#gladiator (2000)

It had been a long, excruciating week. You had managed to avoid Commodus in that time. Attius was still insistent that you complete your duties despite the injuries, but you had managed to do them all in the lower levels of the palace. In the few instances where you needed to get work done in areas Commodus could be, you chose to do them very late into the night. 

There was not a word you could use to express the heartache you had felt at that time. It is funny that a person could be stamped so permanently onto your ribcage in such a short time of knowing them, but the emperor was a man you would never forget. 

In your dreams, you could still feel the touch of his calloused hands and the warmth that only he could provide – no other form of warmth like fire or the sun could compare or compete. 

The swelling in your face was gone, but you still sported a cut lip and the bruises were still prominent. Each night, you would go to Cassius to get a poultice to put on your wounds, which soothed the skin and removed some of the aching pain. 

While you had been smart in dodging Commodus and staying on the lower levels of the castle, you had to fetch rosemary from the gardens and it could not wait until night. So you found yourself, in the heat of midday, picking some rosemary in a secluded area of the palace gardens. 

It was calm, with a gentle breeze that kissed your skin. You held a woven basket with the handle tucked into your bent arm. With a small knife, you would cut off bundles of rosemary that looked ready to harvest and placed them in the basket. The motions were soft and serene and you found some peace with it. 

Footsteps alerted you to a presence behind you. You wanted to turn, but at the sound of their voice, you knew who it was and could not afford to face them. 

“You are not sick,” Commodus spoke from behind you, his tone full of contempt. 

You stopped your current task but still refused to turn around. Keeping your back to him was incredibly disrespectful, but you feared what he would do if he saw the markings on your face. How quickly would he cast you aside? 

“I have… recovered quickly.” You excused. Commodus scoffed from behind you and stepped closer. He was only a pace or two away from you and his close proximity had your knees weak and resolve crumbling. 

“You were never sick. I am not stupid…” His tone then switched to something that sounded almost insecure, “Have I done something to incur your indifference? Why do you avoid me? Whatever it was, name it and I shall work towards absolution. Shout it at me, insult me even, I give you permission for that. So long as you speak, so long as I can hear you talk because I have learnt that nothing… nothing hurts more than the absence of you.” 

His small speech could have knocked you off your feet. It sent your mind reeling. A strong urge to drop your basket and fling yourself into his arms washed over your body. How much you dearly missed the comfort of his embrace. He sounded vulnerable, not something you ever thought would come out of his mouth.

“It is not you, Caesar.” You hoped the honorific title would make him display more mercy toward you, but you failed to notice the depths of his devotion that had built up long before he invited you to his chamber so many nights ago. 

“Commodus.” He corrected what you addressed him as, “You of all people do not need to call me that. What is it that burdens you so?” He questioned. 

You knew there was no point in trying to keep it hidden. Your clothing thankfully covered most of the bruises, except for the one on your face. Slowly, while looking at the stone ground, you turned to face him. Your face raised and made eye contact with him, finding some solace in the green of his eyes. His look of desperation for your attention quickly morphed into simmering rage. You could see the bump in his throat move as he swallowed and his jaw set. 

He took the final step to get closer to you. Commodus raised his hand and hovered it right over your bruise, eyes scanning it over and over as if it was not real. 

“Who?” His voice was oddly calm. It was as if his mind had shut down, unable to fully process what he was seeing. 

“I am fine and–”

“Who did this?” Commodus interrupted. He gently traced over the bruise with the tip of his fingers, mapping the way it marred your face. 

“I have neglected my duties as of late. Master Attius did only what was necessary.” You tried to reason. His nostrils flared at your words. 

“It was him that did this to you?” You wanted to answer, but there was a sob that threatened to claw its way through your throat. You did not wish to cry in front of him, but the stress of everything had hit you. He saw the tears that welled in your eyes and pulled you in for a hug. However, his sudden touch on your arms caused you to flinch.

Commodus looked down immediately, grabbed your wrist, and pulled up the sleeve of your dress to see the bruises that littered your forearm and disappeared under the top of the fabric. His breath became laboured. 

“Nothing must go unpunished, he told me.” You bit your lip to hold the sobs back. Commodus let out a long sigh and rested his forehead against yours. The two of you stayed like that for a few moments, letting the warm breeze hit your bodies. 

He eventually moved, lifting his head and planting a kiss on your hairline. His hands reached up and rubbed your shoulders gently, trying to provide comfort while also not wanting to make your pain worse. 

“You are not to do any more work today. Go to my room and wait there.” He instructed you. 

“Wait for what?” You asked. He did not answer you, only giving your temple one last chaste kiss before he turned around and left the garden. You could hear his harsh footfalls as he got further away and you were scared at what he was capable of. 

Commodus was angry and that was dangerous. You worried about what his wrath meant for anyone in the palace. Yet, you could do nothing but stand there as he left, bracing for the coming aftermath of whatever he had planned.

You swore that you would wear down the marble flooring in Commodus’ room. For the last few hours, you had paced back and forth. Sometimes you would sit in a chair for a few moments before becoming restless again and resuming your short march. There had been no word from Commodus or anyone as to what was going on. 

You surmised that was the best outcome. He had not gone on a rampage and caused chaos, which was good. It had only struck you recently that perhaps you had been terribly stupid this whole time. The way he looked at you in the gardens and his vulnerability at thinking he had done something wrong to you. There you came to understand the depths of the situation and that the feelings you held are in some capacity reciprocated. 

That was why you paced so relentlessly. He harboured feelings for you, which in itself felt surreal. You were nothing and would remain nothing, but somehow that was enough to catch his attention. Had it been that festival you sang at so many years ago? Was it that moment when the fates decide to entwin both of your paths?

The door on the other side of the room opened and you stopped pacing. You stood still, hoping to see Commodus. It was hard to conceal your disappointment when another man walked through the doors. He was old and hunched over slightly, but his face appeared kind. He carried a bag with him and set it down on one of the tables. 

“Excuse my brash words, but where is the emperor?” You questioned. 

The old man smiled and began to take items out of his bag; vials and bandages, “The emperor has not been in the palace for hours, my lady.” 

“I am not a lady,” You spoke. 

“I have been instructed by the Caesar to look over his lady that awaits in this room. I am correct in assuming that is you?” He teased you slightly and you felt a little more relaxed around him. You approached the table and looked down at the healing supplies he had laid out. 

“Yes, uh, that would be me.” You shrugged. You did not want to question why Commodus had referred to you as his lady but knew it was not something to take lightly. Whatever he said goes and there was no reversing those words. The more you thought of it, the more it warmed your heart. 

