AN: I rewrote this a bunch of times to try to fix it, but I still think it's mostly fail. Oh, and Scotland should be about in his early- to mid-teens. (Looks like we're in the same handbasket, OP).
Rome was beginning to wonder why in the world he had wanted this horrible country in the first place. He might not have minded how bitterly cold and wet and barren the islands were, if not for the fact that the states already there fought for their land like dogs with a bone. He had just barely managed to subdue that barbarian Britannia, now he seemed to face an even harder fight northwards.
The Empire had only recently finished a conference with his officers, the gist of the conversation coming down to wonder at how the barbarians continued to defeat them. He went over battle plans as he tramped across the thin, foggy camp.
Rome stepped into his tent and was immediately assaulted by a barrage of shouting and protest. He looked down at his prisoner, watching bemusedly as the boy thrashed and struggled against his heavy bonds.
He looked much the same as he had on the battlefield, none of that soldier’s pride diminished by his capture. Rome noticed cuts and scratches all over his small body, in addition to the deep purple gash on his forehead, the one that Rome had given him. The boy was bound tightly, with ropes around his ankles and chest and holding his arms in front of him to a tent post. He had already torn away the top layer of skin on his wrists from struggling to get free.
Rome towered over the barbarian. “Your men have been routed, Caledonia.” He referred to the prisoner by the name he had chosen not the barbarian’s own name for himself. He continued calmly, “They’re fleeing into the woods like rabbits. So much for your barbarian courage.”
Scotland shouted angrily in his own tongue, straining against the ropes. Rome knew that the boy could understand Latin perfectly well; he just refused to speak it.
In case his meaning was lost, Scotland spat noisily at the ground beside Rome’s feet.
Rome frowned, then drew back his foot and kicked the boy hard in the chest. He relished the high cry that it produced from Scotland as a welcome break from the usual defiance. The boy glared at him, even as his shoulders shook.
“Respect, Caledonia,” he explained, “is a quality that you lack. Respect for your superiors.”
He knelt down beside Scotland, still taller than the young boy. Scotland's arms and even his fingers stretched out towards Rome, matching the hate blazing away in those dark green eyes. Rome smiled serenely at him.
“I should have expected you to persist in this foolish behavior,” he mused. “Your brother was stubborn as well.”
He gently ran the back of his fingers along Scotland’s dirty cheek. The boy turned and snapped his teeth at Rome’s fingers. Calmly, Rome slapped Scotland across the face.
“…And proud,” he added, as the boy cringed in pain. “We must find some way to cure you of that.” He paused, and then murmured, “Barbarian.”
Scotland shot something in his own language, then immediately braced himself for another blow. Rome watched the reaction with a small measure of satisfaction; Caledonia could be taught.
Rome got to his feet and surveyed the boy again. He was curled in on himself like a chained animal, eyes still darting around frantically, teeth bared in an obvious bestial threat. Rome found himself smiling; now that he was rendered helpless, the child was a bit more likeable. Cute, almost, despite or maybe because of his tangled hair, ragged clothes, and dirt caked into every crease of his extraordinarily pale skin.
But, then there was that pride, the one flaw that made him so difficult to control.
Imperium (2/3)
anonymous
December 6 2009, 19:11:41 UTC
His hand went to the inside of his tunic. He smirked as Scotland's eyes widened. “Well, Caledonia, if you refuse to obey, you will have to be reminded of your worth.” He placed a sandaled foot into Scotland’s lap, slowly rubbing at his groin.
Scotland gasped and tried to twist away, shivering and panting. He glared up at Rome savagely, though the empire didn’t miss the sweat on his forehead and the confused near-panic in his green eyes.
He pulled aside the fabric of his tunic and started to stroke his flaccid cock to life. The barbarian shouted and redoubled his thrashing.
“You asked for this, Caledonia,” he hissed, grinding his heel in harder and relishing the high yelp that resulted. “If you refuse to act civilized, you give me no reason to treat you like anything other than a common whore.”
He set his cock at Scotland's lips. “Open your mouth, Caledonia.”
Scotland turned his head away and snarled. Rome grabbed the boy’s hair and forced him back. “I’m not asking, boy. Open your mouth, and if I even feel your teeth, I will knock them out.”
The barbarian looked up at him in boiling hatred, tinged with pain as Rome tugged on his hair, continuing to rub the growing hardness in the boy’s lap. Struggling to control his shivering, Scotland slowly opened his mouth and hesitantly wrapped his lips around the tip of Rome’s cock.
