A Ruin of His Making
Emperor!Lucius Verus Aurelius x Reader
Fandom: Gladiator II
Summary: You’re engaged to an emperor you hate. One night, in the palace halls, hatred turns to something much louder, and far more public.
Warnings: 18+ SMUT, enemies to lovers, hate sex vibes, power imbalance, semi-public, possessiveness, manhandling, dirty talk, ref to past trauma.
A/N: Set post Gladiator II, deviates from the original plot (help sorry I can't resist). All physical interactions are consensual within the story's context, despite emotional intensity and imbalance. The reader is not weak or passive; she is angry and complicated and chooses to stay. That being said, if you are triggered by cnc situations, maybe skip this one <3
MASTERLIST - REQUESTS
WC: 5.6k
The city smells of sweat and heat and gold-painted victory. You stand at the far end of the atrium, among garlands and silks, your fellow nobles and senators are fawning and chattering like carrion birds circling a lion.
They say Lucius Verus has returned from war.
They say he’s changed, but you never knew him well enough to tell the difference anyway.
The guards enter first, tight-faced and too tense for a triumphal return. Then comes the man himself. He's taller than you remember, broader, somehow. His cloak hangs from one shoulder, dirt-streaked and travel-worn, and there’s blood at the corner of his cuff that no one dares mention.
He does not smile. He does not bow. He does not stop. The crowd parts for him like wheat under a scythe. His eyes scan the room once and find you.
You don’t move. You don’t flinch.
Not even when he walks directly toward you, ignoring the extended hands, the simpering greetings, the half-kneeling senators who hold out rings for him to kiss.
You stand with your back straight, chin lifted. You are not some doe-eyed virgin waiting to be gifted into this marriage like a prize pig. You were someone’s wife once. And though that man is rotting beneath the stones of a family crypt, he left you with a name. And scars.
Lucius stops a foot too close.
You feel the heat rolling off him, the stench of sweat and leather and rage barely held at bay. His jaw is dark with stubble, his mouth a tight line, unsmiling.
"You didn’t bow," he says, voice rough with the weight of months spent shouting over battlefields.
You arch an eyebrow. "I am not yet your wife."
He smiles at that. Crooked. Wolfish. “Not yet. But soon.”
You hate the way his voice drags over those words, like he’s already tasted them and has decided to spit them back out.
"Did the Senate send for you?" you ask. "Or did you run back early for your wedding night?"
Laughter dances in the crowd, polite and forced. But Lucius doesn’t join in. "I came because Rome grows soft in my absence," he replies. "And because I don’t trust them to protect what’s mine."
The air between you pulls taut.
"Is that what I am?" you ask, voice flat. "A possession?"
He leans forward. Close enough that you can see the smudge of dried blood at the collar of his tunic. You don’t know if it’s his.
"No," he murmurs. "You’re a puzzle. A provocation. And they promised you to me without ever asking whether I could stomach the taste of something so bitter."
Something ugly curls in your chest, a kind of fury that never burned out properly.
"And I suppose you think I’ll be grateful to be claimed by a monster?"
Lucius tilts his head, studying you. "Gratitude isn’t required. But you will belong to me."
He says it so plainly, so calmly, as though the matter were already settled in blood and ink. Perhaps it is. You never had much say in it to begin with.
"You don’t know me," you snap.
"I know enough."
A beat. The space between you closes, breath to breath. His voice drops lower. "I know you didn’t cry at your husband’s funeral. I know he hit you. I know you learned to lie still and quiet and pretend that was love. I know that scares you more than I do."
It hits you like a thrown gauntlet, because it’s true. There is no pity in his words. No sympathy. Just knowing. You hate that he’s read your history like some battlefield report. That he’s looked at your wounds and seen something useful.
"Then you’re a fool," you whisper, throat tight. "Because I’d sooner die than lie beneath another man who thinks he owns me."
Lucius doesn’t flinch, instead, he steps closer. A breath between you. You don’t step back. Not even when his voice curls behind your ear like smoke.
"What a shame, I happen to need you alive."
You slap him.
The sound cracks across the chamber like lightning. Every eye turns. Every whisper hushes.