“Well, I am Cosmo, fair lady. Might I check over your injuries?” He questioned. 

You nodded with permission and he moved towards you. While he tended to your wounds, all you could think about was Commodus; where he was and what he was doing. He was not in the palace and Rome was a large city. A sinking feeling of worry and dread washed over you.

After you had been tended to, more servants came in to bring you new attire. The dress you wore was nothing you had ever come close to having. The tunica, stolla, and palla all matched with the vibrancy of orange and black. Commodus had picked it out for you and you could not help but wonder if he chose it because it was similar in colour to your favourite animal, the tiger.  

When you had gotten ready, guards escorted you to a waiting carriage. Each time you tried to ask what was happening, you only got the same short response; Caesar awaits you. By now, slight fear had entered your heart. He had been gone that whole day and the last you saw of him was when he became consumed by rage. Had he hurt others? Had he hurt himself? 

The large imposing figure of the Colosseum entered your vision as the carriage approached. There were not many times in your life when you had time to visit, but each memory had been ingrained in your mind. The sun was setting and cast the stone in a delicate golden light. The heat of the day waned and you became grateful for the clothing wrapped around you to shield you from the occasional cool breeze. 

You do not remember there being a gladiatorial game scheduled for that day and your suspicions got worse as you were led out of the carriage and into the Colosseum. There was no shouting, no screaming, or bounds of cheer. Nothing but silence greeted you as you walked up some stairs and found yourself at the cloth-covered entrance to the emperor's viewing box. 

The guards escorting you grabbed the silk curtains and pulled them away, allowing you to enter alone. The viewing box was grand, filled with seats for the senators. A large stone chair, like a throne, was placed up front in the centre. There, leaning against the stone railing, was Commodus. He had his back to you, but you could see he wore a regal outfit of black armour with silver and gold accents. A gold laurel crown rested over his touseled dark locks. 

Your heartbeat picked up at the sight. 

“Commodus?” You questioned. At the sound of your voice, he turned around and smiled. He raised both of his arms like one would do to welcome someone with a hug. 

“Ah, you’re finally here,” He approached you and placed one hand gently over the healing bruise on your face, “How are you?” His other hand rested on your waist to pull you closer. A flush fell over your body. 

“The healer says I am doing well. There are no complications.” You answered. You had no idea what to do with your arms, so you pressed the palms of your hands against the chestpiece he wore, feeling the bends and grooves of the detailed pattern and the coolness of the metal. 

“And how is your mind?” His thumb swiped back and forth across your cheek. 

“I am alright. It hurt for a while… everything is fine now.” You reassured him. During your week of avoiding him, you had missed his comfort dearly. While he had originally gone to you for solace, you became attached to him and learned that you wished to lean on him as well.

“Not quite, darling.” Commodus took your arm and guided you to the big throne. He sat down comfortably. While you looked around for a chair next to him, he pulled you down so you sat on his lap. The movement was abrupt but sent heat through your body. 

“Nothing can go back to normal until you see justice for the crimes you have suffered,” Commodus wrapped an arm around your waist to keep you securely in his lap. The armour he wore was almost cold, but his presence provided a warmth that erased that feeling.  

“Attius was well within his rights to punish me and–” 

Commodus grabbed your chin and turned your head to look at him. There was a quiet rage within his eyes, though not directed at you. 

“I’ll not have you speak like that, do you hear me?” He told you. You nodded which made him smile and leave a chaste kiss on your cheek, “Good. Now, I have prepared a show for you.” 

“A show?” You questioned. 

“More like a trial,” He motioned with his hands to a set of guards standing within the arena. They began to march towards one of the entrances and he continued to speak, “I will not have my lady wronged. Nothing must go unpunished.” That phrase clicked in your head, the one that Attius had used against you. At that moment, you understood what was happening.

The doors to one of the entrances opened and out came the person you were expecting. Your master, Attius, had his hands bound by shackles in front of him. He was led in by multiple guards, crossing the sandy terrain. You sucked in a breath when they got closer and you could get a better look at him. He was dressed in rags, but his arms and the lower half of his legs were exposed, showing the gnarly bruises that littered his skin. Splotches of blood, some aged more than others, consumed the brown cotton he wore. 

What shocked you the most was the bruise on his face that was almost an exact copy of the one he gave you. 

Commodus chuckled lightly to himself when Attius almost stumbled over. You now understood where he was for those hours of not being at the palace. While undeniably barbaric, something about his protective nature and thirst for vengeance on your part was, in a twisted way, attractive. When Attius got within speaking distance, Commodus tightened his hold on you as if to assure himself you would no longer get hurt. 

“You have committed an egregious crime,” Commodus spoke. Your hands placed over his that rested on your stomach and began to carefully thread your fingers through his. He had gotten tense and you were doing what you could to calm him down, if only slightly. 

“Caesar, please! Mercy! Show me mercy!” Attius was shoved down to his knees by the guards, kicking up some of the sand. 

“Mercy from me? No, it is not me that you wronged,” Commodus turned to you, his face of indifference and hate towards Attius morphing into adoration for you, “My lady, do you grant him mercy?”

For a moment, you wanted to. You may have many weeks ago, but lately, you had come to understand that violence was often necessary; all thanks to Commodus’ guidance. You thought of everything Attius did towards your fellow servants over the years. Each indignity, each strike, each time he would show no clemency. 

You wanted him to feel that fear. 

“No mercy,” You answered. Commodus smiled at you and his eyes twinkled with something akin to excitement. He surged forward to capture you in a heated kiss. You matched the fervour, pushing back and feeling the softness of his lips against yours. He hummed with satisfaction, tasting the fruit you had eaten a while ago on your lips. 

He pulled away and whispered, “You’re perfect,” He then turned to face Attius again, losing all sense of warmth in his gaze, “It is, with my fair judgement, deemed that the offended parties will fight until death.” Your brows furrowed at his words. He did not mean that you would fight, right? 

Attius looked just as confused as you, “Caesar, surely I will not fight her?” 

“Of course not,” Commodus scoffed as if the mere notion was the worst idea ever proposed, “No, you will not be fighting my lady. Moreover, my lady’s favourite animal shall fight for her.” 

While Attius was still perplexed, your face dropped. You looked around the arena, suddenly aware of a looming threat. Commodus would not, would he? But then again, this kind of violence was in his nature. You understood why he picked out your outfit for that night, how the colours matched that of a tiger. The same animal he had seen you weaving into the pattern of a carpet. 

