▻ S. P. Q. R. ◅

“You mean how you are a flourishing and well-established ....” he had to pause and think on that for a moment. Was Gallia an empire now? kingdom? Republic? Definitely not a province, though he still needed to understand this whole European conglomerate affair. Ah---nation. That’s what they called themselves these days.  “... nation? Indeed, you owe it all to my valuable teachings.”

Italy babble

Raoul Bova by Tony Duran

                        “ I actually charge ten pounds for people to see me smile. Like a circus sideshow. ”

“If I add another five, will you give us a little dance too?”

can’t believe they changed the hollywood sign again

 His nostrils flared at the impudently dismissive response, as if to release the mounting fury that was rising from his chest, heaving against Odalric’s back. It paled in comparison with the raging tornado of wrath and devastation he’d felt decades ago, in the wake of the Teutoburg disaster. Things had changed since, they had found a grudging compromise, after much bloodshed and battle. As long as Germania could be fettered to him, as long as he could have him by his side, then he could tolerate and crush the constant sparks of rebellion that crippled the tenuous confines of his Germanic provinces. He knew, deep down, that their dynamic wouldn’t last, if the steady military efforts he invested in the Rhine were anything to go by.  It angered him, really, to think that though he was his prized possession, he never truly conquered him.  Nails dug into flesh and muscle, bruising the alabaster skin to make a mark; that of possession. His eyes, clouded with the colour of old blood, greedily roved down the barbarian’s Adam’s apple to the dip below his collarbone, where he could make out the muscular shape of his chest beneath the cotton tunic. Filth and desire mingled in his rage addled mind as he indulged in visions of that strong chest and back marked by lashings, bites, bruises and blood. He could feel his empirehood engorge with his rushing arousal, pulsing with the desire for violence. He did not question that abhorrent desire he felt for the other, nor the clash of contrasting feelings he would rouse in the deepest recesses of his consciousness, not anymore. For long he’d struggled with the fantasies he would indulge in on occasion, during those rare, lonely nights at the castra. Odalric had all the qualities Romulus coveted in a companion: he was as strong as himself, and as beautiful as a woman. He was quiet, collected, a mountain of a tribesman. And yet he was all he despised:  the savagery, the lack of what he believed to be civilisation, education, the blunt honesty, the simplicity, the absence of malicious treachery and degenerate corruption. There was something purely divine about the barbarian, like an untainted spring at the bottom of an ancient glacier. Nothing, no-one could reach him.  And he wanted to pollute him. Mark and disgrace him, make him his toy and his companion. Romulus had no concept of equality, and a skewed one of partnership at best. He couldn’t grasp the concept of relationships without control and dominion on his side. His ideals of freedom only applied to himself, others had to endure the paradox of being free in Rome’s civilised captivity.  “You should know better than talking back at me.” in fact, he’d much prefer it if the other didn’t talk at all; his glacial stare was enough to inflame him. The empire was a force to be reckoned with, a truly terrifying one: and yet Germania alone could hold his gaze in utter defiance. His gaze narrowed, and the furrows in his brow deepened. That look made him him lick his dry lips, scrape his tongue over a sharp tooth. He wanted to sink his teeth into the other’s shoulders, taste the iron in his blood. He held back for a tense moment. “Enjoy?” he scoffed in Odalric’s ear, voice dropping into a deep growl; “I guess I can find a way to enjoy the rest of this rotten day in like fashion.” keeping one iron grip around his nape, he furiously tore at his simple tunic with his other hand, ripping it from the side seams in one sweep. He would use him. Use him to sate all of his baser urges. And then, maybe, he would finally be his.

 Waves of adrenaline and pain mingle in a rush of euphoria that prompts a bout of boisterous laughter at the other’s threat. Romulus is still young, and impetuous. His strength is measured by his size and stamina, his strategy one of brute force and heavy hits. In his arrogant unripeness has yet to develop the finesse the arts of combat require.   In his eyes, man the size of Yao is no physical threat. The only thought in his mind is to overpower him and be over and done with it in the next few minutes. What could possibly go wrong? “Very well then. Let’s see you try.” he tenses, poised like a mountain lion as he sizes him up; the lingering pain in his crotch only spurs him on as he sprints forward, lunging at him with all of his bulk and swinging his huge arms around his lithe frame to trap him in a headlock.

“Good.” he rumbled, placing a hardened palm over the silky strands of his barbarian ward’s head, in both reassurance and warning. That hand could be as gentle as it could be merciless. He enjoyed threading his calloused fingers through his hair, so different from his own thick, coarse curls. He’d always been irked by his wish to keep it long, knowing deep down that it was an unspoken homage, a tenuous link to old Gaul. But it was the one vestige he’d conceded, mostly because of his own, selfish greed to see the sunlight play on those gilded tresses, like an exotic prize. He couldn’t have changed the alien colour of his eyes, skin or hair: but he could make his mark on him.

“The only limits are those others will try to set on you. But the most dangerous ones are those which you impose on yourself, for lack of confidence.”

Raoul Bova

 It all happens too quickly for Rome’s reflexes to kick in - instead, the only kick he receives is right where his most prized possessions are. He erupts into a pained grunt, then releases a bestial roar. He is angered now, and he doesn’t hide it: his thick brows knot in a terrible frown, and his deep-set eyes darken to the colour of old blood. Then, a maw-splitting grin. One large hand cups his crotch as if to contain the throbbing pain, the other moves behind his neck to crack it lazily. Straightening to his full, imposing height, the empire looks ready for a wrestling match. “I guess I will have to tame you first.”