His head turns with the blow, but he doesn’t strike back. Doesn’t even lift a hand.
He turns back slowly, a smile blooming like blood across his face.
There’s something almost unholy in his expression, a delight and fury which you cannot decipher for the life of you.
"Careful," he says softly. "You’re starting to excite me."
You stare at him, chest rising, blood roaring in your ears. You don't know if you want to scream, cry or push him away. Instead, you step back. Only one step.
Enough to remind yourself that you still can.
The feast had barely begun to die down, but already, the guests have begun to trickle out. The heavy scent of wine lingers in the air, mixing with the distant traces of roasting meats and sweet spices. You’ve stepped away from it all, retreating into the quiet of the balcony that overlooks the garden.
Lucius had left the feast earlier, his back straight, face unreadable, no parting words to anyone but the occasional curt nod. You watched him go, and for a moment, something like relief flickered within you.
But you hadn’t expected him to come find you.
The silence on the balcony is deafening as the shadows stretch across the marble. The cool air bites at your skin, tension now gathering between you and the man who’s just stepped into the frame of the door behind you. Lucius.
You don’t turn. The weight of his presence alone makes you stiffen, your back rigid. You can feel his eyes on you, watching, waiting.
Finally, he speaks, his voice low, a whisper that still manages to echo in the stillness of the night. “Enjoying the peace?”
“I thought you’d be too busy being the hero to notice,” you say, a sharpness to your words, though you refuse to turn to face him.
“You think so little of me?” he asks, the amusement in his voice somehow making it even more infuriating. He’s close now, so close that you feel the heat of him behind you. Every inch of space seems too small for the way his presence presses against you.
“I think you’re entitled,” you mutter, fingers tightening against the stone railing in front of you. “And I think you act like you're entitled. To everything. To the power. The land. The people. And whatever part of me you can claim.”
He steps closer, his boots soft against the marble as his hand rests on the stone next to yours. His voice drops lower. “You think you’re the only one who’s been forced into this?”
You scoff, unable to hold back a short, mocking laugh. “Please. You live for this. For control. For dominance.”
His face is inches from yours now. You don’t flinch when he leans in, his breath a whisper against your ear. His voice low and venomous. “You think I enjoy this, do you? Do you really believe I enjoy being forced into a marriage I don’t want? To a woman who can’t even look me in the eye without thinking herself superior?”
The words sting, but you don’t show it. Instead, you match his venom with your own.
“If you’re so miserable, why don’t you find a way out?” The challenge is clear in your tone, daring him to try, to do anything that might make him leave you be. “But you won’t, will you?”
Lucius steps in even closer, so close now that his chest nearly brushes against your back. You can feel the heat of him, the power he exudes, and yet you still refuse to give him the satisfaction of turning to face him.
His fingers trail dangerously close to your neck, and you can’t help but shiver at his touch. “You want to make me angry, don’t you?” he says, his voice thick with something darker. “You want me to lose control.”
Then, with a suddenness that has you gasping for breath, his hand shifts, gripping your chin and tilting your head just enough to meet his gaze. The coldness in his eyes sends a chill down your spine, but there’s also something dangerous flickering there, a hunger.
For a moment, the world is silent. He holds you in place, staring at you. You barely breathe. You can feel the weight of his stare, the storm building in his chest.
“You have a sharp tongue,” Lucius murmurs, his grip tightening around your chin, his thumb brushing lightly over your lips. “But I’m starting to wonder if you really want to use it.”
You feel his thumb trace the shape of your mouth.
Without thinking, you jerk away, snapping, “I don’t want this.”
Lucius steps back, giving you space, but you can feel the tension in his movements, the anger bubbling just beneath the surface. The air is thick between you and Lucius, and the moment feels like a ticking time bomb.
The silence stretches, suffocating, but somehow neither of you seems willing to let it end. The distance between you feels impossibly small, yet you can’t quite bring yourself to move.
He looks at you like a predator eyeing its prey, and you feel it in the pit of your stomach, an unsettling pull.
“Like I said, you want to make me lose my temper, don’t you?” he murmurs, his voice dark, but laced with a wicked, almost amused edge.