Rome pulled Scotland’s head forwards, burying deep inside the wet heat of Scotland’s mouth. Scotland made a high, muffled noise of protest as he gagged. He pulled back long enough to let the boy take a ragged breath, then pushed back in again, setting a punishing rhythm. He placed his hands on the back of the boy’s head, groaning as he fucked the little mouth.
This wasn’t about tenderness or even pleasure. This was something that one did to whores and enemies one wanted to dishonor. It was dirty and low and shameful.
Now, Scotland was too.
“Barbarian…” he grunted, tugging hard on the boy’s knotted hair. “…Whore…!” Scotland whimpered painfully. Rome pulled the boy forward hard, gagging him again. He could feel heat prickling across his skin, gathering in the pit of his stomach. He was close, close…
“Ah!” Rome let go of the boy’s hair and pulled back to come on the boy’s face.
Scotland cried out in shock as sticky white mess splattered across his mouth and cheeks, sinking into the dirt and sweat, making pale tracks. He gasped and choked, spitting frantically to get the salty taste out of his mouth, as a series of weak keening noises escaped from his throat.
Once he had sufficiently recovered, Rome smiled down at the boy in satisfaction. “Is it good, Caledonia?”
Scotland croaked something bitterly and spat again.
Rome shook his head disappointedly. “Still fighting are you?” He moved the foot still resting on Scotland’s thigh, rubbing at his undeniable erection. “This part of you isn’t.”
Scotland inhaled sharply, his whole body quivering. He managed to gasp out a few angry words in his own language, maybe a curse, maybe a plea to stop. In either case, Rome ignored him and continued to stroke and grind against the boy.
“Ah, then you are enjoying this,” he murmured. Seemingly despite himself, Scotland spread his legs to give Rome greater access, as he bit back a moan. Rome chuckled. “I expected you to resist a bit more, barbarian.”
Imperium (3/3)
anonymous
December 6 2009, 19:12:36 UTC
Scotland hung his head, not making eye contact with the empire as he shook and mumbled, his hips bucking forward uncontrollably.
“Whore,” Rome repeated dispassionately to the kneeling boy. He pulled his foot away, and watched as the boy’s flushed, red face shot up. Rome’s smirk widened. “Oh, would you like me keep going?”
Scotland tried to glare, but it was impossible with Rome’s come rolling down his face, over his lips. His legs moved together, trying to achieve some friction. He hung his head again and murmured something through gritted teeth.
Rome tutted. “No. Say please. And say it properly.”
There was a long pause. Rome watched calmly as the boy shook like a leaf. Rome didn’t expect him to give in right away. The boy was stubborn, proud, with a kind of savage dignity. Rome could value that, almost as much as he valued bringing that down.
Finally, Scotland gave the tiniest of badly pronounced grunts. “Please.”
Rome grinned. “Good boy.”
The look in the boy’s eyes was savage, until Rome knelt behind the boy and grabbed his erection and began to stroke and rub him roughly through his clothes. He cried out, squirming and shaking violently.
Scotland was only a boy, and wasn’t long before he made a desperate, choking noise, almost a sob, as he came into Rome’s hand. Rome smiled as he felt the wet warmth leaking through the rough fabric. He kissed the back of Scotland’s head and ruffled the boy’s hair.
He really did like the boy in a way. Like his brother, he was proud, uncivilized, and reckless, but also a ferocious adversary of the type Rome didn’t see within the bounds of his own Empire.
Scotland almost reminded Rome of himself as a fledgling nation, surrounded by enemies, refusing to give an inch of ground.
He smiled, almost affectionately, down at the boy as he stood and straightened his tunic. The boy had his head bent over out of Rome’s view, panting and shaking slightly. Rome leaned down and pulled up Scotland’s chin to force the boy’s face up to his own. Come ran down the pale, dirty face, mingling with the tears leaking uncontrollably from the corner of his eyes, as he quivered like a dead leaf in the breeze.
Scotland’s eyes met Rome’s directly for just a second. The pure hate that colored every flicker of the verdant green gaze was almost enough to push Rome over.
Rome let his head fall back down, and walked over to his cot, where he began to get ready for bed, ignoring the boy, who was issuing a series of low, feral sounds that might have either been sobs or growls of rage.
He shouldn’t let himself get to affectionate with his prize, Rome reflected as he settled into the bed, under a blanket. The boy wasn’t going to become an important part of his empire, even if he could be broken and controlled.
