Cheirosa '93

Commodus x time traveler!reader

The long awaited chapter is finally here! sorry for the delay but as y'all know I have a battlefield of ideas splitting my head into pieces XD (and tbh I wanted to think carefully of where I wanted to go with this fic) anyway enjoy everyone! Chapter 1, chapter 2 here

You’re a student archaeologist on an internship in Turkey, drawn to a forgotten trail that might lead to a lost temple of Commodus. What you didn’t expect was that you landed in 180 A.D in a Roman military camp.

The guards hauled you to a small tent on the edge of the camp, not quite a prisoner's enclosure but far from any comfort. A cot, a small table, and a rough-looking wool blanket, probably left by a dead centurion. Your hand touched the fabric, it was a coarse, lanatus weave, the kind issued to legionaries, scratchy and utilitarian. The tent itself was standard issue, made of leather panels stitched together, but you noticed the seams were reinforced with hemp cordage in a pattern consistent with mid-Antonine military quartermaster practices. They posted two men outside, their shadows stretching long against the canvas as the sun bled into the horizon.  

You were alone, but still a prisoner, and you had no idea how to get out. The air smelled of damp earth and the distant scent of cooking fires, but all you could focus on was the pounding in your chest. You were stuck in a place and time other than yours. You had no idea how you ended up here... was there a purpose? A curse? What did you have to do or find to go back to your world? 

Hours passed. You paced the cramped space, your modern boots silent on the dirt floor. Every sound made you jump: the clang of metal, the shout of a distant command, the rustle of the canvas in the wind. You kept pinching yourself, a desperate, childish act. ‘Wake up! Wake up in Turkey, with Dr. Levent scolding you for wandering off!’ But the pinches only left red marks on your skin. The fear in your chest was real. The Latin voices outside were real. 

You were suddenly startled by the flap of your tent thrown back without warning. You flinched, stumbling back against the cot as Commodus stepped inside. He was alone, the torchlight from outside casting his face in sharp relief, his curls wild, his eyes gleaming with something between amusement and impatience. He wore a fine tunic of deep red, a Tyrian purple-dyed wool, so deep it was almost black. The kind of dye that cost its weight in silver. The gold at his belt catching the light. He looked every bit the emperor's son, and every bit the predator. 

"Salve, vates." He saluted, his voice, smooth and mocking by calling you prophetess. "Satisne commoda?" He asked, knowing well your quarters were anything but comfortable. You swallowed, your throat tight, wishing you truly had studied Latin harder. Now it would be a matter of staying alive. 

"Ita... est." You nodded. The words feeling clumsy, unnatural on your tongue. 

His smile widened, but it didn't reach his eyes. He took a step closer, and you instinctively retreated, your back hitting the wooden frame of the cot. His eyes detailed you in a way that made you feel most vulnerable. They lingered on your boots, your pants. You could only imagine how suspicious they looked: your boots were a composite of rubber and synthetic fabrics, a concept utterly alien, and your trousers were made of denim, a sturdy twill weave that wouldn't exist for another seventeen hundred years. More solid and comfortable than Roman caligae or leather breeches, and then... a woman wearing pants, how confusing. 

"Non timeo." (Don't be afraid.) He spoke but the tone felt more like a command rather than to comfort you. "Pater meus putat te deorum missam." (My father thinks you sent by the gods.) He circled you slowly, like a shark. "Ego autem... dubito." (But I... doubt.) Of course he doubted, from what you knew, Commodus was smart, sly, and paranoid. You straightened slightly, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. 

"Non sum... dea...sum..." (I am not... a goddess.) You struggled for the right words, your mind racing. "Sum... discipula. Historica." (I am... a student. A historian.) 

"Historica?" He laughed, stopping in front of you, so close you could see the flecks of gold in his irises. "Barbarus historiam discunt? Obsecro, debes iocari." (Barbarian studying history? Please, you must be joking.) His tone shifted, the mockery giving way to something sharper, more demanding. "Narra mihi de me. Quid agam? Quid fiam?" (Tell me about me. What will I do? What will I become?) 

Your heart hammered against your ribs. This was the test. You knew what history said, what you had told him in the emperor's tent. But to repeat it now, alone with him, felt like signing your own death warrant. You hesitated, looking away, searching for words that wouldn't get you killed. 

"Tu... eras... Caesar." You began slowly, carefully. "Magnus... imperator." (Great... emperor.) He suddenly grabbed your chin, his grip firm but not painful, forcing you to look at him. 