Suddenly, growling could be heard, looming ever closer. With a loud thundering snap, a section of the ground was pulled back quickly. There was no time to spare as a tiger, large and snarling, lept out from the depths. A chain was linked to a collar on its neck but did little to disrupt its movements. 

Your eyes were glued to the scene, stuck in a state of both stupor and intrigue. Commodus was smiling madly and he rested his chin on your shoulder. You revelled in his warmth while you watched Attius fail to fight back with nothing but a short sword. 

The fight did not last long. Even if he was not beaten and frail, there was no winning against the ravenous beast. It lunged and sunk its teeth into his side. You could see the tiger's jaw clench down and elicit screams of pain from Attius’ mouth. When he fell, the tiger took it as an advantage and aimed for his throat, cutting off his wails. As the beast fed, Commodus leaned back in his throne and used a hand to turn your chin to face him. 

“Do you see what I have done for you?” He began, “Take it as a vow. All those that lay a finger on you will be eaten like scraps. That was the fate of that filthy vermin that marked your arm, the fate of your master, and the fate of anyone who dares come after you now. You belong to me and me alone. Right, darling?” 

You nodded, too lost in the trance of his eyes to speak. His thumb brushed your lower lip before retreating. From a small round side table, Commodus lifted a woven laurel wreath that was as green as his eyes. He placed it on you and adjusted it so it sat along the crown of your head. 

“It appears you won the fight. Congratulations, my victor.” He kissed you on the cheek before gently tracing the bruise on your face. There was still an air of contempt that he held while looking at your injury, but Attius’ death gave him more satisfaction. 

“Thank you, Commodus.” You said. 

“We shall celebrate,” He squeezed your hips as a signal to get up and you did. He stood up after you and held out his hand, “Come,” 

You placed your hand in his, warming at the familiarity of his touch. Taking one last glance at Attius’ still body, you followed Commodus out of the viewing box.

You had been eating at a table in Commodus’ chambers since the two of you arrived back at the palace. It was a private dinner, but still grand in the assembly of food laid out. The two of you ate and talked like you once did before you avoided him. It felt right to go back into that routine like all was finally right with the world. 

The sun had long set and the both of you finished eating and only talked after. As the night got older, you began to unwind. Commodus stood off to the side, facing away from you as he took off his armour pieces. You occasionally glanced towards him while sipping on wine – not remembering the amount of cups you had. By the time he had gotten down to his underclothes and was unfastening his forearm braces, you decided to voice a question that had been burning you inside. 

“Commodus?” He turned to give you his attention and hummed. You took another quick sip, “Why did you choose me?” He paused for a moment, as if your question did not entirely make sense.

“I’ve already told you. At the very least, part of it,” He took off his braces and placed them next to his other armour pieces. His footsteps echoed off of the marble flooring as he came back to you. Commodus rested his forearm over the top of your chair as he leaned over you. 

“You sang at that festival and I felt warmth for the first time. It followed me in my dreams ever since. Admittedly, I did not know if you were still in the palace as you did not frequent above the lower levels. I should have hanged Attius for keeping you from the light.” His fingers reached out to trace your arm, moving up the length, across your shoulder, and towards the exposed collarbone. 

All of a sudden, his posture went rigid. You could see the bump on his throat move up and down as he swallowed nervously. After a few tense seconds, he lowered himself to your eye level, crouching slightly. The gesture alone was incredible. Never would you have predicted an emperor would lower himself to your level, both literally and figuratively. 

“I am correct in assuming these feelings are reciprocated?” He asked. You understood why he had become so nervous. While naturally ruthless, Commodus was an insecure man who looked for approval in the faces of everyone around him. Whether one could consider that a weakness or a strength was up to them. For you, none of that mattered. 

It was almost comical the way you shared that same worry for a while. You too were scared that the depths of his dedication and care were shallow, but if today had taught you anything, it was that a notion like that was far from the truth. 

“You are correct, Commodus.” You responded, “I deeply care for you.” Those words washed over him and you could see how he instantly relaxed. His eyelids fluttered for a moment, scanning you up and down as if to see if you were real. 

He surged forward and captured your lips with his, an ecstasy of heat. You melted into the feeling and relished in the attention. His hands gripped your waist tightly and pulled you up from the chair until your lower back dug into the table. He lifted you to sit on the table, the plates and cutlery jostling with the movement. Commodus was devouring you and at that moment you realized you did not mind it at all.

His movement to pick you up and place you on the table caused you to gasp, which he used to his advantage. His tongue entered your mouth, exploring and dominant. Your breathing became laboured and your body felt fuzzy – as if all the sensations around you that were not Commodus faded into the background. 

He kissed you a few more times before gently biting on your lower lip, pulling away and letting it go. You opened your eyes and saw him staring right at you. His chest was heaving slightly and he kept his forehead resting on yours; completely unwilling to be further from you in any way. 

“That…” Your whispered voice trailed off. Commodus smiled at how dazed you were and was happy to see his power over you. 

Glancing out the window near you, you saw just how dark it was and understood that it had to be closer to twilight. Your mood instantly died. You would need to go to bed immediately. Already you had lost out on valuable sleeping time and knew it would cause you to lack in your chores tomorrow. 

“Commodus, there is nothing I would like more than to stay with you, believe me. But I need to go and rest. There are many tasks I have to get to tomorrow.” 

He looked at you like you had said something incredibly bizarre, “Did you not hear what I told you in the arena? You are mine and because of that, you will do no more work. From now on, my room is yours. You are my lady, the emperor’s lady.” His hands rubbed up and down your thighs, as he pushed himself to stand between them. Even sitting on the table, you did not reach his height. 

“And what will people say?” You questioned. 

“They’ll say nothing if they favour their heads.” Something in the way he said those words made you more eager for him. Deciding to take charge for once, you grabbed the fabric of his tunic and pulled him towards you for a kiss. Commodus moved with you as he was eager to participate, but remained gentle to not hurt your bruises.

There was a heat that bubbled in your stomach, fueling a hunger that you had never felt before. Instinctively, your hips ground against his. Commodus reciprocated, moving the clothed area of his hardening length against your core. The kiss got more intense, a mesh of heated breath and knocking teeth. He clung to you like a last resort, like you were his last chance to arrive in the Elysium fields. 

Your hands roamed everywhere, up his arms and down his chest, feeling the muscles that lay under the fabric of his tunic. The table moved with the force of each of your movements, becoming unstable. Commodus gripped your thighs, pushing them against his sides and wrapping around his waist. You let him pull your arms around his neck and he lifted you off of the table. 

