donât know that.â he persisted.Â
âNo.â you whispered. âBut I have to believe it.â You stepped closer, lifting the chain around his neck, setting it straight beneath his armor. Your hands brushed his collarbone. You felt his breath catch. His hands found yours and held them between you.Â
 âIf I survive today⊠if I ride back through that gate alive⊠will you still be here?â His voice was low, barely audible. He wanted to hear you say it again. You nodded. And something flickered in his face...relief.Â
âIâll wait for you. My heartâs always been yours to take.â you said.Â
âIâll come back.â he replied, voice thick. âTo you and give you my heart to love in return.â His hands trembled where they held yours, but not from fear now. From the weight of the vow. From how much it mattered. You leaned in and pressed your forehead to his. Eyes closed. He exhaled like he hadnât in days.Â
âIâm scared.â he whispered.Â
âI am too.â you whispered, taking a deep breath to push away your growing anxiety.Â
And then with shaking fingers, he let go. He turned, gathered his sword and stepped out into the light of the rising sun. Where men shouted, where banners flared, where death waited. But where, for once, he didnât walk alone. Because behind him, in the hush of the healerâs tent, you still stood. Waiting and believing he would come back alive.Â
The battle began before the sun had cleared the horizon. You heard the roar of it long before you saw the wounds. Metal clashing like thunder. Screams thick with blood. The gallop of hooves shaking the ground beneath your feet. And then, the first soldier stumbled through your tent flap, soaked in crimson, his shoulder half-severed. You didnât have time to ask who. You simply worked, the hours blurred, everyhting went fast yet it felt like an eternity.Â
One after another they came, men with splintered femurs, with eyes burned blind from smoke, with ribs shattered inward like broken shields. Some screamed. Some didnât speak at all, some didnât make it to the table.Â
You closed their eyes when it was over. And each time the flap stirred, your chest tightened. âWas this one him?â But it never was. Not the archer with a gut wound who clutched your hand like a brother. Not the boy with half a face, whispering for his mother. Not the commander sobbing for forgiveness as you stitched his leg, his blood pooling beneath your knees.Â
Each time, your fingers worked fast and precisely. But your thoughts spiraled. What if Commodus had fallen under a hail of javelins? What if the mud had swallowed his body and no one would ever find it? What if his last thought was of you, and you werenât there?Â
Your apron was soaked through. Your arms ached. There were scratches on your neck from a soldier whoâd thrashed mid-surgery. You hadnât eaten nor drank. You hadnât cried either. Because you couldnât. Not yet, Â not until you knew. Then...the wind shifted. And somewhere outside, a horn blew three short bursts. The signal. The battle had ended. You froze with your hands still inside a soldierâs wound.Â
âFinish that suture.â you told the assistant at your side, your voice cracking. âIâll be back.â You turned to the entrance,to run and find him, only to collide with a wall of muscle and iron.Â
A centurion, his face a mask of exhaustion and grime, blocked the flap. His eyes, shadowed beneath his helmet, found yours. He didnât speak at first, just breathed heavily, the sound ragged in the sudden quiet of the tent. Behind him, the camp was a cacophony of groans, weeping, and the grim finality of men tallying the dead.Â
âHealer.â he said, his voice rough. He probably knew who you were waiting for, just like everyone knew. You were his healer. Your breath caught. You couldn't form the question. Your whole world had narrowed to this man, to the words he was about to say. He looked away for a split second, then he looked back, his expression unreadable.Â
You are the Empress and watching your Emperor fight in the middle of the Colosseo excites you. Follows a smutty time with your favorite fighter. (I PROMISED YOU SMUTT HERE IT IS)
The roar of the crowd was deafening, the marble of the imperial box resonating with the power of entertainment, vibrating through the soles of your sandals and up into your bones. Below, the sun-drenched sand of the arena was a stage, and your husband Commodus was its only god.
Commodus was stripped to the waist, his golden skin slick with sweat and the faint sheen of olive oil, was a magnificent sight. His muscles, honed and sculpted by relentless training, bunched and coiled with every movement. He wasn't just fighting; he was performing. A theatrical parry here, a showy flourish there, a grin that was equal parts arrogance and genuine delight as he played with his opponent, a hulking Thracian who looked like he'd been carved from granite and stupidity. He people loved him. For men he was Hercules reborn, for women, he was an Adonis.