"Id iam scio. Volo aliquid novum. Volo veritatem." (I already know that. I want something new. I want the truth.) His voice was low, dangerous. Almost as if he didn't care what his father forbid. He released you, stepping back with a frustrated sigh. "Lingua tua... taedet." (Your language... tires me.) He began to pace the small space, his movements restless. "Loqueris sicut puer qui verba novit, non sensum." (You speak like a child who knows words, not meaning.) You blushed at his words in shame. Tears prickled in your eyes, from the stress of the situation and your inability to even make yourself understood. 

"Ego... non... bene loquor." (I... not... speak well.) You gestured helplessly. "Latina... difficilis." You muttered, biting your lower lip to prevent yourself from crying in front of him. It would satisfy him too much or it would be a good excuse for him to strike you. 

He stopped pacing and turned to face you, a glint of something like challenge in his eyes. He stepped close again, his voice dropping to a near whisper. 

"Dic post me. Vero." (Repeat after me. True.) 

"Vero." You repeated, the word feeling foreign on your tongue. 

"Dubito." (I doubt.) 

"Dubito." 

"Monstrum." You froze at the word he pronounced and felt the dagger hanging above your head. You couldn't say it. Not to him. Not again. His expression hardened, his patience wearing thin. 

"Dicas!" (Say it!) He grabbed your arms, his fingers digging into your flesh. "Dic verbum!" (Say the word!) 

"Non possum!" (I cannot.) You whispered, your voice trembling as a tear escaped your eye. "Please..." 

He stared at you, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Then, as quickly as the anger had flared, it subsided. He let go of you, stepping back with a frustrated groan. 

"Inutilis." (Useless.) He ran a hand through his hair, messing up the perfect curls. You sank onto the cot, your body trembling. You needed to buy time, anything so your life wasn't threatened. 

"Ego... posso discere." (I... can learn.) You looked up at him, desperation giving you courage. "Da mihi... tempus. Docebo te... de futuro. Docebo te... quod scio." (Give me... time. I will teach you... of the future. I will teach you... what I know.) He studied you, his expression unreadable. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, he nodded slowly. 

"Bene." (Good.) He moved to the tent flap, pausing before leaving. "Cras. Cras veniemus." (Tomorrow. Tomorrow I will come.) He glanced back at you, his eyes lingering. "Et loqueris. Melius." (And you will speak. Better.) 

Then he was gone, leaving you alone in the dim light of the tent, the echo of his words hanging in the air. You had survived this encounter. But tomorrow... tomorrow you would have to speak better. Or face the consequences. 

That's when you knew you wouldn't sleep that night. You had no time for that. You had to improve your spoken Latin and for that you needed to listen the way soldiers spoke, and speak to them; many didn't come from Rome but provinces and conquered territories, including Germania. Tomorrow you would be able to tell him better sentences. 

And that was you did. The whole night you wandered the camp accompanied by the two soldiers in charge of making sure you didn't escape. As you walked you noted the layout of the temporary marching camp, its perfect square grid, the via principalis cutting through the center, just as described in Vegetius's De Re Militari. You saw the portable ovens made of clay and the standardized leather tents of each contubernium. But you couldn’t let yourself be distracted by your archeological interest. Your life depended on it.  

Of course, the soldiers had been wary at first when you approached them. You had understood many rumors were already coursing about you, a witch, a barbarian from an unknown land, a creature sent by the gods to warn them all of the danger of Commodus, warn them about the dangers of the war...if they knew how far they were from the truth. 

Still, you managed to make a few centurions talks with you, exchanging your neck scarf with a centurion, a bracelet with another, your money of exchange. Some asked you about their future, to which you couldn't answer, so you remained generic or made-up unimportant things. And just like when you travelled to other countries, your brain started to get used to the sonorities of the language, the accent. You started to slightly improve. Of course you wouldn't suddenly be bilingual, but you could manage very simple questions. Your knowledge of Italian also guided you for the vocabulary, Commodus wouldn't kill you tomorrow. You were starting to hope you would find a way out. 

The next morning, as the Sun barely came out, and that you had barely gone to sleep, you were awoken by the noises of buzzing activity, like a hive awakening and hurrying to get to work. You frowned, wondering if it was like that every morning in a Roman camp or if something was happening. You quickly put your boots on and opened the flap of the tent. Your head was slightly spinning from tiredness, your mind groggy. 

Your two guards were still there, merely glancing at you. You realized the whole camp was preparing to leave, soldiers packed supplies, officers shouted commands, horses were being fed and prepared. You swallowed down, where were they heading? Your memory assembled the pieces in front of you, searching through what you learned. It was cold, humid, numerous troops in Germania with both Marcus Aurelius and his son Commodus... this was the Marcomannic wars, the last war of Marcus Aurelius. They were packing to head back to Rome...but why in a hurry so suddenly? 

