#commodus imagine

Hey! here is your request! I hope you will enjoy it^^ I was a bit mean to his concubine, I kinda felt bad but well it is what it is XD

To be your refuge- Commodus x reader

The Imperial Palace had become your home six months ago. You had been selected as the wife of Emperor Commodus, a fine political alliance of two pure-blooded lines to ensure an eternal rule for the dynasty and regional peace. It had been a matter of pure practicality; you knew of him, he had heard of you, but you had never met. Not until a month before the wedding, when a portrait of your betrothed was delivered. You had been terrified as you uncovered it, fearing to see the monster history whispered of. Instead, a blush crept up your neck. He was handsome, at least by your own tastes. Jet-black curly hair, icy blue eyes, and lips that could kill or love. Darkness wrapped an obvious sensitiveness. A handsome boy who probably had been forced to become a man too soon. 

You had sincerely hoped the young emperor might take a liking to you. But when you finally met him at the wedding, his gaze was anything but inviting. He spared you only a few stilted words. As for the wedding night... it was a memory you preferred to bury. It had been embarrassing, awkward, and procedural. 

Six months later, Commodus still avoided you. It was a fact as undeniable as the marble beneath your feet. He would grace you with a stiff, formal nod in public, his gaze lingering for a moment too long before flickering away, as if burned. In private, he was a ghost. Your shared chambers were vast and cold, his side of the bed perpetually untouched, or he would wait until you were asleep to slip in beside you. He had, unfortunately, found his solace, his warmth, his company elsewhere. 

With Marcia. 

Her name was a constant whisper on the tongues of courtiers, a venomous serpent coiling in your gut. Marcia, his concubine. A woman who had served several men of royal blood, she knew the intricate workings of the Palatine. Of course, she was not a wife of political standing, but a woman of considerable wit and formidable beauty who held the Emperor's ear, and more importantly, his time. You had seen them once, from the shaded seclusion of a balcony overlooking the gardens. He was laughing, a genuine, unguarded sound you had never heard directed at you. His hand rested on the small of her back, a gesture of casual intimacy that felt like a physical blow. What did she have that you did not? 

You tried to tolerate it, to accept this Roman way of life. But the truth was you were suffocating, bottling up emotions that demanded to be spoken. Your self-confidence had eroded; you felt useless, disregarded, perhaps even threatened. That night, the jealousy you had been nursing curdled into something hard and dangerous. You were not a woman to be made a fool of. You were an Empress, and you would not be humiliated by a bed-slave, no matter how clever or beautiful she was. 

You hadn't slept at all, tossing and turning through the small hours, trying to decide how to act. Finally, you resolved to simply face her. As soon as the first light of morning touched the marble, you left your rooms with a determined pace. You found her in a small, sun-drenched garden, overseeing the arrangement of flowers. She was every bit as lovely as the rumors suggested, with dark, intelligent eyes and a serene confidence that only fueled your rage. 

"You!" Your voice cut through the tranquil air like a blade. 

Marcia looked up, her expression untroubled. She didn't rise, merely tilted her head in acknowledgment.  

"Augusta. To what do I owe the honor?" she asked, a polite smile fixed on her face. 

"I will not be circumspect." you began, stepping closer, your silk skirts whispering over the stone tiles. "You enjoy the Emperor's favor. I am his wife. I trust you understand the inherent conflict in this situation." You forced the words through a throat tight with rage. You knew she was aware of her position; some wives accepted it. You did not. 

"I serve where I am called, Empress. As do we all." A flicker of something, amusement, perhaps crossed her face. 

"Do not play the innocent with me." you hissed, your voice dropping low. "I see how he looks at you. I hear the whispers. You are a bed-slave who has forgotten her place. Let me remind you: my place is at his side. Yours is… disposable. It would be a tragedy for a pretty trifle to be swept away because she was foolish." The threat was unmistakable. You expected her to pale, to falter. Instead, the amusement in her eyes melted into a profound sadness. 

"You see a rival." she murmured. "But just like you, I wasn't given a choice. We are both trying to survive by filling the role that has been attributed to us." 