Thank you so much author!anon! I didn't think anyone was going to fill this! You just made my day ♥ So cruel and heartrending and as previous anons have said, Rome you bastard!
"So Rome/Scotland shota. Dub-con preferred."
AN: I rewrote this a bunch of times to try to fix it, but I still think it's mostly fail. Oh, and Scotland should be about in his early- to mid-teens. (Looks like we're in the same handbasket, OP).
Rome was beginning to wonder why in the world he had wanted this horrible country in the first place. He might not have minded how bitterly cold and wet and barren the islands were, if not for the fact that the states already there fought for their land like dogs with a bone. He had just barely managed to subdue that barbarian Britannia, now he seemed to face an even harder fight northwards.
The Empire had only recently finished a conference with his officers, the gist of the conversation coming down to wonder at how the barbarians continued to defeat them. He went over battle plans as he tramped across the thin, foggy camp.
Rome stepped into his tent and was immediately assaulted by a barrage of shouting and protest. He looked down at his prisoner, watching bemusedly as the boy thrashed and struggled against his heavy bonds.
He looked much the same as he had on the battlefield, none of that soldier’s pride diminished by his capture. Rome noticed cuts and scratches all over his small body, in addition to the deep purple gash on his forehead, the one that Rome had given him. The boy was bound tightly, with ropes around his ankles and chest and holding his arms in front of him to a tent post. He had already torn away the top layer of skin on his wrists from struggling to get free.
Rome towered over the barbarian. “Your men have been routed, Caledonia.” He referred to the prisoner by the name he had chosen not the barbarian’s own name for himself. He continued calmly, “They’re fleeing into the woods like rabbits. So much for your barbarian courage.”
Scotland shouted angrily in his own tongue, straining against the ropes. Rome knew that the boy could understand Latin perfectly well; he just refused to speak it.
In case his meaning was lost, Scotland spat noisily at the ground beside Rome’s feet.
Rome frowned, then drew back his foot and kicked the boy hard in the chest. He relished the high cry that it produced from Scotland as a welcome break from the usual defiance. The boy glared at him, even as his shoulders shook.
“Respect, Caledonia,” he explained, “is a quality that you lack. Respect for your superiors.”
He knelt down beside Scotland, still taller than the young boy. Scotland's arms and even his fingers stretched out towards Rome, matching the hate blazing away in those dark green eyes. Rome smiled serenely at him.
“I should have expected you to persist in this foolish behavior,” he mused. “Your brother was stubborn as well.”
He gently ran the back of his fingers along Scotland’s dirty cheek. The boy turned and snapped his teeth at Rome’s fingers. Calmly, Rome slapped Scotland across the face.
“…And proud,” he added, as the boy cringed in pain. “We must find some way to cure you of that.” He paused, and then murmured, “Barbarian.”
Scotland shot something in his own language, then immediately braced himself for another blow. Rome watched the reaction with a small measure of satisfaction; Caledonia could be taught.
Rome got to his feet and surveyed the boy again. He was curled in on himself like a chained animal, eyes still darting around frantically, teeth bared in an obvious bestial threat. Rome found himself smiling; now that he was rendered helpless, the child was a bit more likeable. Cute, almost, despite or maybe because of his tangled hair, ragged clothes, and dirt caked into every crease of his extraordinarily pale skin.
But, then there was that pride, the one flaw that made him so difficult to control.
Rome could change that.
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Scotland gasped and tried to twist away, shivering and panting. He glared up at Rome savagely, though the empire didn’t miss the sweat on his forehead and the confused near-panic in his green eyes.
He pulled aside the fabric of his tunic and started to stroke his flaccid cock to life. The barbarian shouted and redoubled his thrashing.
“You asked for this, Caledonia,” he hissed, grinding his heel in harder and relishing the high yelp that resulted. “If you refuse to act civilized, you give me no reason to treat you like anything other than a common whore.”
He set his cock at Scotland's lips. “Open your mouth, Caledonia.”
Scotland turned his head away and snarled. Rome grabbed the boy’s hair and forced him back. “I’m not asking, boy. Open your mouth, and if I even feel your teeth, I will knock them out.”
The barbarian looked up at him in boiling hatred, tinged with pain as Rome tugged on his hair, continuing to rub the growing hardness in the boy’s lap. Struggling to control his shivering, Scotland slowly opened his mouth and hesitantly wrapped his lips around the tip of Rome’s cock.