You noticed a guard approaching you, the expression on his face was of impatience and tiredness. 

"Commodus Caesar te vocat." (The Caesar calls you.) And to those words, your heart missed a beat. Was he already going to test you? And if you failed, what would happen? You felt anxiety fill in your chest, wishing you had more time. Your hands clutched into fists, your fingers nervously rubbing against each other as you followed to the imperial tent. 

The guard opened the flap of the tent, letting you in without escorting you. You were no threat to their eyes. And even then, you knew the young Emperor was an excellent fighter. Commodus's tent was large, richly appointed, but sparsely furnished. Unlike the functional soldiers' tents, this one had a wooden floor, and the walls were lined with dyed wool tapestries depicting battle scenes in the style of the late Antonine period, the figures stiff and formal. And it was warm, so warm compared to your tent!  

You suddenly froze in your steps as you noticed him. He stood near a basin of water, his body bare, his skin still gleaming with moisture. Water droplets traced paths down on his shoulders and arms. You couldn't help but notice the defined muscles of his chest and abdomen, the strength in his arms as he wrung out a cloth, the droplets of water sliding down his curved back and down to his... behind. He was beautiful in a way that statues could never capture. And for a brief instant, you forgot how dangerous he was. 

"Salve, historica." He turned, his eyes assessing you. Not minding to be naked in front of you, it was different times after all. "Melius dormisti?" (Did you sleep better?) he asked not to enquire but to test your language. 

"Non multum." (Not much.) You answered, your voice steadier than yesterday. "Campus... sonorosus. Nimis frigus erat." (The camp... noisy. It was too cold.) 

A flicker of surprise crossed his face. "Latina tua... melior est." (Your Latin... is better.) He dried his arms, his movements deliberate. "Quomodo hac nocte melius fecisti?" (How did you improve last night?) 

"Soldatus... loqui." (Soldiers... talk.) You hesitated, then took the risk to make him test you harder. "Loquendo et... audiendo. Memoria bona est." (I talked and listened. I have a good memory). He nodded, the ghost of a cruel smile forming on his lips as he signed for a slave to dress him. 

"Bona puella." (Good girl) he praised, making you blush in surprise. "Loquere." (Speak) 

"Pater tuus... morietur. Romam non perveniet." (Your father... will die. He won't make it to Rome.) you let out, not knowing that words you pronounced would decide of your fate. The air in the tent grew still. Commodus stared at you, his face unreadable. 

"Moriatur?" (Will die?) He repeated softly. "Quomodo hoc scis? Nemo in castris novit eum nocte graviter aegrotare." (How do you know? no one knows in the camp he fell sick last night) he asked with a hint of suspicion, could he have been mistaken? You looked at him with wide eyes, so that was the reason the camp was packing. To attempt to save the Emperor's life from the plague. 

"Scio." (I know) you simply replied, mentally thanking God or the gods for this fortunate coincidence, it was saving your life in a way you didn’t expect. For a long moment, Commodus said nothing as if he was processing the news, pain flashing through his eyes. Then he laughed, a harsh, broken sound. The muscles of his jaw worked as his gaze briefly lost in emptiness. 

"Bene." (Good.) He finished dressing, pulling on a fine tunic. "Si verum est... es vates." (If it's true... you are a prophetess.) "Si falsum est... es mortua." (If it's false... you are dead.) your stomach dropped at his words. No your life wasn't safe after all. He approached you just like the previous night, looking at you in the eyes. You looked up at him, wondering what would be his next move. 

"Veni." (Come.) He stated, exiting the tent. You followed him out into the bustling camp. The cold hit you immediately, a sharp, biting wind that cut through your thin clothing. You shivered, wrapping your arms around yourself. Commodus noticed and stopped, his gaze sweeping over your inadequate attire. 

"Vestimenta tua... ridicula." (Your clothes... ridiculous.) He sneered and gestured to a nearby servant, who approached with a thick fur cloak. "Tolle." (Take it.) 

The servant draped the heavy fur over your shoulders. It was warm, impossibly so, smelling of leather and something else, Commodus, perhaps. You pulled it tight around you, grateful for the warmth but acutely aware of the implication. 

"Mea carruca... mecum." (My imperial carriage... with me.) Commodus continued walking, not waiting to see if you followed. 

You stared after him, your mind racing. The imperial carriage? With him? This was more than you'd hoped for, more than you'd feared. You were no longer just a curiosity; you were now his prophetess, his possession. But it also meant you would have to be constantly on your guard until you figured out what to do. And as you followed him toward the ornate carriage waiting at the edge of camp, you couldn't shake the feeling that you had just made a deal with the devil, one that might save you or destroy you, depending on whether your knowledge of history was a gift or a curse. 

