Gladiator Ll - Blog Posts

Has this been done yet

@cummodus was being mean to me so I wrote some Acacius + Geta lap sitting. Platonic. CW for childhood trauma/abuse and self-harm.

( AO3 )

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“You’re being careless again,” the General said.

There wasn’t any judgement to his voice, but Geta was finding it difficult to swallow despite. Instinctively, he always expected there to be shouting: a sudden grinding of the chair’s feet against the floor, a tall figure standing, and a burning blow against his cheek that’d turn his head so fast his neck would hurt for it as much as his face did later. He could imagine it (remember it) so vividly that when he lifted his hand again to reverse his move, his hand was shaking.

He knew Acacius could see it. Every bit of his fear and this cursed weakness he couldn’t shed. This was a game - be it one to teach him, but still just a game. But he remembered so well, remembered what failure meant, how swiftly the punishment came. Acacius would at least tell him what he’d done wrong, but that hadn’t always been the case. He remembered moving pieces on a board and then that blinding, swift, stabbing pain on his face, inside his head, the watery eyes and the second strike that would come for crying, even though he wasn’t crying. He only cried later, hiding behind his brother’s bed, Caracalla’s clumsy arms looking for purchase around his shoulders, his cold fingers trailing the bruises on Geta’s face, his broken lips.

“Do you know what you did wrong?” the General asked.

Slowly, stiffly, Geta shook his head. “No. I don’t understand.”

“Look.”

Acacius took the piece from his fingers, which were as cold as he remembered Caracalla’s being. He wasn’t making a mention of it, or the shaking, and Geta could only guess as to why. Did the chance to humiliate him not appeal to the man? For so long, Geta had done his best to make him angry. He deserved something in return. His father would have never passed such an opportunity. Instead, Geta now watched as his piece was placed where he’d just removed it - and then another piece moved, a black one to match the ivory piece he’d wielded. The General predicted flawlessly where he’d been heading with his strategy, and in no time, his example had shown why it was a mistake: a long, elaborate mistake, but one which his opponent had nevertheless picked up on far before Geta had realised his own exposed vulnerability.

He’d never been good at board games. Now, this was so much more than that. These were cohorts in the field - and time after time, Acacius was decimating his ranks. No matter what Geta did, it always ended the same way.

“I don’t know how you see that far,” he said hesitantly, his voice breaking a little. “I can only see ahead two or three moves. I cannot predict yours. I don’t understand.”

“I have experience,” Acacius told him, his dark eyes turning to him from underneath his brows. “I have training, an education. I have been taught, ruthlessly at times, how to always think one step ahead of the enemy.”

“And it works out there? On a real campaign?”

A short nod, and Acacius leaned back in his seat. Their pieces on the marble board stayed as they were, in the inevitable climax and closure following the flaws which Geta had exposed into his lines with a single thoughtless move. No, not… not thoughtless. He’d thought. His thoughts just weren’t good enough. He didn’t have the mind for this. That had been what Severus had told him, over the tears which burned in his eyes almost as badly as the bruises and heat of injuries and bloodied lips on his face burned. He didn’t have the mind for it, for commanding armies; he’d never make for a good emperor. He couldn’t even win a game of latrones.

“Leading an army into a battle begins much before the pieces are set. You measure everything, from the environment and the direction of the wind to the angle of the sun and the conditions of the soil. You choose your positions so that the enemy will never have a gain on you, or if it is inevitable, you first have to find a way to turn it against him or minimise the impact by employing your available strengths for defenses. Then you see how he positions himself, and ensure that there is no evident flaw in his own design. Where are his archers? Do you have natural cover available? Is there cavalry? Will the environment separate the troops when the charge begins - can you force it?”

“But none of that exists on the board.”

“All of it exists in the mind.”

For a good long while, their eyes were locked. Geta wanted to retreat, but he couldn’t. That’d be a sign of weakness. But was it worse than the lining of tears in his eyes? The fear that had his lips tight? When Acacius moved again, Geta’s whole body jolted in his seat, and his breath hitched. The reaction had the older man still for just a while, and a flicker of his expression betrayed his awareness of the change between them, and Geta wanted to die; he wasn’t good for anything. He jumped at shadows, always had. Just one move over a board which displayed his loss - his body throbbed with the memories of his punishments, and Septimius Severus had been ashes for three years now.