"How dare you compare yourself to me! I am not a whore!" You exclaimed, the words tearing from your throat before you could stop them, feeling as if she were deliberately trying to humiliate you. 

"No." she said, finally rising. She was taller than you expected, her posture regal, making you feel like a little girl having a tantrum. "You see a woman trying to steal your place. You mistake the Emperor's refuge for his home. He does not come to my chambers for the reasons you think. But you, Augusta… you have managed to scare the Emperor of Rome. That is quite a prowess." 

You stared, speechless. The insult was so absurd, so contrary to the reality of his neglect, it was almost laughable. 

"Scare?" you repeated, your voice dripping with scorn. "The Emperor of Rome? Scared of his wife? You are an idiot if you expect me to believe such a convenient lie." 

"It is not a lie." Marcia insisted, her voice earnest. "He confided in me. I know exactly how he feels about you." Though she did not smile, you could hear the smug satisfaction in her voice, a small revenge for the way you had named her. You clenched your jaw, hating this small power she held over you. 

"Then tell me." 

"I apologize, but no." She arched a single, perfect eyebrow, savoring this moment of control. 

"Speak! That is an order!" 

"Instead of questioning his concubine, you should seek your husband's company and ask him yourself! You might be surprised at what you find!" 

"You-...!" Your hand flew up, poised to strike her across the cheek for her insolence. 

"Enough!" The voice was a thunderclap that shattered the fragile tension. You both froze, turning toward the arched entrance. Commodus stood there, his face a mask of fury and anguish. He had heard. He had heard everything. He strode into the peristylium, his imperial presence sucking the air from the space. His eyes, blazing with a fire you'd never seen, were fixed on you.  

"How dare you..." he snarled, his voice low and dangerous. "How dare you threaten her?" 

You were momentarily stunned by his raw defense of his concubine, but Marcia's words echoed in your mind. He is scared of you. You straightened your spine, refusing to be cowed.  

"I am her Empress. She defied me, and I will not be humiliated by a—" 

"And I will not have you raise your hand to her for speaking the truth!" He roared. 

"The truth?" You exclaimed, your eyes stinging with furious, unshed tears as you faced him. "Then please, enlighten me on this truth your dear Marcia knows better than I do!" 

At the mention of her name, a wave of anguish washed over his face. He flinched as if struck. He looked away for a moment as if thinking of what to say, where to start. 

"Marcia is only a concubine." He spoke then, his voice losing its defensive edge and becoming something colder, more pragmatic. He finally looked at you, his gaze steady and unreadable. "She is a comfort, like the one only a friend can bring. With her, there are no expectations. There is no weight of an empire resting on a single conversation. She is a moment of peace in a life that offers none." 

His words were a dismissal of her, but they were also a dismissal of you. It was a wall, built of practicality and imperial privilege, and it stung more than any angry outburst would have. 

"You, on the other hand..." he continued, his tone sharpening, "are my wife. My Empress. The future of this dynasty. Every word, every glance between us is scrutinized, weighted with meaning I have no desire to dissect in public. Or with an audience." He turned his head slightly, his gaze falling on Marcia, who had remained silent and still. "Leave us." 

It was not a request. It was a command. Marcia offered a single, deferential bow to you both, her eyes meeting yours for a fleeting moment. There was no triumph there, only a deep, lingering sadness before she turned and swept out of the peristylium, leaving you alone with the man you were beginning to realize you didn't know at all. 

"Then tell me." you challenged softly, your voice barely a whisper. "What is the truth, Commodus?" 

He finally looked at you then, and the raw vulnerability in his eyes stole your breath. It was the look of a man laid bare, his carefully constructed imperial facade crumbling to dust. Then, he turned away, pacing like a caged lion, then rounded on you again, his eyes wide as if his emotions had been unleashed. 

"You think this is about her? About politics?" He gestured wildly between the two of you. "I have not been able to sleep in our chambers for months because every time I look at you, my mind goes empty! Every word I have ever learned vanishes from my tongue!" His confession was a torrent of raw, unfiltered emotion, so powerful it made you take a step back. 