His strength nearly shocked you, but it was not surprising. He pulled away from the kiss long enough so he could walk up the marble steps to the raised dias that held his bed. Before you knew it, you found yourself falling onto the plush silk sheets of his bed; or more accurately what he has now framed as your shared bed. The thought sent a fluttering feeling to the already burning part of your stomach and lodged up towards your chest. 

Commodus leaned down over you and rested on one forearm while he used his free hand to trace across your collarbone and neck, “You’re mine. Not the senate’s, not Rome’s, not anyone’s.” 

You nodded enthusiastically, begging for more attention from him, “Yours, only yours.”

Commodus leaned down and began to assail your neck; licking, kissing, and biting every inch. You trembled under his touch and became reduced to nothing but breathless moans. His hands pulled away at the fabrics that wrapped your form, the pretty assemble being torn off you. You would have been sad about it if it were not for the fact that he could easily buy you another. 

He took away each layer and left you bare under him. Commodus stopped his assault on your neck and pulled back to look at you. Despite the occasional bruise on your arms and legs and a fading one on your stomach, he reached out and gripped your hip and swiped his thumb back and forth as his gaze travelled over you. 

“My Venus,” He whispered. If you were not already unwound below him, you would have melted right there. 

“Commodus,” His name fell like a plea on your lips. You needed him desperately and began to tug at his clothing. He humoured you, smiling softly as he stripped down. Once he was bare, you latched onto his neck and pulled him down into a kiss. You felt the softness of his lips as your tongues explored one another. His chest brushed against yours and the skin contact made you moan. He felt just as hot as your blood, pulsing and begging under the skin. 

One of his large hands trailed down your stomach and brushed over your hip bone before caressing your inner thigh. In an instant, you opened your legs – entirely ready to surrender to him. Sensing how eager you were, he chuckled against your lips. 

“So impatient, my love.” His fingers moved up your inner thigh but stopped just as he got close to your core. You whimpered when he ceased his movements. “Beg, darling. Tell me how much you want me.” 

“Commodus please,” You moved your hips to try and get closer to his touch but he used his other hand to hold you down. He tsked and shook his head from side to side. 

“That’s not playing fair,” He scolded you. While his hands were preoccupied with holding you down, yours were free and you used that to your advantage. He may be able to bring you to heel, but you know you could do just the same. 

“Fuck being fair,” It was the first time you swore in front of him and his eyes sparkled at that, “Fuck me, Commodus, please.” Your hands moved to his lower stomach, lower and lower until you were able to grasp his hard cock. His entire body shuddered and his nostrils flared. Something clicked in him, a snap and his patience was gone. 

Commodus pushed up further on the bed and crawled on top of the sheets, moving right up to you. You had shuffled towards the headboard with your legs bent at the knees and together. His hands gripped your knees and spread your legs so he could slot himself between them. 

“Do you want this?” His warm breath tickled your neck as he trailed his lips across the skin, just barely touching but feeling so right. 

You grabbed his jaw with both of your hands and moved his head to look him in the eyes, “Would I have spread my legs for you otherwise?” His eyes darkened at that and you could feel his jaw clench. 

It was then that you had an idea that may not have been the best. You had seen how possessive he was of you and the violence he was willing to give to others on your behalf. You wanted to test the waters and see how much you could rile him up. 

“Are you going to stop teasing and fuck me or do I have to find someone else?” It was a fake threat. There was nobody else that could ever compare to Commodus; nobody else you would ever want to even speak to. His face fell into incredible seriousness and you let go of him, only for his hand to grip your chin. It was not strong enough to hurt but it held your attention. 

“I know what you’re trying to do, darling.” He leaned down with his lips brushing the shell of your ear, “By the time I am done, you won’t even be able to think about anybody else.” 

In an instant, his warm fingers brushed through your folds. You sucked in a breath at the contact. His fingers moved meticulously, discovering each stroke that made you shake under him and moan. Commodus kissed across the expanse of your neck and chest, dragging his teeth along the skin occasionally. You found it hard to keep your eyes open as you were entranced by what you felt. 

Your hands moved to cart through his hair. When you tugged at the strands, Commodus groaned. It appeared he was particularly sensitive there and you made a note to remember that in the future. He retaliated by latching his lips on one of your nipples, causing your back to arch. You felt one of his fingers slip into you at the same time while his thumb circled your bud. The fire that coursed through your veins was overwhelming and your breathing became erratic. He slipped another finger into you and upped the pace, dragging in and out with the rhythm of your hips moving. 

His name tumbled from your lips over and over again like you were reciting a prayer. His mouth left marks across your chest and neck, some of which you knew would not be able to cover. You had a feeling it was deliberate. In your haze of pleasure, you could feel your body pull taught. The point of no return was met. 

“Com… Commodus, I–” Your voice hitched as his thumb rolled over your bud once more. 

Against the heat of your skin, his voice murmured, “I know, darling. Let go.” It was as if that was the final straw you needed. 

The tense string of your body snapped and you found yourself shattering. He continued his movements, helping you ride out your high. Your head lolled to the side as you shut your eyes. His fingers moved out of you and you suddenly felt sad at the loss of contact. You craved more and wished to spend the rest of your time living in this bed with Commodus. 

“Open your eyes for me,” Commodus’ hands cradled your face. You slowly opened your eyes, staring right into his. His lips turned up, “There’s my girl.” He leaned in to kiss you and groaned at the feeling. Your body was still sensitive and recovering from your orgasm, but you craved more of him. 

“Commodus… please.” There were no other words that needed to be said. His movements were eager, but not rushed. He shifted up so he was on his knees and grabbed his cock that was slick with precum. Slowly, almost painfully, he dragged the tip along your folds. You whimpered at the feeling and lifted your hips to feel more friction. 

The haze of your previous peak was still heavy. You understood then why some people were so provocative in their transgressions. If you could stay like this with him forever you would stake your life to the ground and take that deal in a heartbeat. 

You bit your lip to keep yourself from moaning too much at just the feel of his cock against your folds. He collected your slick on his skin, trailing up again until the head got caught right at your entrance. Gradually, he pushed forward until he bottomed out. You saw his eyebrows furrow and noise leave his mouth that was a mix of a sigh and a groan. He muttered a few curses. 

Commodus did not rush as he was content at the pace he was going because it made you come undone and desperate for anything more. The feeling of being so full made you squirm. You wanted friction or anything to bring back the feeling of ecstasy you had. Your heart felt like it was going to pump out of your chest. Being connected like this with him was the best feeling in the world and you cursed your past self for believing it was a silly fantasy. This was real; real and raw and so good.