Rome pulled Scotland’s head forwards, burying deep inside the wet heat of Scotland’s mouth. Scotland made a high, muffled noise of protest as he gagged. He pulled back long enough to let the boy take a ragged breath, then pushed back in again, setting a punishing rhythm. He placed his hands on the back of the boy’s head, groaning as he fucked the little mouth.
This wasn’t about tenderness or even pleasure. This was something that one did to whores and enemies one wanted to dishonor. It was dirty and low and shameful.
Now, Scotland was too.
“Barbarian…” he grunted, tugging hard on the boy’s knotted hair. “…Whore…!” Scotland whimpered painfully. Rome pulled the boy forward hard, gagging him again. He could feel heat prickling across his skin, gathering in the pit of his stomach. He was close, close…
“Ah!” Rome let go of the boy’s hair and pulled back to come on the boy’s face.
Scotland cried out in shock as sticky white mess splattered across his mouth and cheeks, sinking into the dirt and sweat, making pale tracks. He gasped and choked, spitting frantically to get the salty taste out of his mouth, as a series of weak keening noises escaped from his throat.
Once he had sufficiently recovered, Rome smiled down at the boy in satisfaction. “Is it good, Caledonia?”
Scotland croaked something bitterly and spat again.
Rome shook his head disappointedly. “Still fighting are you?” He moved the foot still resting on Scotland’s thigh, rubbing at his undeniable erection. “This part of you isn’t.”
Scotland inhaled sharply, his whole body quivering. He managed to gasp out a few angry words in his own language, maybe a curse, maybe a plea to stop. In either case, Rome ignored him and continued to stroke and grind against the boy.
“Ah, then you are enjoying this,” he murmured. Seemingly despite himself, Scotland spread his legs to give Rome greater access, as he bit back a moan. Rome chuckled. “I expected you to resist a bit more, barbarian.”
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“Whore,” Rome repeated dispassionately to the kneeling boy. He pulled his foot away, and watched as the boy’s flushed, red face shot up. Rome’s smirk widened. “Oh, would you like me keep going?”
Scotland tried to glare, but it was impossible with Rome’s come rolling down his face, over his lips. His legs moved together, trying to achieve some friction. He hung his head again and murmured something through gritted teeth.
Rome tutted. “No. Say please. And say it properly.”
There was a long pause. Rome watched calmly as the boy shook like a leaf. Rome didn’t expect him to give in right away. The boy was stubborn, proud, with a kind of savage dignity. Rome could value that, almost as much as he valued bringing that down.
Finally, Scotland gave the tiniest of badly pronounced grunts. “Please.”
Rome grinned. “Good boy.”
The look in the boy’s eyes was savage, until Rome knelt behind the boy and grabbed his erection and began to stroke and rub him roughly through his clothes. He cried out, squirming and shaking violently.
Scotland was only a boy, and wasn’t long before he made a desperate, choking noise, almost a sob, as he came into Rome’s hand. Rome smiled as he felt the wet warmth leaking through the rough fabric. He kissed the back of Scotland’s head and ruffled the boy’s hair.
He really did like the boy in a way. Like his brother, he was proud, uncivilized, and reckless, but also a ferocious adversary of the type Rome didn’t see within the bounds of his own Empire.
Scotland almost reminded Rome of himself as a fledgling nation, surrounded by enemies, refusing to give an inch of ground.
He smiled, almost affectionately, down at the boy as he stood and straightened his tunic. The boy had his head bent over out of Rome’s view, panting and shaking slightly. Rome leaned down and pulled up Scotland’s chin to force the boy’s face up to his own. Come ran down the pale, dirty face, mingling with the tears leaking uncontrollably from the corner of his eyes, as he quivered like a dead leaf in the breeze.
Scotland’s eyes met Rome’s directly for just a second. The pure hate that colored every flicker of the verdant green gaze was almost enough to push Rome over.
Rome let his head fall back down, and walked over to his cot, where he began to get ready for bed, ignoring the boy, who was issuing a series of low, feral sounds that might have either been sobs or growls of rage.
He shouldn’t let himself get to affectionate with his prize, Rome reflected as he settled into the bed, under a blanket. The boy wasn’t going to become an important part of his empire, even if he could be broken and controlled.
He was just a barbarian.
Notes:
Set after the Battle of Mons Graupius (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_Mons_Graupius). Bless you, Wikipedia…
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Poor wee Scotland, Rome is such a bastard.
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Thank you so much author!anon! I didn't think anyone was going to fill this! You just made my day ♥ So cruel and heartrending and as previous anons have said, Rome you bastard!
I loved it!
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