He paused, turning not to his opponent, but to the roaring thousands. Raising his gladius, he commanded their attention.
"People of Rome!" his voice boomed, easily carrying over the din. "You have come to see gods walk among men! You have come to see blood spilled for your glory! But I ask you, what is a god without his people? What is a victory without your cheers to give it life? Today, I fight not for myself, but for you! For the heart and soul of this eternal city! Show me your devotion, and I will show you the divine!" The crowd erupted, a thunderous response to his masterful showmanship, feeding the god-complex he wore so well.
Your pulse hammered in your throat, a frantic rhythm that had nothing to do with the imperial dignity you were supposed to project and everything to do with the primal heat coiling low in your belly, the pulse between your legs. You loved this. You loved watching him like this, untamed and glorious in his violence. He was no distant Emperor in a purple toga; he was Hercules incarnate, a predator dancing with death, and the sight made your mouth dry and your thighs clench instinctively.
"COM-MO-DUS! COM-MO-DUS!" The crowd chanted his name, in a deafening wave. He drank it in, turning to them, raising his bloodied gladius in salute. That was when it happened. The Thracian, seeing a moment's distraction, lunged. Not a killing blow, but a desperate, low slash that caught Commodus on his left arm, close to the shoulder.
A collective gasp sucked the air from the amphitheater. Your heart seized. For a terrifying second, the world narrowed to that thin, red line opening on his bicep. Fear, sharp and icy, shot through you. But it was immediately followed by a jolt of something else, something dark and exhilarating. The sight of his blood, ruby-red against his sun-kissed skin, was intoxicating. It was proof of his mortality, his vulnerability, even as he seemed so god-like. It made him real, an Emperor who bled for his people but could not die.
Commodus's reaction was not one of pain, but of fury. He turned around, his gaze dark and angry. He roared, a sound that was more beast than man, the performance was over. He moved with a blinding speed, a whirlwind of lethal grace. The gladius became a blur of steel. It was over in seconds. The Thracian lay in the sand, vanquished and Commodus stood over him, chest heaving, his arms held at a slight angle, blood trickling down to drip from his elbow onto the arena floor.
The crowd went insane. Their cheers were a fever pitch of adoration. You smiled, biting your lower lip. He was amazing. You decided you couldn't wait another moment after the thrill he gave you.
You rose from your seat, and walked out of the imperial box, ignoring the startled looks from your ladies-in-waiting and the protests of the Praetorian guard.
"I am going to my husband." you stated, your voice leaving no room for argument. "He will need his wife."
The air in the stone corridors beneath the arena was warm with the smell of sweat, blood, and fear. You pushed past burly arena staff and half-dressed gladiators, your silk stola a whisper of luxury in their world of grit and toil. You found him in the Ludus Magnus, the gladiatorial school close to the Colosseo. He was alone in a small, private chamber, allowing his family physician to clean the wound on his arm.
He looked up as you entered the doorway, and his expression transformed. The ferocity of the arena melted away, replaced by a look of such intense, masculine pride and desire that it made your knees weak.
"Domina" the physician stammered, bowing his head and quickly gathering his things. "I am finished here. Just keep it clean." He scurried past you, leaving you alone with your Emperor-turned-gladiator.
Commodus watched you, his icy eyes gleaming. He stood up, looking at you fondly "Did you enjoy the show, my Empress?" he asked, his voice a low rumble.
You walked slowly towards him, your hips swaying with deliberate grace. You let your gaze drift from his face, down his chest, to the bandage on his arm, and then lower, to the bulge straining against the leather of his subligaculum.
"I did." you purred, stopping just before him. You reached out, not to touch the wound, but to trace a line of sweat down his sternum. "But the best part is over. The crowd has gone home. And now..." you looked up at him from under your lashes, playing your part to the fullest "...the Empress has come to claim her prize."