“Come,” Acacius told him then, his voice softer and his fingers curling once for an invitation. “Come see the board from my angle.”

Geta’s legs shook when he pulled himself up from the chair, but this time he could at least hope that the General did not see how much he had to lean himself to the armrests to stay steady. His steps were careful when he crossed the table. Then, a hand pressed over his back - the middle of his spine, first, then with fingers crawling all the way around his waist to pull him closer. He shifted, his step clumsy until his body was flush with the General’s. Hesitantly, he followed when the grip turned for a tug. There was no space there - nowhere to sit - the way he was being tugged did not allow for him to bend over, nor would he have wanted to, it felt humiliating. The side of his thigh found some purchase from the very edge of the chair, but the armrest was digging into his back when he brushed up there, trying to make himself smaller.

Acacius huffed; he gave him a glance, a measure, and his fingertips pressed into Geta’s side a little harder.

“General, I don’t know what you want of me.”

“Sit.”

“There isn’t any space.”

The look he gained in return was empty in a way that felt tired with him. But he didn’t understand. He felt stupider by the moment: first the game, now this. Where was he supposed to sit? If he’d crouch, he’d be too low, and it’d be -

He swallowed when the hand tugged at him again. Then, closing his eyes, he let his body be pulled over so that his thigh slipped past Acacius’s, the soft spread of the man’s own taking over from the hard edge of the chair. Geta didn’t so much sit on it as he allowed himself to hover over it, and the heat of shame pushed onto his face. The fear in him was changing shape now. He shouldn’t have been here alone. He shouldn’t let someone whom he didn’t trust have this much power over him. Acacius was an older man; stronger, too, by far. And what was he? A boy who couldn’t stop crying when his pieces were cast aside from a game board.

“Do you see?” Acacius asked him, as if his body wasn’t tense like frozen.

“What am I supposed to see, General?” Geta’s voice was small and strained, barely more than a hoarse breath.

The arm around him adjusted, hand turning to the bend of the arm as the fingers came loose and rested in the air. This hold was less possessive, less… less threatening. It was casual, relaxed, half on the chair and half on him, just keeping him steady as he was. Geta’s body loosened with the grip, and he could breathe again - his eyes regaining focus, the empty noise in his mind quieting. He blinked and wiped his eyes to the back of his arm as subtly as he could. At least from here, Acacius couldn’t see how pathetic he was, how afraid all of this made him.

He turned to stare at the board and tried to remember what they’d been speaking of.

“This is your stage,” Acacius began again. He was picking up the pieces, placing them in their starting lanes.

“Your archers.” His fingers drew an invisible circle upon the black pieces in front of them, separating two cohorts.

“Your cavalry.” Another circle.

“Your footmen.” A third one.

“You are here,” he explained then, brushing his fingertip over a piece. “A good general will always fight with his men. You are the point of the blade which thrusts through the enemy line. They will die to protect you, but you cannot waste their lives just because you know that they won’t question the order. The less men you have around you, the more vulnerable you are to the enemy. Even a victory can be fatal to a general whose focus shifted too far into conquest and away from the people around him. Your fight is always here, where you area, and with the men who are around you.”

Geta nodded. Warmth was returning to his body.

“At the same time,” Acacius continued, his hand gesturing toward the white pieces across the board, “You, more than any other piece on the board, must always know how to look ahead. You must keep in mind the enemy’s position, and lead your men always through the most optimal path available to you. Your body must fight where you stand but your mind must fight for the whole army. And you must trust, with your heart and soul, that every other commander is reading the land and the battle as you are. You must believe that you are on the same page, because you can only command those who are around you. There is no guarantee your orders will be heard all through the battle - this is why choosing commanders is important; they must not only have the skills to read a battle as it unfolds, but they must know your mind as well as their own, so that even when they cannot find you, they can make the choices that mirror your own.”

Now, his hand returned to Geta; it took a grip of his wrist first, then stretched fingers to become a cover for Geta’s hand, and together, they began to move pieces.

“When you move your troops through to the side to circle the enemy,” he continued, Geta’s hand in his in a way that felt warm and commanding but not forceful, and it did not hurt, “you must believe that here - on the other side of the field - your commander will know what you are doing, and pull his troops through so that your manouvre becomes the trap you wish for it. If it doesn’t? Your line scatters, and it’ll be easy to break through. The enemy will become a blade and your army is but a hide to pierce. The goal is always to engage them so that they cannot penetrate a weakness in you first. An army which is surrounded cannot fight as a point and becomes much like a field ready for a reaping.”