The carriage was more magnificent than anything you'd seen in museums or read about in texts. It was a carruca of dark, polished wood, likely elm or oak, reinforced with ornate bronze fittings.. The wheels were massive, their spokes felloes made of ash for flexibility, designed to traverse the rough roads of Germania, and the suspension system, leather straps that would absorb the worst of the jolts was engineering you'd only studied in diagrams. For a moment, despite your fear, you felt a thrill of academic excitement. This was a piece of living history, a mechanical marvel of the second century. 

"Admiris?" Commodus watched your amazed reaction with amusement. It was almost refreshing to see, like a child discovering the roman wonders for the first time. 

"Ita... est. Mirabile." (It is... wonderful. Marvelous.) With your fingertips you traced the intricate carving on the door which depicted a lion hunt, a popular motif for the imperial family; forgetting yourself for a moment.  

His expression shifted slightly at your words, but he said nothing as a servant opened the carriage door. He climbed first then gestured for you to join him, ignoring the stares of the soldiers. Whatever intrigued or amused it did not matter. You climbed inside, and the academic thrill vanished instantly. The space was smaller than it appeared from outside, richly appointed with velvet cushions and bronze lamps, but confining. The air was thick with the scent of leather, wine, and something else, a similar scent as the fur you wore. Commodus himself. 

Commodus settled opposite you as the carriage began to move. The motion was smoother than you expected, but the confinement was suffocating. No one was there in this space but Commodus and you. Every shift of his body, every breath you took seemed to echo in the small space. You were trapped with him, miles from anyone who might help, your fate entirely in his hands. He was calm, very calm, his face hiding his thoughts as if he was waiting for you to bolt to bite you. 

"Intueris, historica." (you are staring) He observed, his voice low. "Quid vides?" (What do you see?). You swallowed down, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. 

"Video... imperatorem." (I see... an emperor.) But you saw more than that. You saw the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers drummed restlessly against his thigh, the flicker of something uncertain in his eyes when he thought you weren't looking. He was just a boy playing tough emperor, not knowing when his toys would break or when his luck would run out.  

Commodus in that moment seemed content with your answer and focused on scrolls he had with him, ignoring you royally for the rest of the trip. You took a deep breath; this was going to be a long trip... 

Days passed, you busied yourself by looking out the window or observing the young emperor, there was nothing else you could do anyway. Commodus didn’t even pass you his scrolls for you to practice latin, no. You weren’t worthy of such trust.  

A routine of observations and tensions settled. After noticing you were bored out of your mind, Commodus started to make you talk each day, several times. A useful technique to make you improve and it worked. For basic conversations you didn't even translate in your head anymore, it was as if you were speaking your native tongue. Still, the young Emperor remained distant, not letting out a single word about his passions, what he liked or disliked. And he didn't seek to know you either. For him, you were just a strange barbarian in strange clothing who could foresee the future. A useful tool. 

Sometimes Commodus would leave the carriage to ride ahead with his generals, returning with mud on his boots and news of his father's worsening condition. Sometimes physicians would enter the carriage, their whispers of fever and weakness filling the space before they departed with bowing heads. Through it all, you watched. You saw the cracks in his imperial mask, the momentary softening when a doctor mentioned Marcus asking for him, the flash of irritation when a general questioned his orders, the genuine grief that crossed his face when he thought himself alone. 

One evening, as the carriage was about to stop for the night at a villa, the day's exhaustion finally claimed him. He had been arguing with a messenger about supply lines, his voice sharp and imperial, but as soon as the man left, the energy seemed to drain out of him. He slumped against the velvet cushions, his head resting back, his eyes closing. You watched as he tried to stay awake, his head bobbing forward as a reflex but he could not resist and fell alseep. His breathing evened out, the rhythmic sound filling the small space. 

For the first time, he wasn't the Emperor, the predator, the threat. He was just an exhausted young man. The perpetual tension in his brow had smoothed out, his lips parted slightly. He looked younger, almost peaceful in the dim light of the carriage lamp. A strange warmth spread through your chest. Despite everything, you felt a pull of sympathy, a connection to the human being hidden beneath the golden armor. A small, genuine smile touched your lips as you watched him. He was adorable, your favorite emperor did have a softness to him. Part of you wished it was like in those time traveling novels, where he would be your savior and a friendship or love story would emerge from it.  

In an instant, Commodus woke with a sudden, sharp inhale, his eyes flying open. For a disoriented moment, he simply stared, and then his focus sharpened, landing directly on you. He had seen you. He had seen the smile. 