You want to hate him, to despise every part of this situation. But it’s getting harder to ignore the way his eyes burn through you, the way he looks at you as though you’re the only thing in the room worth noticing.
“You think you can scare me?” You bite back, stepping forward, though the words come out sharper than you intended. Lucius watches you carefully, the smallest smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
“No,” he says, voice dropping lower, just enough for you to catch every word. “I don’t want to scare you, but I know I could.”
You’re both too proud to back down. You hate him. He doesn’t like you, either. But there’s something else there, something neither of you can ignore.
Lucius takes a step forward, his eyes never leaving yours, and in a single movement, his hand reaches for your arm, pulling you toward him. The movement is swift, like a coiled spring finally snapping, and before you can react, you’re pressed against the cold railing of the balcony, his body a solid wall in front of you.
Your breath catches, not from fear, but from the intensity, the rawness of it. You’re angry, so fucking angry, but that anger isn’t enough to push him away.
You manage to fight through the fog of emotion, trying to spit out something sharp, something to cut him down to size. But the words die in your throat when he presses his thumb to your chin, tilting your face up to meet his.
“I thought you were supposed to be strong,” he murmurs, the challenge in his eyes matching the taunting tone of his voice. “Or is that just a front?”
The words cut into you like shards of glass. You try to turn your face away, but he doesn’t let you. Instead, his fingers tighten on your chin, forcing you to look at him.
“You want me to hurt you, don’t you?” he asks, his voice low, almost too soft for the sharpness of the question. “I can see it in your eyes. You want me to make you feel something, anything. Don’t lie.”
You want to scream, want to tell him to go to hell. But something in you won’t let it. You hate him for it. You hate the fact that you don’t want to pull away, don’t want to run.
You press your lips together, jaw tight with defiance, and finally you speak. “I’m not afraid of you.”
Lucius chuckles, a low, dark sound that sends a shiver down your spine. “No,” he says, his voice a mockery of sympathy, “you’re not. But that’s the problem, isn’t it?”
Before you can respond, before you can even think of another insult to throw his way, Lucius closes the distance between you. His lips crash against yours in a searing kiss, ruthless, punishing. It’s not gentle, not at all.
It’s a kiss that takes, that demands.
You can’t help but gasp, the shock of it flooding through you. You don’t want to respond. You don’t want to let him win. But as his hands move to your hips, gripping you tighter, pulling you closer, something inside you unravels.
The kiss deepens, and you’re lost in it, overwhelmed by the heat of his body pressing against yours, the way his tongue demands entrance, the way he doesn’t give you the space to breathe.
“You’re a fool,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice low and dark, laced with satisfaction. “You think you can control this. But you can’t.”
You're drowning in him, and you despise that your body is reacting to him before your mind can stop it.
You push against him, trying to break free. But he only pulls you tighter, his hands sliding down your back, pressing you harder against him.
For a moment, you forget where you are. Forget that you’re supposed to be angry. Forget that this is supposed to be a confrontation.
You barely register the first sound of tearing fabric.
Your back is pressed to the balustrade, the cold stone biting through the thin silk of your gown, but Lucius doesn’t give you the chance to think. His hands are already on the fastenings at your waist, tugging hard enough to make the seams strain.
You gasp, a noise laced with fury and arousal, and push at his chest. “Is this how Roman emperors take what isn’t theirs? In gardens, like dogs?”
Lucius breaks the kiss to laugh, a laugh so low, rough, and amused in the most infuriating way. “If I were a dog, darling, I’d have taken you by now. But I’m patient. And you’re very, very close to begging.”
Your palm cracks across his cheek before you even realise what you’re doing. The sound is obscene in the quiet night, but it only seems to deepen that look in his eyes, hunger laced with something wild.
He catches your wrist before you can drop it, pinning it to the stone behind you, and leans in close enough that you feel the scrape of his breath against your jaw.
“That's the second time you've slapped me, do it again,” he growls, eyes blazing. “I dare you.”
“You’re disgusting,” you breathe, trying to twist free. “I’d rather sleep with a beast.”