Geta’s hand was left upon the board, holding a piece: he thought it was obvious where he should lay it next, but something nagged at him. The enemy positions, Acacius’s words. He hesitated. And there it was - to the side of his piece, there was an opening which was being left bare, and would allow the enemy to do exactly what the General had told him not to allow for it. It could turn to a point, and push his forces apart.

He lay down the piece he’d been left holding, and moved another instead. His breath released as a gasp of relief when Acacius gave a laugh: it had no jeer in it, no mockery, no disappointment.

“Good eye,” the General said.

It could have been good. Geta could have enjoyed this, if not for the continued release of his body - the way he was falling into shaking, far too deep into relaxation, into tremors which were cold and warm at once, and if his breath hadn’t… whatever it did - he couldn’t get in enough air. His reaction took his whole focus: his hand retreated, arms pressed against his body to cover him, hands escaped to his face to hide him. Every word his father had ever said to him - all of it at once, as echoes in his ears, and he couldn’t bear it - couldn’t bear the sound of the General’s laugh, the warmth of it, or the sensation of burning soreness and rawness which had suddenly taken over his body. It took him a while to realise something more mortifying: that as he was breaking, the man whose thigh he’d been set to sit on brought his own arms around him, and that his hold was firm but not punishing or restricting. For every one of his tremors, his hitching breaths, the General simply held him tighter for a while, and then let him feel himself loose and able to go when his breaths ran free again but he couldn’t move - if he’d tried, he would have fallen on his knees. There was no strength to him and the tears wouldn’t stop, so he couldn’t take his hands off of his face, either.

Pathetic, pitiful, despicable sight.

His spine curved and he tried to hide, as if becoming smaller could have made him invisible. He wanted the beating. He craved for it. This was too much - a display like this had only one answer to it, one lesson which needed repeating. Where was it? Where was the pain? He wanted it; so badly that when it was not forthcoming, his hands turned to nails on his face and then to a fist and he brought his knuckles deep into his own arm, one colliding into bone, the others thrusting into muscle, releasing an ache that spread into the full length of the limb and left his grip weak.

A hand took a hold of that place, then, where his fist had made for an injury, and wrapped around it. It pulled the whole arm down and because of the pain, Geta couldn’t stop it from happening - his muscles didn’t contract, couldn’t - and he turned his face away, tried to breathe. His other wrist was captured, too, and his hands pressed against his chest, arms over arms, the warmth of a body both pressed against his back and holding him still by the front. The moment was passing: the echoes in his ears turning lesser, his shaking dying down again, but he still had trouble swallowing and breathing. There was nothing in the world that he craved more than to let his body be at rest there, soak up the warmth which was there, be in silence, and forget all that was so disgusting about him, so weak, never good enough for anything. If no one had ever said a thing again, he might have been able to believe that this was gentleness, or care, something which could have belonged to him as a child if he’d only been better - more deserving - but he’d always been stupid and worthless.

When would the punishment come?

Was it ever coming?

And if not, what more would he have to do to himself to repeat the lesson? One strike was not enough to drive in the message.

With a sigh, Acacius’s grip of his wrists grew firmer for a while before he let him go again, and as he did so, Geta had already slipped off and stood up and walked half across the room before he so much as knew that he was moving, or that he was able to stay upright at all.

“Thank you for this lesson,” he said tightly, his own voice foreign to his ears. “You’re dismissed.”

The General stood: slowly, in little hurry to move or be gone from the room. His hand brushed through the marble board and examined the pieces upon it one last time. Then, as Geta’s gaze was picking him up from the very corner of his eyes, he turned to look at him instead.

“I wonder what you could have been,” Acacius said quietly, “had your father not been such a cruel man.”

The way in which Geta’s breathing hitched again was audible, and once more, his nails turned to his skin, wanting to hurt, break, claw red marks into it, make it bleed. Weak. Despicable. Disgusting. Worthless. Like beats of his own heart inside his ears.

“You know where to find me should you wish to continue learning, Emperor Geta. Until then - try to think of the full picture, even when those closest to you remain your first priority.”