"I stand before you, and I am not an Emperor. I am a man who is desperately, utterly in love with his wife and has no idea what to do about it! I am terrified that you will see the disappointing, ignorant man beneath this purple and laugh. Or worse, look at me with pity just like my father did." He stopped directly in front of you, his breathing ragged. His eyes, now filled with a desperate pleading, searched yours. 

The confession was so honest, so painfully raw, it disarmed you completely. The jealousy, the anger, the humiliation, it all melted away, replaced by a profound and startling tenderness. This was not the arrogant Emperor. This was your husband. 

"Commodus." You breathed, his name feeling new and fragile on your tongue. 

"I have ruined everything." He said, his chin lifted, lips pinched, the muscles of his jaw tense as if he waited for the inevitable rejection. 

"No." You said, your voice firm. You reached out, your hand trembling slightly as you took his. His fingers were cold, clenched into a fist. You gently pried them open and laced your fingers with his. "You haven't ruined anything. You've just… finally started to explain. All I ever wanted was to understand." 

He stared at your joined hands, then slowly lifted his gaze to meet yours. The raw fear in his eyes was being replaced by a dawning, fragile hope. 

"You are a fool." you whispered, a genuine smile finally gracing your lips. "A magnificent, powerful fool." 

"I am?" 

"I became fond of you when I first saw your portrait." you admitted softly. "From that moment, I hoped you would love me and let me be your peace. Your refuge. Instead, you acted with distance and displays of power. It does not work like that." 

"Then how?" he asked, his voice thick with repressed emotions. 

"Like this..." you murmured, and you leaned in and kissed him. It was not a chaste, formal kiss. But neither was it passionate. It was a kiss of beginning. Soft, searching, and full of unspoken understanding. When you pulled back, his eyes were closed, a look of pure, unadulterated bliss on his face. 

"Stay with me tonight." you requested. "Not the Emperor. Not the Empress. Just us. Let's talk, play a game of Latrunculi, laugh, kiss... let's truly get to know each other." 

He opened his eyes, and the fear was gone, replaced by a warmth that promised to banish the chill from your shared chambers for good. 

"I will be all yours, tonight," he said, the words a hoarse vow. "I find myself eager to court you. If you will have me." He murmured, his gaze dropping with a sudden shyness. So this is what it had been from the start. A shy and insecure man not knowing how to win a heart that was already his. 

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 is…I 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 me…" 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 wouldn’t be happy "I think we're even."

I hope you enjoyed! Feel free to comment ❤️

COMMODUS AND AGAMEMNON SMUTTY FICS COMING VERY SOON

Hey ! thank you I'm happy you enjoy my fics^^ I don't know if your request refers to you in some level but it actually resonnated with me quite a lot. I suffer from vaginismus due to trauma. I've been with my boyfriend for almost 3 years now and we never managed to have full intimacy bc of it, it really sucks and ruins our relationship sometimes. Anyway, i hope you will enjoy this fic <3

As long as there is love - Commodus x reader

The Mediterranean breeze carried the scent of salt and sun through the open archways of your seaside villa. Commodus lay beside you, his dark hair tousled against the silk pillows, his fingers tracing idle patterns along your arm as you both watched the morning light dance across the waves.

"I could stay here forever." he murmured, his voice still thick with sleep. "Away from Rome, away from the Senate…" He turned to face you fully, his intense eyes soft in the morning light. "Away from everything but you. Painting the way the sun dances across your body in the morning light…"

His lips found yours in a lazy kiss that tasted of honey and wine from last night's dinner. You responded eagerly, taking a deep breath, your hands threading through his dark hair as the kiss deepened. Commodus rolled onto his side, pulling you closer until your bodies were pressed together, skin against skin.

"I want you." he whispered against your mouth, his hand sliding down your back to rest at the curve of your hip. "All of you…"

Your heart swelled with love and desire, but also with that familiar flicker of apprehension. You wanted this, wanted him more than anything, but your body had always betrayed you when it came to this final intimacy.