His mouth finds your throat. Biting. Sucking. “Liar,” he mutters. “You’d rather sleep with this beast.”
And then his other hand rips through the neckline of your dress, fabric tearing, your breath hitching, and suddenly you’re half-bared to the open air, marble halls echoing behind you, columns offering far too little cover.
You try to cover yourself with your free hand, but he shoves it aside easily. “Oh no, don’t be modest now,” he says, voice syrup-thick with mockery. “Not when you’re standing there like a goddess meant to be ruined.”
“You arrogant bastard-”
“You like this,” he cuts in, tone taunting. “You like being manhandled. You like me doing it.”
You want to shout. Want to slap him again. Want to deny everything.
But the heat between your legs betrays you. The way your hips press forward into him, your legs shifting restlessly, you can feel how wet you already are, and you hate it.
“I hate you,” you hiss, even as he hooks a finger under the torn edge of your bodice and yanks again, exposing you further.
“I know, you keep saying that,” he breathes. “You hate me, and yet here you are, letting me touch you like this. Moaning into my mouth. Parting your legs. Do you know how sweet you sound when you're angry?”
He kisses you again, more teeth than tongue, and your wrists are pinned again before you can react, your body arched and open to him, your gown falling in tatters around your ankles.
“I should scream,” you pant when he moves to your jaw, biting there too, as though claiming.
“Do it. Let them hear. Let them see.” His voice is low, wicked. “Let the whole palace know that you're mine.”
You hate how that word coils low in your belly, how it makes something flutter in your chest.
With one arm, he lifts you like you weigh nothing, and you gasp as your back slams into the stone column behind you, your feet no longer anchoring you down. You can feel him hard against you, thick and hot even through his tunic. He grinds into you, just once, and it forces a sound out of you that doesn’t sound like hate at all.
His mouth brushes your ear. “There’s the real you,” he whispers. “You’re dripping. I could take you right here. Against the stone. Would you stop me?”
You should. You don’t.
“Coward,” you hiss, trying to reclaim the moment. “You think I’m impressed? You’re nothing but-”
He lets go of you so suddenly you stumble, but only for a moment. He catches you again, strong arms around your waist, and then he’s carrying you, half-naked, down the colonnade.
You wriggle against him, fists pounding his chest. “Put me down-”
“I will,” he snaps. “When we reach my bed. And not a moment before.”
You bury your face in his shoulder, but all he does is laugh, cruel and triumphant.
The doors of his chamber slam open under the force of his boot. He doesn’t even pause; he strides through the room and drops you onto his bed like a prize. Like a victory.
You scramble back, shaking, hair wild, lips swollen.
He unfastens his belt, watching you all the while with that same awful, smug amusement. “Still planning to insult me, or are you going to lie back and spread those pretty legs for me?”
You launch a pillow at him. “You’re the most arrogant bastard I’ve ever met!”
“And you’re the loudest little whore in Rome.”
You gasp, half outrage, half heat, and he’s on you again before you can draw breath. He's laughing low in his throat as you claw at his tunic.
“You’re still fighting me,” he says, dragging your ruined gown off the rest of the way, “but you’re wetter than any Roman virgin. Were you always this easy to break?”
“You haven’t broken me-”
“Haven’t I?”
He’s between your legs now, and the teasing stops being verbal. His fingers slide through your slick folds, slow and deliberate, and you whine when he draws one circle around your clit, just enough to make you twitch.
“You’re trembling,” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear. “You hate me so much you can’t stop shaking.”
You try to push him again, but this time he catches your hand, kisses the palm, and presses it against his chest.
“Go on. Keep hating me.” His eyes gleam. “But don’t you dare stop moaning.”
You don’t. You can’t.
Because his fingers are slipping lower, slow, deliberate, two of them curling inside you, and the sound you make is more like a sob than a gasp. You want to turn your face away, but he’s already watching too closely, already smirking like he knows.
“You feel that?” he says low, pushing deeper, twisting his wrist. “How wet you are? It’s obscene.”
“Stop-” you manage, but it’s pathetic. Your thighs are shaking.