The General’s absence left the room ringing, but instead of fright, Geta’s chest was now loosening into warmth. It took him a long time to lift his gaze from the floors: the afternoon’s sun was already tinted a warmer, deeper colour than when the door had last opened and closed, but every moment which he’d spent motionless had been one which he had needed to regain control of himself again.

The birdsong, the breeze across the Palatine; the sounds of music from somewhere inside the palaces, and the laugh of children outside. He was safe here, Geta thought, and the ghost of an embrace still played upon his skin when he finally determined himself able to move. There’d been no price attached to this kindness, and Geta’s weakness, in all its reprehensible display, had not been punished. For the first time that he could remember he was entirely unharmed by it - they both were, this time, him and his brother.

If not for the bruises of his own fist, at least. He let his palm trail over the throbbing marks, the only real ghost of his father that still stood in the room with him, and his mouth turned to a snarl.

He’d lose again, he thought. And next time, he’d shut his mind to his father’s will, and would not do his dirty work for him. For tonight as always, he’d seek the only comfort which he knew for it - he’d find his brother, they’d dine and then sleep. It felt a miracle that Caracalla’s touch would only be the second comfort which he’d be granted that day, voluntarily and without reserve.

Pretty boy crying in his expensive silk curtains.

I want him to cry in my arms while I tell him everything is going to be okay :(

caracalla and geta are for the bitches who wanted to fuck the riddler instead of batman

"You flinch like that again in public, and I’ll give you a real reason to." (1)

Character: General Marcus Acacius.

Trigger warnings: age gap (maybe reader is the daughter of someone from the Senate), power dynamic (he's the General a.k.a HOT), physical abuse, harassment, threats, fear kink, manhandling, manipulation maybe ?

I was honestly just thinking of Acacius putting on the facade of a caring, loving and dotting husband when he's scorting reader to the market to buy some food for dinner and at some point she does something he does not like and she flinches at his reaction. He's an abusive man close doors because he's obsessed with reader and deep down fears she's going to run away from him or something like that, I leave it to you obviously, I read your work and god, breathtaking to say the least

CORIANDER UNDER THE FIG TREE ههههه

senator's daughter.ᐟ reader && dark.ᐟgeneral acacius

.ᐟ trigger warnings: My work contains dark themes such as physical abuse, power imbalance, age gap, harassment, threats, phsyhological terror and other possible triggering elements. Proceed with caution. If these warnings trigger you, DO NOT INTERACT. 𝒜cces my DARK PROMPTS, my WHEEL OF INSPIRATION, my MASTERLIST and send in more REQUESTS.

ههههه

A shaky breath leaves your chest as you stroll next to the aged fig tree which marked the beginning of the market. And then, the scent hits you—coriander. Its citrusy and spicy aroma was the characteristic, consoling element that marked your childhood.

Whenever you touch the darkened green leaves, sadness overflows you. 

Your father, Ghauccus, often let you stand among the servants. You were much beloved due to your father’s kindness, everybody loved to see his sweet child growing up so gorgeously. The maids often let you ground spices in the bronze mortar—an activity you loved doing, especially during summer evenings, after you had tired yourself running after fireflies and the moths that gathered around flames that illuminated the garden and vines. Notwithstanding their chuckles at how heavy the pestle was for your infant hands, you were still encouraged and strength was manifested over you ever since you were a youngster. 

A custom you and your father honorated religiously was the  first quarters of the moon, spent within the folds of forgotten stories or legends about women that shaped their own fate and destiny—no matter how darkened it seemed. You still felt your father’s fingertips grazing your lower back, showing you his deep affection and cherishment whenever you shared a walk in the open.

You flinch hard as you feel the general’s —your husband's— fingers gripping your hip and pulling you nearer his grander body. Your ribs are adorned by burgundy marks and a tiny whimper escapes your throat as the bruised flesh is pressed against the gilded armor with drops of gold which poke your skin mercilessly.

People bow their heads as he passes by with you on his arm, even though a couple of elders eye him with a disgusted glare and you...with pity. As they remember who your father was and who your husband is. They all view his as a tyrant for serving the twin Emperors so respectfully but you are the one that knows he certainly wants the throne somehow. You know about the plots and about his aspirations of becoming the Emperor of Rome soon. And the thought terrifies you.