He slowly pulled out, dragging until the last moment to make you feel empty. You whined at the loss of his warmth but quickly shut up when he pushed back in, burying himself to the hilt. He repeated that action a few times, each getting faster until he set a steady pace. Your hips matched his movements. His face was buried in your neck with his lips brushing the shell of your ear. You could hear his moans and grunts which only spurred you on further. 

You scratched the planes of his back, digging deeper with each thrust. Even when so deeply connected it did not feel like it was enough. Nothing could ever feel enough to be connected with him. Your scratching made Commodus move faster, picking up the pace. 

The change of speed caused you to release your hold on him, finding little energy to lift your arms. It was like you were under a spell and completely under his influence. 

“That’s it, gods, good girl,” Commodus murmured into your ear. You moaned back with small babbles of his name as your brain was unable to form a single thought other than him; his presence, his feel, him, him, him. It consumed your mind and left you a squirming mess. 

He took your hands that had fallen, grabbed your wrists, and pinned them above your head. Your legs wrapped around his waist and it changed the angle at which he was thrusting into you. The tip of his cock hit a soft spot in you that had you chasing stars at the back of your eyes. The stretch that he gave you was a good ache, one that spread out from your core and burned through your body.  

Commodus began to mutter words with each thrust, “Mine. My girl. My Venus.” He went on and on. Your chest rose against his, pushing for a bit more contact. You wanted to reach out and touch him, but his grip on your wrist was tight. His breath hit the shell of your ear, tickling it slightly. 

The familiar feeling of your build-up hit you and Commodus could tell. He continued the steady rhythm but changed the angle to reach deeper. You nearly shouted at the difference. While he was relentless, his posture changed slightly, becoming less composed as he chased the same high you were experiencing. Both of you could feel the bed moving under you, its sturdy build taking the movement. 

You were wound up again and pulled taught, but this time it felt more intense than the previous. Commodus lost his movement and fucked you with reckless abandon. All manner of control was lost and his perfect posture faltered. It seemed, like you, he had become just as mindless and broken down – doing everything possible to chase pleasure. Despite it all, you could still feel the care that he had for you in the way he muttered sweet nothings into your ear. You squeezed around his length as the build-up in your stomach started to increase. 

“Let go, love. Let me hear you.” Commodus instructed. 

Suddenly, like the waves that crashed against the shores of the home of your childhood, a flood of ecstasy came over you as you reached your peak and descended off of it. Your wanton moans filled the room, matching the sounds the two of you had been making for a while. Commodus visibly relished in it, nipping at your earlobe and kissing your neck. The feeling of your orgasm caused your walls to squeeze and made his movements falter. 

He pulled out suddenly, right as he came. The hot strings of cum coated your lower abdomen. He moved to rest his forehead on yours, eyes closed and face scrunched in the heat of his pleasure. Your legs felt numb. Commodus almost collapsed on top of you. He released his hold on your wrists and held himself up by his forearms on either side of your head. 

The two of you joined in a kiss. This one was a sharp contrast to the quick pace you had. It was slow and passionate, full of trust and care. His hands tangled in your hair, pushing it back with a gentleness unseen. Your hands rested on his broad shoulders, feeling the perspiration that gathered there. Both of your bodies came down from the high, chests rising and falling. 

You thought back to just a few short weeks ago when you were invited into his room. You were incredibly glad he only wanted company then. If not for that, you would have never been able to build this relationship with him. Moreso, you were incredibly thankful your younger self decided to sing at that festival and caught his attention. It seemed that little actions in life led to big changes. 

It still felt absurd now with your change of position. You were no longer a servant, no longer expected to fulfill the duties that had your body aching and mind hurting at the end of the day. 

It was so ridiculous to you, that you could not help but let out a chuckle. Commodus moved his forehead from yours and opened his eyes. You wished to get lost in those eyes. 

“And what do you find so amusing, hm?” He spoke. 

You looked at him with adoration, “Is it wrong to be happy?” 

“No,” Commodus moved to rest beside you, taking a spare cloth from the wash basin placed beside the bed and wiping your stomach down. There was something in his movements that felt almost… domestic. It was not something you ever thought of an emperor doing. “I’m glad you are happy.” 

A beat of silence passed as he laid down next to you on his back and used an arm to pull you flush against him. Your head rested on his pec, hearing the thumping of his heart. 

“Are you happy?” You asked. He squeezed you closer and kissed your temple.

“You made me happy long before all of this.” He answered. Your face scrunched up with wonder. 

“What do you mean?” You lifted your head to look into his eyes, fingers tracing patterns onto his chest. 

“Your singing. It followed me everywhere since that festival. From my mind,” He placed one hand over yours and guided it right above where his heart would be, “to here.” 

There were no words you could think of to respond with. The poetics of his words hit you. You wanted to drown in him, to stay there in that moment for a lifetime. You reached out to trace his jaw, thumb massaging the top of his cheekbone. He leaned into your touch and kissed the pulse point of your wrist. 

“I don’t know how I could ever thank you, for everything,” You could barely imagine what it would be like back in your old life, under the constant fear of your old master, “I may not know what I can do to repay you but–”

“Stay with me.” He interrupted you. There was a shine in his eyes, “You want to repay me? Stay. That is all I need.” 

You stared at him and nodded your head, “I’ll always stay.”

The two of you understood the depths of the promise. It was your own declaration of love, without the words being spoken. A mutual understanding and a promise of forever. It was not traditional to other couples, but again you knew this relationship already did not fit within the bounds of traditionality. It did not matter. 

You kissed him again, sealing the words upon both of your lips. There, you were content to start a new life; a better life.

This was incredibly fun to write! I am 100% open to writing more fics for any characters in the Gladiator films and plan to open up requests. So, if that's something ya'll are interested in, let me know.

Thank you all for the support! <3

He raises his eyes to yours, concern and puzzlement clouding his gaze. His blue eyes are so sincere, so beguiling, that your heart skips a beat. You have no desire to lie to him, but you do not want him to know the truth either.

You still remember the night you got that mark. The red-hot branding iron, the cruel hands holding you down, the scent of burned flesh in your nostrils. A shiver runs up your spine at the memory.

He notices your shiver, gently presses his fingers around your arm to keep you from pulling it away. You relent immediately, your gaze falling to look at your slender wrist cradled between his large hands.

He carefully turns your wrist over again, one fingertip tracing the raised marks with all the tenderness he shows you every night.