“No,” he breathes. “You don’t want me to stop. Say it. Say you want it.”
You grit your teeth. “I want you to choke on your own ego.” He laughs again, lips brushing yours, still fucking you slow with his fingers. “Admit it, little bride. You’d rather choke on me.”
“Fuck. You.”
His grin widens. “Believe it or not, love, but that's the idea.”
Then he slams into you with his fingers, harder now, and you arch off the bed with a strangled sound. Your nails dig into his shoulders, seeking something to hold onto that isn’t your dignity.
“You’re soaked,” he mutters. “You’d let me take you anywhere, wouldn’t you? Against the column, the floor, right in front of the Senate. You like being ruined.”
“You’re disgusting,” you pant.
“And yet you’re dripping for me.”
Every roll of his fingers is pushing you closer, making it harder to breathe, to speak, to hate. You try to close your legs, to regain even the smallest control.
“Don’t,” he snaps, pushing your thighs apart. “Don’t you dare hide from me.”
“I’m not-”
“You are.” His voice dips. “But I want to see the moment you break. I want to feel it.”
You growl, but your hips are still grinding down against his hand. You’re trying to win a war on a battlefield he’s already set aflame.
Then he pulls his fingers free, wet and glistening, and holds them up between you.
“Look at that,” he says darkly. “And still pretending you don’t want me.”
You slap them away.
He grabs your wrists again, pins them above your head, and grinds his cock against you through the thin barrier of his clothes. You moan despite yourself.
“Say it,” he breathes, teeth gritted now. “Say you want me.”
“I don’t-”
He lets go. Just long enough to shove his tunic over his head, exposing the scarred stretch of his chest, the line of muscle down his stomach. You don’t mean to stare, but you do.
“Oh,” he purrs. “You’re staring. That’s new.”
You lunge up to push him, but he grabs your thigh and flips you onto your stomach like a rag doll. You yelp, trying to twist back.
He presses your chest to the bed with one hand, pulls your hips up with the other, and drags the head of his cock through your folds.
You go still.
The moment stretches.
“Ready to beg now?” he asks, tone silken.
“I will bite your fucking throat out.”
“Then I’ll fuck you while you try.”
And with no more warning, he drives into you.
You scream. Not in pain, not entirely. The stretch is sharp, unforgiving, but it’s the invasion that overwhelms you. He doesn't ease in, doesn’t wait. He sinks all the way to the hilt in one brutal thrust and stays there, one hand locked on your hip, the other on the back of your neck.
“You feel that?” he growls. “That’s mine. All of it. All of you.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” you hiss, voice trembling.
But you clench around him.
He groans, deep and unrestrained, and begins to thrust. Rough, relentless. The bed slams into the wall, your moans torn from you against your will.
“You sound like a whore,” he mutters, reaching forward to grab your throat, pulling you up against his chest.
You gasp, back arching, hair falling in wild tangles as he fucks into you from behind. Your legs tremble.
“Say it,” he growls again. “Say you want me.”
“No.”
He slides one hand between your thighs again, fingers rubbing your clit in tight, relentless circles.
You break.
Your body clamps down on him so violently that it makes him stutter. He thrusts through it, snarling, riding it out as you tremble and shake, breathless and wrung out.
“Liar,” he hisses in your ear. “You wanted this. You needed this.”
You’re still spasming around him when he flips you onto your back, fast and rough, before he plunges in again. This time you cry out with every movement, overstimulated and gasping.
“You should see yourself,” he pants, rutting into you. “Hair a mess, mouth open, legs shaking. Ruined.”
“Fuck… fuck you-”
“I am.”
He leans down, bites your lower lip, and slams into you harder. You moan into his mouth.
“You’re done pretending,” he whispers. “You can’t lie anymore.”
You claw at his shoulders. “You’re a monster.”
“Then why do you keep pulling me closer?”
You hate how right he is. Hate how good he feels. Hate the second orgasm building already, tighter, fiercer.
“You’re going to come again, aren’t you?” he says, tone mocking. “My poor little bride, soaking and speechless.”
He slams into you again. Your mouth drops open, but no sound comes out.
“Thought so.”