You can already tell, by the way the muscles in his jaw clench and tick, that your "stunt" has maddened him. Fear constricts your throat and you feel your chest burning, so you try your best to brush the event off your husband's mind.

"W-we should buy more herbs, and I will have the maids prepare you the dish you l-like so much—", you try to speak, but Acacius lowers his head to speak in your ear and the words die on your tongue.

"We will return home, my love.", he growls and you already feel tears burning in your eyes. Home? You don't want to go "home". You know how rarely he lets you out and you know what will happen to you when you arrive back to the villa so you try to delay the inevitable by lingering in this moment.

"P-please, my lord, please...", your eyes bore pleadingly in his coal black ones as you try to steady your whispering voice. "Please, no, let's stay a little longer—".

"No?", he cuts you off again, and you feel his grip tightening. The deep chuckle that erupts from his broad chest sounds more like a growl and again, you feel small, powerless, you feel like a lamb to the slaughter. "When I command something, you have no say in it, haven't I taught you that, my little lamb?", he continues, as if he heard your thoughts.

You nod your head weakly, as you graze your eyes over the marketplace one more time. The coriander you willed to buy lies now forgotten on a wooden table as fear curses through your veins.

As soon as your feet hit the marble floors, and Acacius knows he is not under people's gaze anymore, you feel his hands on you. He grips the back of your neck and drags you to himself. You don't have time to scream, plead, beg—only to whimper—, as his lips press to your ear. "Tell me, you like when I put my hands on you?"

When you only move your head in a silent no, too choked by your own sobs and tears, he shakes your body harshly. "Answer me!", he says, trying to keep his voice down, inhaling and exhaling, visibly overly angered.

"N-no...", you cry out in the silence of the house.

The general grabs your waist next and he slams your body in the wall. You fell the copper of the blood in your mouth as he presses himself against your back. "Then why you make me do this?"

Both of his massive, calloused hands that killed so many, wrap around your wrists, pushing them next to your head. The general's massive figure makes your lungs burn, air simply not reaching them.

"My queen, why do you have to be so diffucult? ", he asks you again, and even under the heavy robes, you feel his hard member poking at your lower back. A sob escapes your lips and you feel a warm, thin trace of blood running down your chin, along with fresh tears. He always gets disgustingly excited whenever he feels your muscles tensing with fear. Another thing you loathe about him.

"I give you everything, don't I? I am a good husband, I am wealthy and I will make you my queen one day, and you still act so ungratefully."

He retreats from you all of a sudden and your knees give up on your weight, making your body collapse on the ground on your palms and the skin tears open on them. Teardrops fall, wetting the expensive marble carved with bronze. Acacius's hand fists itself in your hair and he slowly pushes your head up. His eyes scan your terrified features and the blood that starts to dry on your face and he licks his lips at the sight. You feel like you are nothing but a pile of broken limbs at the general's feet.

He runs his thumb over your lips that are trembling, and pushes it in your mouth, letting it rest heavily on your hot tongue.

You screw your eyes shut as he pushes it further, almost touching the back of your throat with it. "Look at me.", he commands and you obey immediately when he grips your jaw harshly with the other fingers. "You are mine by right. If you shame me one more time, I will ruin you so thoroughly that even the crows will pity what is left."

You flinch at the threat, and terror settles deep in your bones.

The general retreats the finger from your mouth and grips your cheeks with his entire hand. The look in his eyes was, for a brief moment, vulnerable. The only vulnerable thing in him.

Another tear slipped down your face and, combined with your blood, it painted his hand in a powdered pink stripe.

"You flinch like that again in public, and I'll give you a real reason to.", the man finished, standing up high.

"I expect you in the bedroom. You have wife duties to attend. And if you refuse, I will fuck the disobedience out of you under the sun’s gaze — and when everyone will spit on you as a whore, you’ll know you earned it."

You choked on a sob as he left, and your blurry vision caught one of your servants, one of the servants that let you ground the coriander in your father's home, look at you with tears in her eyes. There was nothing you could do but stand up and join your husband.

⋆↝ 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒: So, when I saw your request in my inbox, I was literally SO. HAPPY. because I've been seeing your reblogs and you read good stuff and it was really encouraging that you are reading MY shit 😭 ♡ Thank you, my love and I really hope this reaches your expectations. I LOVED WRITING THISSS

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