“I have never seen it before,” he remarks quietly, still focused on your mark.

You shrug slightly, feigning casualness. “It has only become inflamed the last few days,” you reply truthfully. “The heat always irritates it.”

He lifts his eyes to yours, studying your face for any tells of concealment, and he must not believe what he sees there. His brow furrows, and he looks down to study your mark even more closely.

You are content to sit quietly with him, his thick forearms resting against your knees, his body heat beginning to spread to your chilled bones. Seeing him on his knees before you is still unfamiliar, but you enjoy the peaceful surrender he offers you so freely.

A moment later, he raises his head again, and you can see the sorrow, the pain in his beautiful blue eyes this time. He knows the truth.

“This is a brand,” he whispers. He rubs his thumb over your inflamed skin, soothing it immediately.

All you can do is nod and drop your gaze, unwilling to look at the pain in his eyes. More than anything, you despise him seeing any vestiges of the life you are forced to live beyond his cell walls. He has to bear enough suffering without remembering that you are forced into a different man’s bed every night, that you are mere chattel property to your slave master.

He still studies your face with intensity, fingers stroking your wrist absently. “Who did this?” he breathes, his voice deep and hushed in the scant inches between your faces.

You press your lips together and shake your head dismissively. “It is nothing,” you try to say, but he shakes his head sharply.

“Is this some nobleman’s seal?” he demands, thunder glowering on his brows. “Did someone try to mark you as his private property?”

You shake your head again, feeling the sharp bite of tears behind your eyelids. “No,” you promise him, your voice breaking. “It was not a client.”

Realization dawns in his eyes a moment later. “Antoninus,” he mutters with a curse, and the rage and hatred in his gaze is almost enough to make you pity your cruel master.

His grip on your wrist tightens just barely, and you lift your other hand to press against his for support. You meet his gaze more firmly now, scooting a bit closer to him on the edge of the bed.

“Do not trouble yourself about it, my love,” you say softly, stroking his knuckles with your fingertips. “It happened long ago. It is not worth your anger.”

He just presses his lips together, rubs his thumb absently over your inflamed skin. “Your pain is always worth my anger,” he replies, his voice low and dangerous.

You are ready to forget this conversation, anxious to feel his body against yours and lose yourself in the depths of his lips. He was igniting heat in your body just a moment before, but now your skin grows cold in the small cell, goosebumps and shivers traveling over your skin.

But he is not finished. He gazes at your branding mark, transfixed and horrified. “It is not enough that he must sell your body and take away your freedom,” he mutters angrily. “He must also leave scars on you. Brand you like a piece of livestock.”

You manage a wry laugh to cover the choking emotion in your throat. “It serves its purpose,” you tell him. “Anyone who sees it knows who I belong to. And if I ever try to run away, this brand will make it easier for him to hunt me down.”

His jaw twitches, the tight muscles in his face betraying his anger at seeing yet another way that Antoninus has abused you.

Then he does something that utterly steals your breath. Still kneeling before you, looking up at you from between your knees, the Spaniard takes your wrist in his strong hands, cradles it close to his mouth, and presses the gentlest of kisses against the thin skin of your inner wrist.

Heat burns in your body at the soft touch, the gentle movement of his lips against your sensitive skin. His fingertips hold you in place but stroke your skin with intentional tenderness, and he lets his lips linger on your wrist for a moment.

Memory of the pain from the night you were branded flashes into your brain. How you screamed and cried at the terrible pain, how it ached for weeks afterward. How it still burns like fire every time you remember it.

And the shame. The shame of knowing that the ugly mark on your wrist is permanent, tying you to the horrid man who owns you.

But what matter they now, the burns on your body and soul? Your sweet love is on his knees before you, his lips brushing the veins of your inner wrist with the softness of a feather. Your heart warms, and affection washes over you for the way this man has taken all the terrible things in your past and turned them to sweetness.

“I would kill him for all he has done to you,” he murmurs against your skin. “I cannot stand the thought of you bearing his mark on your skin for the rest of your life. I cannot bear the thought that he does whatever he wishes with you, forces you to earn him money against your will.”

You close your eyes and melt into the pleasurable sensation of his kisses to your inflamed branding mark. “Just as I cannot bear the thought of your master forcing you into the arena every day.”

“No.” He lays his cheek against your delicate inner wrist, his face warm against the rapidly-pulsing blood in your arm. “It is not the same.”

“Yes, it is,” you insist, tucking your fingers under his chin to make him look up at you.

Blue eyes, framed by dark eyelashes. The moonlight streams through his tiny window, catching his eyes and dancing in the gaze that tells you I love you, I would die for you, I would give anything to keep you safe.

“No,” he repeats, tilting his head slightly so that his cheek nuzzles your hand on his face. “My master uses me for my natural fighting skills, my strength. I have a chance to win the crowd and gain popularity and favor with the people. I can earn my way out of this place.” His eyes darken and soften at the same time. “You have no such opportunity.”

You squeeze your eyes shut for a moment, then lean forward to rest your forehead against his. He reacts immediately, one hand reaching up to grip the back of your neck with such tenderness, such sorrowful fondness.

“I do not face swords and lances and chariots,” you argue with nothing but softness in your voice. “I do not fight wild beasts and assassins. I do not try to survive in an arena filled with people who scream for blood.”

Your lover sighs, his warm breath fanning across your face. Being so close to him is the only peace you ever know, and all you want to do is gather him close in your arms, breathe into his neck and feel him do the same thing in return.

“They could have my blood,” he whispers, tilting his chin up so he can delicately kiss your cheek. “I would die if it meant you could be free.”

“No,” you whisper immediately, wrapping your arms around his neck quickly to pull him close. He does not hesitate, but shifts forward on his knees to wrap his arms around your waist.

“No,” you whisper again, relishing the way his broad chest rises and falls with his breath against your stomach. “Do not even say such things.”

“I would,” he says simply.

You bury your face in his neck, press a gentle kiss there as one hand slides up to thread through his hair at the back of his neck in the place he likes.

“I do not want freedom,” you murmur into his throat, “if you are not there to share it with me.”

A gentle tremor runs through his body, and his fingertips tighten on your back. He feels tense, as though full to the brim with emotions he longs to untether. Even when you stroke his neck and plant a kiss to the top of his head, he does not relax.

“I would do anything to win your freedom,” he asserts, tilting his head so he can kiss your exposed collarbone. “My life means nothing so long as I can use it to keep you safe somehow.”