Your eyes roll back.
He fucks you like he’s trying to prove something, not just that he owns your body, but your pride, your defiance, every last bit of control.
When the second climax hits, you cry out so loudly he has to smother your mouth with his palm.
“Too loud,” he growls. “Don’t want the whole palace hearing how well I fuck my bride-”
But he doesn’t really care. You can see it in his eyes. He wants them to know.
You collapse beneath him, breathless, soaked, undone.
He comes not long after, hips snapping, voice raw as he spills inside you with a shudder and a growl of your name.
Silence, for a breath.
Then he shifts and leans over you, bracing himself on shaking arms.
Lucius moves slowly. And when he withdraws, you feel the thick, wet ache of it. You shift, a low hiss escaping your throat.
“Too much for you?” he drawls, brushing your hair from your cheek. “Pity. You took it well enough while I was ruining you.”
You manage a scowl, though your body’s trembling with aftershocks. “I should kill you.”
“You’d miss me.” He grins. “So would your cunt.”
He rises from the bed in a single motion, his body shadowed by the low lanterns, and you don’t expect it when he leans down, hooking his arm beneath your knees and lifting you from the sheets.
“Put me-”
“No.”
Your fists beat weakly at his chest, but you’re too sore to mean it. His seed still slicks your thighs. You’re marked, ruined, utterly dishevelled. And now you’re being paraded.
He strides from the bedchamber and out into the marble corridor of his private suite, bare, flushed, and grinning like a wolf. His bathchamber lies across the hall.
The door is open.
So is your mouth when a figure, a servant, pale and wide-eyed, turns at the end of the corridor. Sees everything.
Lucius does not flinch.
In fact, he smirks.
“Get out,” he says, not even glancing their way. The command is casual, but lethal.
They flee.
You burn.
“Scandalous bastard,” you hiss.
“Shall I drop you in the corridor then?” he offers, eyes glinting.
You don’t answer.
Steam curls from the bronze basin sunk into the floor, warm and waiting. The scent of oils hangs thick in the air, clinging to your skin even before it’s wet.
Lucius doesn’t stop. Doesn’t ask. He steps straight into the bath, water clinging to the muscle beneath as he lowers himself, and you, into the heat.
You hiss when it touches the rawest places. Bruises. Scrapes. You still feel where he stretched you.
His hold on you tightens, not to restrain, but to shield.
“I was going to warn you,” he murmurs near your temple, voice silked with cruel satisfaction. “But you just had to be difficult.”
You half turn in his arms, scowling, exhausted. “You enjoyed it.”
His teeth flash. “Of course I did.”
He reaches for a cloth, dips it into the steaming water, and wrings it out with a lazy flick of his wrist. The motion is slow, like the way a man sharpens a blade, not because he needs to, but because he enjoys the ritual of it.
Then he touches you.
The cloth slides up your thigh. Gentle. Unreasonably gentle.
You flinch. He feels it.
“I’m not him,” he says, low and close behind your ear.
The cloth moves higher, over the place where his fingers left bruises. It’s tender, the touch. Not apologetic, but… reverent.
You close your eyes. “I know.”
He doesn’t reply.
Just continues, slow, precise. Cleaning you as though you belong to him and no one else may touch. The cloth traces your waist, your belly, your breasts. Over the angry red marks blooming on your throat.
“Filthy little thing,” he says, almost absently, as if it’s a compliment. “Look what I’ve done to you.”
You shift against him, half-hearted. “Is this what passes for aftercare in the palace?”
“I could leave you filthy, if you prefer,” he offers, mock-casual, dragging the cloth up between your legs now with unbearable slowness.
Your breath catches.
He smirks against your neck. “Didn’t think so.”
His free hand is splayed across your stomach, keeping you against his chest. You’re in his lap, flushed and quiet.
When he finishes, he doesn’t speak. Just leans forward, pushing your wet hair aside to press his mouth once to your shoulder, unhurried, like claiming land he already owns.
Then he reaches for a towel, presses it into your hands.
“You can walk,” he says. “Or I can carry you back.”
“I can walk,” you mutter again, clutching the towel.