The softness vanished from his face, replaced by a guarded, calculating hardness. The peaceful air between you shattered, and a tension so thick it was suffocating appeared. 

"You were smiling." He said, his voice low, devoid of sleep. "What makes you smile?" he asked, his tone on the edge. You froze, your heart leaping into your throat. 

"Nothing Caesar...nothing." you quickly replied. You had been careless and now you were putting yourself at risk. What was a harmless, almost tender moment had been perceived as an attack. And Marcus Aurelius couldn't save you this time. 

Commodus moved then, not with the lazy grace of a man just waking, but with the deliberate, predatory grace of a hunter. He shifted from his seat to yours, the space between you vanishing. He didn't touch you, but he was close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his skin, close enough that his next words would be a breath against your ear. 

"Do you find my exhaustion amusing, historica?" The mocking title was back, but this time it was laced with something new, something dangerous. "Or do you find me... weak? Vulnerable? What are you planning?" 

You couldn't answer. Your voice had deserted you. You felt as if no matter the answer he had already made up his mind. His eyes, which had been soft with sleep moments ago, now gleamed with a sharp, unsettling light. 

"You watch me. All the time." he continued, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "You see everything. My anger, my grief... my weariness. Yet, you give me nothing. No blessing, no more predictions." He leaned closer, his gaze dropping to your lips. "Some say that intimacy with those touched by the gods... might bring favor." His eyes met yours again, holding you captive. "That if I prove myself pleasurable enough... divine blessing will follow." your breath hitched at his words, understanding all too well what he meant. 

"Caesar...I'm not touched by the gods..." your voice shook. You had put yourself in a situation without exit. He smiled, a slow, dangerous smile. 

"You say that now. But you are something special. Something rare. Something that sees." His hand finally moved, not to grab or harm, but to gently brush a stray strand of hair from your cheek. The touch was deceptively tender. "And the gods... they say they reward those who seize what is offered...I am ready to do it. I know you barbarians fuck to talk with the gods and my father won't stand in the way this time... What do you say, historica?" he purred, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. You had to find a way to escape his clutches and quickly. 

Thank you for reading and don't forget to like, reblog or comment if you enjoyed it <3

Is this the quote you're thinking of @scourgiez? From this interview with James Gray.

And this is just so typical Joaquin core to me:

And this:

I wish more interviews with directors went into specifically WHY they casted these actors (mannerisms? Appearance? The way they carry themselves? So often it's "it's because they are a good actor/famous" but Joaquin tends to put his 100% in roles and completely change himself for them. I'm always fascinated by directors choices AGH pick their brains more!) but that's another conversation, I'm rambling now

Things I find hot (in a guilty pleasure type of way) about these scenes from Irrational Man that I'll ramble on about forever if you dare click "Keep reading". TLDR:

Praise kink

Intellectual penetration 

Paternalistic condescension

Men think, women feel stereotype

Men as authority on reality - and the masculine arrogance and sense of entitlement to the truth (especially despite that Abe has clearly read The Second Sex by Simone de Beauvoir!!!)

In bad faith (mauvaise foi) means something along the lines of self-deception and acting inauthentically as a consequence. The type of self-deception that allows you to flee the burden of freedom (and of having to invent yourself) by convincing yourself that your given situation is inescapable, natural or even desired. It’s an easier path in life to simply believe that the default role you’ve found yourself in, that has been defined by external pressure, is your right role. Your only possible role. Instead of having to deal with the anxiety of choice and the struggle of transcending the constraints of your given situation. 

In this context, as I understand it, Beauvoir believes that a woman who enthusiastically embraces traditional femininity and submission tricks herself into believing that the situation the patriarchy tries to impose on her is her destiny. Confusing “I am less powerful in this system” with “I am less powerful. He is superior.” She basically gaslights herself into the experience of wanting to submit to him in this way. She convinces herself she enjoys the enslavement. That serving him makes her fulfilled. That she can save herself by losing herself in him. Beauvoir would see this as self-deception and call it bad faith. But who came up with the term bad faith? Jean-Paul Sartre. 

Who is Sartre to Beauvoir, again? Her life-long partner. 

It’s ironic to me that she would use her man’s philosophical framework to criticize women for adopting the ideas and vocabulary of the man that they adore. 

Like, girl, you're no better than me. I imagine she’d insist that it’s different because she doesn’t intend to masochistically disown and destruct her self in order to merge with a superior beloved. That she has no desire to “melt into him, forget herself in his arms.” and give up her transcendence*. I’m sure she’d claim she’s merely engaging with his ideas as an equal. 

Yet I can’t help but find it a tiiiny bit hypocritical.