You know what he is thinking of — the law that says a gladiator must win the favor of the Emperor in order to be granted mercy. If the Spaniard does this, he can free himself and you. He has spoken of it often, and of the lengths to which he is willing to go to bargain for your freedom.

Tears flood your eyes at the thought. You know he would die for you in a heartbeat — less than a heartbeat — and the thought is so unbearable that you squeeze him even tighter, an embrace he returns enthusiastically.

“A life of freedom would be empty without you,” you murmur, tears choking your words.

His response is immediate. In one swift motion, your love pushes himself up and onto the bed beside you. With his arms firm around your waist, he pulls you down across his lap, pinned against his body.

Every nerve in your body thrums in response. You love nothing more than when he takes control, pulls you into a more comfortable position. His arms anchor you in place, cradling you tenderly while his lips find their usual place on the curve of your neck.

“We will not be parted,” he promises you, his voice deep and husky so close to your ear. “When we get our freedom, we will start our new life together.”

Tears flow freely down your cheeks now, and you wrap your arms tighter around his neck. The warmth of his body floods through yours, a deep pleasure that often stays with you long after you leave him at night.

“Yes,” you murmur through the tears. “Nothing will ever part us again.”

Your lover loosens his hold on you slightly, holding you apart from his body so he can look down into your eyes. His gaze is tender, soft, utterly admiring.

He smiles down at you, lifting one hand to swipe away the tears running in rivulets down your cheeks. “Tell me what you dream of,” he whispers, “when you think of our life together.”

Something about this moment — his adoring gaze, the intimate posturing, the way he kissed your brand mark so gently — stirs your emotions even further. You choke back a sob, one that he soothes with a comforting hand down your back.

He pulls you close again, nuzzling your neck gently in the silent moment. His beard scratches your skin in the most pleasant way, while your fingers trace the defined muscles of his arms, shoulders, and chest.

“We would live by the sea,” you whisper, finding your voice amid the sob in your throat. He pulls you a little tighter, nestles his face in the curve of your shoulder. “A small house in the cliffs. We would have a garden, raise livestock. We would walk by the sea every night.”

It’s a daydream you have indulged in so many times. Part of your heart tells you that it could never be true, but lying here in his arms, enveloped by his comforting scent and strong grip, any dream seems possible.

His lips find your pulse point, gently teasing your sensitive skin. “And so we shall,” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin in a way that makes you tremble. The shivers only make him draw you closer, so close you can feel every line of his body against yours.

“We would do just as we pleased,” you continue, caught up in the dream. “We would tend our crops and build up our land. We would never want for anything, and we would never fear anything.”

He grunts his agreement, dipping his head lower to explore your chest. With delicate fingers, he uses one hand to pull your shift open the rest of the way, and his lips make contact with one of the swells of your chest, right in a spot that makes you writhe in his arms.

You could fly, you could sing, you could ascend to the heavens when he touches you this way.

You’re burning for him, every inch of you needing him to close the last bit of distance between your bodies and give you what you know you are both craving. You can feel his own desire, the fervent intensity of his kisses on your chest.

Emotion catches in your throat again. What cruel fate conspired to give you this man, this perfect beloved man in your arms, only to constantly threaten you with the knowledge that he could be ripped away from you at any moment?

With his lips coaxing sighs and moans from you, his strong hands holding you fast, you pray that this moment might never end, that you might live forever in this bed, in his arms.

You can’t suppress a soft moan when his tongue does something particularly wicked. “And I would be your wife,” you gasp, “every day of the rest of my life. I would be content all my days if only to call you my husband.”

“Yes,” he growls, emotion jerking into his own voice. You’re clinging to him fiercely now, gripping his bare shoulders with all the intensity you can muster. His mouth travels lower, down your ribs, then to the softer flesh of your belly. He’s still cradling you close, shifting your position every time he kisses further down.

You press one hand to the back of his neck, encouraging him and anchoring yourself. “And I would bear your child,” you whisper, melting in pleasure at his gentle but inquisitive lips. “I would be so proud to be the mother of your children.”

Another thought you have indulged many times. The pride of bearing his children, of having all the world know that he has claimed you. The joy of raising children alongside him, seeing him be a father.

At this, the Spaniard nearly comes undone, and his grip on your waist surges with his heartbeat, thundering in his chest where he is pressed against your hips. He has nearly fallen onto his side now, both of you stretched out on his bed while he explores the full length of your body.

“I have imagined it so many times,” he confesses, his mouth open and hot against your waist. One of his hands moves to hold your hips in place, the other gripping your free hand where it clenches the blanket beside you. “Sharing a home, sharing my life with you. Making you my wife, making you the mother of my children.”

He seems to sense that you need him to be gentle tonight, and he is. A moment later, he has pushed himself up to realign with your body, supporting himself on one elbow while you get into the proper position beneath him.

He makes love to you slowly, gently, passionately, his hand gripping yours and his mouth resting on the curve of your neck. With every thrust, he whispers your name, tells you he loves you, and promises the life you will one day share.

And, oh, how you rise to meet him. How you effortlessly find his rhythm, plant your hand on his bare chest, and make love to him to the cadence of his steady heartbeat.

There is something about this particular position that drives him mad. He loves having you beneath him, having his body fully against yours, cradling you in his arms while you cling to him. He loves the sound of your labored breath, and the gentle strokes of your hands, and the way he can lean close and kiss you anywhere he pleases.

He’s nuzzling your neck, his tongue hot against the hollow of your throat, when you come undone for him. Without having to think, you grip his broad shoulders, wrap your legs tight around him. The soft moans he coaxes from you crescendo, sounds that he craves and glories in.

With those signs of your satisfaction — your sighs, your trembling, the way you cling to him so desperately — he pulls your body tight against his, reaching his own pleasure a few moments later.

Tears spill down your cheeks again, all in the simple joy of holding your love so close, feeling his body pulse with the pleasure only you bring him.

His sweet voice is sighing in your ear, gasping for breath while he comes down from his high. His broad hand strokes your side, gives your chest a gentle squeeze, rests on your hipbone as if anchoring himself.

Your hands trace patterns on his back, tenderly whispering to him while your tongue finds its words again. These moments are so intensely precious — immediately after you’ve taken your pleasure from each other, all either of you wants to do is cradle the other in your arms, stroke sensitive skin, and breathe in rhythm.

“I long to be yours,” you murmur breathlessly in his ear, dipping your head to kiss his neck, covered in a thin sheen of sweat. “I want to belong to you.”

The sound he makes comes from deep in his chest, rumbling against your breastbone. You know he is still recovering from his climax, and he rests his head in the curve of your neck, trying to catch his breath.