"I want you too…" you breathed, pushing aside the doubt, one hand caressing his chest. You did your best to focus on the present moment, the sensations and not your thoughts.

Commodus shifted above you, his movements unhurried and gentle as he positioned himself between your legs. His eyes never left yours, full of tenderness and patience that never failed to amaze you in a man known for his cruelty to others.

"Relax for me, my love." he murmured, his thumb stroking your cheek as he began to press forward. He captured your lips once again, a slow kiss that was meant to show you all the tenderness he had for you.

You tried…tried to breathe, tried to welcome him, tried to ignore the tightening of muscles that fought against his entry. A sharp pain shot through you as he pushed deeper, and you bit your lip to keep from crying out. Tears pricked at your eyes, and you blinked them back rapidly, hoping he wouldn't notice in the golden morning light. But Commodus froze instantly, his brow furrowing with concern.

"What is it? Am I hurting you?" He asked, panting from arousal yet still so attentive to your being.

"No." you lied quickly, eyes half closed and forcing a smile. "It's just… intense. Please don't stop."

His eyes narrowed slightly, studying your face with an intensity that made you feel exposed. He could feel how tense you were, how your muscles were clenched so tight that it was impossible for him to get in. He reached down to wipe at a tear that had escaped and now traced a path down your temple.

"You're in pain." he stated, without judgement. He began to withdraw, but you stopped him with a hand on his arm.

"Please, Commodus. I want this. I want to be one with you."

He sighed heavily, rolling onto his side beside you again but keeping you in his arms. "If I wanted to cause someone pain, I would choose a senator who has displeased me, not the woman I love." His thumb gently wiped away another tear. "Your body fights against what your heart desires. I see it, even if you try to hide it from me."

"I'm sorry. I'm broken." You murmured as shame washed over you. It was a problem you were facing for too long.

"You are not broken." he corrected firmly, tilting your chin up to meet his gaze. "You are perfect. And I am a selfish fool for insisting on this when it causes you pain."

Before you could protest further, he shifted down the bed, his mouth trailing kisses along your stomach, your hips, your inner thighs. His touch was reverent, worshipful, as if he were memorizing every inch of you.

"There are other ways to be one." he murmured against your skin, his breath warm and intimate. "Ways that bring only pleasure, never pain." His fingers found the sensitive bundle of nerves between your legs, circling gently as you sighed in relief, his touch slowly building pleasure and desire back up again. He watched your face carefully, gauging your reactions, adjusting his touch until you were arching beneath him, all thoughts of pain forgotten. You are finally relaxing again under his touch.

"That's it…" he encouraged softly. "Let me love you. Let me show you how much I cherish every part of you." His mouth followed where his fingers had been, and you cried out not in pain but in ecstasy as his tongue worked its magic. Commodus took his time, patient and attentive, bringing you to the edge again and again until you were begging for release.

When it finally came, it was overwhelming, a wave of pleasure so intense it left you trembling and breathless. Commodus gathered you into his arms, holding you close as your heartbeat gradually returned to normal.

"I love you." he whispered into your hair. "Not for what you can give me, but simply for being you. Never forget that."

"I love you too," you murmured against his chest. "More than you know." Tears pricked at your eyes again, but this time they were tears of relief and overwhelming love.

He kissed the top of your head, his arms tightening around you. "Then we have everything we need, here in our little paradise by the sea. No matter how I make love to you as long as it is love.” he cooed tenderly, placing another protective kiss over your forehead. You were hopeful that one day your body would accept him and Commodus would not pressure you over it.

I can't get the idea out of my head

Commodus would get physically aroused when watching the games, whatever gladiators or racing.

When his team is winning (the greens) he would get so excited that his hand would find your thigh, squeezing it.

He would whisper agaisnt your ear things about the races, how happy he is

His hand would slip between your thighs during tense moments, the pad of his fingers edging you until victory was granted

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

like he doesn't mind the sight of blood, to have his face covered in it, the metallic tang of it

He would have some kind of kink over tasting your blood

Besides he knows how much it eases your tummy ache to orgasm

He knows how strangely sensitive your parts get and how much what you feel gets tripled