A slow, predatory smile spread across his lips. He understood the game instantly. He loved it. He loved that you didn't just tolerate his passions, but that you were consumed by them, that his strength in the arena made you burn for him in the dark.
"Your prize?" he growled, his voice dropping an octave. He grabbed your wrist, his grip firm, possessive. "You think a gladiator is a prize to be claimed, Empress ?"
"I think he isâŠI want to taste victory." you breathed, leaning into his touch.
With a snarl that was pure, unadulterated lust, he yanked you against him. The kiss was brutal, a claiming. It tasted of salt and the coppery tang of his blood. His free hand tangled in your hair, holding you captive as his mouth plundered yours. There was nothing gentle about it, and you wouldn't have wanted it any other way.
He suddenly pushed you back against the cool, rough stone of the wall. His body pinned yours, hard and unyielding.
"You liked watching me bleed?" he demanded against your lips, his hand fisting in the fabric of your stola at the shoulder.
"It terrified meâŠ" you gasped, arching against him. "And it made me so wet I could barely sit still !"
He made a rough sound of approval in his throat. With a single, powerful tug, he ripped the delicate silk from your shoulder, exposing your breast to the cool air. His mouth was on you instantly, hot and demanding. He wasn't worshipping you; he was devouring you, his teeth scraping against your sensitive flesh, his tongue soothing the sting. You cried out, your hands clawing at his back, feeling the slick, hard muscles beneath your palms.
"You want to be fucked by a gladiator?" he grunted, his hand tearing at the intricate knot of your belt, letting your stola pool at your feet. "Is that what my Empress wants?"
"Yes !" you moaned, shamelessly. "Fuck me like you fought him. Ruthless⊠!"
He kicked your legs apart and without another word, he lifted you, keeping your legs wide apart as he entered you. It stole your breath. He filled you completely, stretching you, his thickness a welcome ache that spoke of his raw power. He set a punishing rhythm, each thrust driving your hips hard against the stone wall. It was rough, almost violent, a perfect echo of the spectacle you had just witnessed in the arena.
You wrapped your legs around his waist, his wounded arm moved around your waist, the bandage a rough texture against your skin, a reminder of his glorious, bloody dance. His other hand gripped your hip, holding you in place for his assault. You met his gaze, and what you saw there made your inner walls clench around him. It was pure, unbridled passion. This was the man who commanded armies, who pleased the masses, and who was now taking his Empress with the same primal force.
"You are mine⊠!" he snarled, his breath hot against your ear. "Every time they cheer for me, they're cheering for the man who fucks you like this !"
"Always⊠!" you choked out, your nails digging into his shoulders as the pleasure built to an unbearable peak. "Always yours !"
The world dissolved into sensation, the slap of skin on skin, his guttural groans, your desperate cries, the scent of his sweat and your arousal. He reached between you, his thumb finding that sensitive sweet spot and rubbing it with merciless precision. That was all it took. Your orgasm shattered through you, a blinding, convulsive wave that left you trembling and gasping his name.
He followed you over the edge with a hoarse moan, burying himself deep inside you as he pulsed and emptied himself, his body shuddering with the force of his release.
For a long moment, you stayed there, pinned against the wall, his body a heavy, comforting weight. His breathing was ragged in your ear. Then, slowly, he lifted his head. The ferocity was gone, replaced by a deep, tender satisfaction. He gently kissed the corner of your mouth, then your jaw.
"Did I hurt you ?" he murmured, his voice now soft.
"Never better." You shook your head, a lazy smile playing on your lips.
He chuckled, a low, contented sound. He carefully disengaged, steadying you when your knees wobbled. He looked down at the torn silk of your gown, then at the mess you had both made of each other. "I seem to have ruined your clothes, my queen."
You reached up, tracing the line of his jaw, feeling the rasp of his stubble.
"And I seem to have reopoened your wound." you whispered, pulling him down for another, much softer kiss. His doctor Galen wouldnât be happy "I think we're even."
tangentwithtanner
ellievsbear
discoholicmusic
theartofmadeline
turnnoffyourmind
origamiaround
areudirty
pixelskylines
kianamaiart
gracieabrams