“I want you to mark me,” you whisper, suddenly longing for something that will tie you to him, replace the ugly brand seared into your wrist — the wrist that he kissed so tenderly earlier, the wrist that is now pressed against his dark hair.

He exhales a laugh, his breath fanning over your collarbone. “And how would you have me do that, my love?” he rasps.

His deep voice, always a bit different after he’s made love to you, stokes the fire in your stomach. He has shifted onto his side beside you, still holding you against his body with his face in your neck.

You smile in return, ducking your head shyly. You’ve never asked him for anything like this before, but you long for it in an inexpressible way.

“Choose a place on my body to mark,” you reply quietly, “anywhere you like. Give me something to replace my brand, even if it is not permanent.”

His body is still trembling, his hands shaking where they stroke up and down your back. His sweet touch is always gentler while he recovers from lovemaking.

“Will you not be punished for having a man’s mark on your body?” he inquires.

“Not if it is yours,” you tell him honestly. “What man would challenge the Spaniard for the right to mark me?”

When you lift your head slightly to meet his gaze, a mixture of emotions have clouded his eyes. You can see the sadness there, the longing to abolish any other man’s right to touch you again. You also see his earnest pride that you would ask for this, his pride that you long to be his, that you want his mark on your body for all to see.

His hands tighten on your waist, and the eager gleam in his eye tells you that he is willing to grant your request.

He helps you sit up on the bed, your body still trembling as much as his. While he sits up and leans back against the wall, you sit cross-legged between his legs, your back against his chest and his strong arm wrapped tight around your waist.

Somehow, the intimacy of this moment eclipses even your lovemaking. The trust, the closeness, the sheer physicality of letting him hold you, your bare body against his, makes you ache for him all over again.

He marks you on the neck, at the juncture of your shoulder, just a few inches from your spine. His lips are gentle but unyielding while he works your skin. You reach one hand to interlace with his where it presses firmly against your belly, squeezing his fingers for strength.

“Am I hurting you?” he asks cautiously, lips brushing your shoulder in the most delicious way.

You shudder, partly from his warm hand on your abdomen and partly from the sheer pleasure of having him mark you this way. “Not at all,” you promise him, and he continues.

Several blissful moments pass that way, with you melting in his strong arms, resting your head back against his broad shoulder. When he is satisfied with the dark mark he leaves on your skin, he presses a feather-light kiss to it.

“Now you are mine,” he whispers, his kisses trailing down your shoulder. “In a way that only you and I will know.”

That thought brings a smile to your lips while you rest in his arms. You have his mark, and no one can take it from you.

“I have always been yours,” you murmur, tilting your head back to kiss the underside of his jaw. He shivers at the contact. “From the moment I met you, I have been yours, body and soul.”

He wraps both arms more fully around you, and you can feel the deep breath he draws. “One day, I will make you my wife,” he swears, conviction ringing in his soft voice. “I will fight every day until I can claim you as mine.”

“Know that I already am.” You lift your hands to rest on his forearms, gripping the thick muscles there. His wrists flex and relax beneath your hands; he knows how you love holding him there.

“I know,” he agrees, dipping his head again to kiss your shoulder blade. “But one day I will claim you so that everyone will know who you belong to. You will never be in another man’s bed as long as I live.”

You squeeze his forearms, a mixture of joy and sorrow coursing through you. He lowers his head now, resting his forehead in the curve of your neck, weary and spent from the vigorous lovemaking.

You are exhausted, too, and eager to fall asleep in his arms for the next half-hour. But there is still one thing left for you to do.

“Now,” you declare, playfully nudging his chest with your shoulder, “it is my turn.”

He lifts his head, nuzzling your cheek with his face. You can feel his smile. “You intend to leave your mark on my body as well as my heart?”

Your own heart leaps at his sweet words, and you laugh with delight. “Not as you marked me,” you amend. “But I do want to give you something of mine.”

Carefully, you extricate yourself from his embrace, turning to face him. He’s still leaning back against the wall, and he rests his palms on your thighs where they lay across his now.

His gaze follows your hands, which you lift to fiddle with something in your hair. His eyes occasionally glance downward, sweeping in appreciation over your figure. While you work with both hands in your hair, he playfully traces his fingertips down your bare body.

The sensation coaxes a laugh and a gasp from you, and you teasingly swat his hand away so you can finish. His grin warms your heart in a way you could never put into words.

A moment later, you free your hands, your hair now tumbling free around your shoulders. He lifts his right hand reflexively to comb through your cascading hair, in the way he loves to do.

“This,” you tell him, “is for you.”

He lifts an eyebrow, his grin still softening his eyes and lighting up his face in the way you adore. “Your hair ribbon?” he asks curiously, mischief alighting in his eyes. “It is kind of you, my love, but I do not think my hair is long enough to be tied back.”

You laugh with him, easily and cheerily. Gentler, freer moments like these are what you live for.

“Hold out your hand,” you request with a smile, and he does so immediately, dropping the hand that has been buried in your long hair.

His wrist and forearm are thick, and your hair ribbon only wraps around it twice before you have to tuck it into a knot. He watches you with such admiration, such affection, as you tie your ribbon around his arm.

“There,” you murmur, tracing your fingers over the interlacing pattern. “Now you can bear me with you in the arena.”

Again, his eyes cloud with a mixture of shadow and light. He grips the back of your neck tenderly, leans you forward so that your forehead touches his.

“I bear you with me everywhere I go,” he whispers, “because you are ever in my heart.”

At that, you close the distance, entwining your arms around his neck while his lock around your bare waist. Once he has you securely pressed to his chest, he lays you down beside him, nestling you in his arms so you can both rest.

“I love you,” you whisper, your head tucked under his chin and your arm wrapped around his torso. “My life is yours, only yours, for the rest of my days.”

The Spaniard tenderly kisses your forehead, pulls you closer with an arm around your waist. His warmth pervades your skin, and his scent floods your senses. His heartbeat pounds steadily in his chest, where your other hand rests.

“And I am yours, my beloved,” he whispers, “until I seek you in the afterlife, and then for all eternity.”

The brand on your arm might as well have vanished, for now you bear the mark of your beloved on your skin, and he carries a symbol of your love on his own body. Though you are slaves with no way to truly belong to each other, the marking somehow makes your vows feel more permanent, more obvious to the outside world.

But at this moment, the outside world is utterly forgotten. Your love is in your arms, breathing steadily against you, and that is the sweetest pleasure on the face of the earth.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~