He raises an eyebrow. “You’re bleeding a little.”
You pause. Then glare.
“From me,” he adds, calm as marble. “You’ll forgive my pride.”
You turn away before he can see your face twist with fury, and shame, and something deeper, quieter, that gnaws at your ribs.
But you only make it a step before he steps into your space and lifts you again, without asking, without effort, arms locked tight beneath your knees and back. The towel shifts, slipping down one shoulder.
“Lucius-”
“I’ll carry what’s mine.”
You tense, heart pounding, as he strides from the bathchamber bare-chested and unbothered, with you cradled like a spoil of war.
And then, the worst.
Not a servant.
A senator.
A senior one, older, important. His brows lift, his jaw tightens, and for a long moment he simply stares.
You freeze in Lucius’ arms.
Mortified.
Bare legs, damp collarbone, bitten lips.
You try to twist, to cover your face in his chest, but the towel shifts again, and Lucius doesn’t even slow his pace.
“Domitius,” he says, cool and smooth as ever.
“Emperor,” the man replies after a beat, eyes still sharp with thinly veiled judgement.
Lucius only smiles.
Then shifts his grip around you, just enough to make it clear you’re not just some fleeting mistress. No, he’s holding you like a bride.
“You’re not dismissing him?” you whisper furiously as they pass.
“Why would I?” he murmurs. “Let him tell the court how you looked when I was carrying you home.”
He chuckles low in his throat. “Shall I walk slower?”
“You’re disgusting.”
“And you’re trembling. Again.”
He carries you back into his bedchamber like nothing happened.
Deposits you on the rumpled sheets with the same hands that had bruised your thighs and cupped your face like glass.
Lucius lies beside you. He doesn’t reach for you. Just watches.
The fire’s down to embers now, and for a moment, it’s quiet.
“You’ll hate me again tomorrow,” he murmurs, eyes on the ceiling.
You turn your head toward him. His hair’s a mess. A dark curl falls over his forehead. He doesn’t brush it away.
“I already do.”
There’s no heat in the words anymore. Just a strange, exhausted ache. Like you’ve both burned through something and don’t know what’s left.
You lie in silence.
Until, after a long while, you feel his arm shift and settle across your waist. Not tight. Not demanding.
Just there.
You don’t move.
He breathes, slow and steady, and just before you drift, you feel him press his forehead into your shoulder.
Almost like he’s praying.
You wake to sunlight cutting sharp across the marble floor.
The bed is warm. Too warm. Your legs are tangled in silken sheets, and your mouth tastes of salt and heat and something darker still. You shift and wince.
Everything aches.
Your thighs. Your hips. Your throat.
You drag the cover up as you sit, slowly, wincing again when the bruises sing beneath your skin. There are fresh marks on your wrists. On your collarbone. Teeth, fingers, his name written across your body in touches no one will dare speak of aloud, but everyone will know.
The door creaks.
Lucius enters fully clothed.
Hair swept back. Tunic dark and rich, imperial red. There’s a goblet in his hand and a parchment tucked under one arm.
He looks at you like a man admiring the aftermath of war.
“Sleep well, betrothed?”
You glare. “Barely.”
A slow smirk.
He steps forward, sets the goblet down beside the bed and takes the seat across from you like you’re in court again.
“I expect the palace has already heard.”
“I expect the city has.”
He tilts his head. “Let them. What can they do?”
You stare at him, this man who had torn you open with teeth and hands and never once begged forgiveness. He’s not softened in daylight.
You pull the covers tighter.
He watches.
“Say it,” you snap, before you can stop yourself.
“Say what?”
Whatever insult he’s been sitting on. Whatever cruel line he’s crafted for the moment he saw you like this, rumpled, silent, aching from him.
Instead, he leans forward, rests his elbows on his knees.
“I like you better ruined.”
Your breath catches.
And he smiles, slow and hungry, like he already knows that when he touches you again, you won’t fight quite as hard.
I'm so tempted to write a part two to this, but I have another Lucius fic idea I want to write first. If anyone would be interested in a part two to this, lemme know and I can bump it up in my priorities 🤗
